Page 4 of Control (Dark Syndicate #1)

Remo

The city sprawls beneath me, an endless sea of lights and steel.

From the penthouse, it all looks like a game’s board, each building a piece to be controlled, each person just another pawn moving in the shadows.

But even from up here, with everything at my fingertips, there’s a gnawing in the back of my mind.

Something that won’t stop.

Her.

I’m supposed to be focused on the arms deal. That’s what I should be doing. But her image keeps slipping into my thoughts, uninvited. I can’t even think about the deal without her face hovering at the edge of my mind like a damn ghost.

“Have Livia find out everything you can about this woman,” I bark, leaning over my desk, my eyes hard as I lock onto Marco. “Her name, her past, her present. I want to know where she lives, who she talks to, and what she does. I want every detail. No stone unturned. Understand?” My voice is sharp.

Marco nods without hesitation, but he knows better than to move too quickly.

This isn’t a simple request. It’s a demand, a reminder that my expectations never slip.

I don’t need to repeat myself. My men have been with me long enough to know that the silence that follows a command like that is heavy and loaded with consequences.

“Right away, boss,” Marco replies, his tone clipped and formal.

“Make it thorough. I want surveillance, records, and any contact information. Everything.” I lean back, my fingers tapping the armrest of the chair, a low hum of impatience beginning to pulse in my chest.

Marco doesn’t react. He’s seen me push people to the edge and beyond. He knows how far I’ll go for information, and he knows better than to question me.

“Understood, Boss,” he says as he walks out of the room.

My mind, though…it keeps pulling back to her.

I glance across the room. The penthouse is almost too still in its silence.

It is everything it should be—high ceilings, polished concrete floors that reflect more than just light, and glass walls that open up to a view of Brooklyn.

The furniture is sharp, minimal, and expensive—black leather chairs that don’t invite you to stay and modern art on the walls that don’t need explaining.

My empire, the empire I’ve built with blood and sweat, is always a few calls away from being run into the ground if I lose my focus. But right now, I can’t stop thinking about her. The woman is like a fucking riddle in my head. A distraction I can’t shake.

A few hours later, my phone buzzes with a secure message. It’s from Livia. Of course, it is. She always delivers. She doesn’t just track people; she dissects them, peeling back their lives with a few keystrokes. When I open the file, the photos and reports flood in, meticulously organized.

Livia’s notes are precise and annotated with timestamps and patterns that I wouldn’t have caught myself.

It’s almost unsettling how fast she works.

It’s like she’s plugged into the veins of the city itself.

This is why she’s one of my most trusted allies.

Livia doesn’t just find information; she owns it.

Daniela Volpi.

She has been in a few art shows. Nothing big, just small-time galleries.

Her art is…raw. It’s everything that should make me dismiss her, but instead, it pulls me in.

It’s bold, with expressive strokes and colors that scream.

It’s like she’s bleeding on the canvas, exposing all the shit she keeps hidden inside.

I don’t know what she’s hiding, but I know it’s there.

I’ve seen that kind of vulnerability before.

The more I dig, the more I find. She doesn’t have much left in this world. Twenty-five and broke. She used to show her art in galleries but is now living off the grid. No close friends. No family. Her parents are dead—they died in a car accident when she was barely a teenager.

Just a bunch of half-assed connections and the empty echo of a life she’s trying to rebuild. Or run from. That’s the thing about people like her. They think they can start fresh, but they can’t. You can’t outrun your past. You can’t escape the things you’ve seen.

I would know. It’s the story of my life. A fire I didn’t mean to start, a family gone in seconds. And the rest? A blur of cold hands and strangers who weren’t kind enough to lie to me. My past? It’s a scar etched deep into my chest, one I wear like a brand.

But for a moment, I almost feel it—the crack in my chest that always comes when I think about what it means to lose family. To be alone. The weight of all those years spent running from the things I’ve done, the things I’ve let happen.

I shove it aside, just like I always do.

I fucking love being alone.

Still, I can’t stop thinking about her, about the crap apartment she calls home, about her artwork, and her pain lingering in every corner. There’s something in me—something dark, something I don’t want to acknowledge—that calls out to it. To her.

I lean back in my leather chair and stare at the photo of her online again.

She’s standing in front of one of her pieces, looking unsure of herself.

But it’s her eyes that get me. They’ve got that look—the one that says she’s been through too much but keeps going anyway.

You can see it in people’s eyes, that brokenness. It’s a mark that doesn’t fade.

I have a lot of those marks myself. But I don’t wear them the way she does. I control everything around me, everything that gets close to me. But her…I can’t control her. And that pisses me off. I hate it.

“Why can’t I get you off my mind?” I mutter angrily to myself, slamming the laptop shut. But the thought doesn’t bring any relief. If anything, it makes the weight in my chest heavier.

I grab the whiskey bottle, pour a glass, and let the burn in my throat remind me that I’m still in charge here. Still in control. But I’m starting to doubt it. I’m starting to wonder if I’ve ever truly been in control of anything.

My phone buzzes. It’s Marco. Probably informing me of our most recent drop.

“It’s done. We’ve got everything cleared at customs,” he says.

I take a long sip of whiskey and force myself to focus.

“Good. Make sure there are no complications,” I tell him.

The business needs me, not my damn thoughts about some artist with more baggage than I’m willing to deal with. And yet, I just can’t stop thinking about her.

Later that night, I’m watching her apartment from a distance.

It’s not the first time. I’ve been doing this for a couple of days now.

I don’t know why. Maybe I just want to see how she lives and what she does when she thinks no one is watching.

It’s stupid, I know. But it’s like I can’t help myself.

Her windows are lit up, but she doesn’t move around. The light from inside flickers through the blinds, and I imagine her sitting there, painting. Creating. She’s a mystery, and I don’t like not knowing things.

Growling, I drive back home. Soon, I’m back in the penthouse, staring out at the skyline again, but my mind is still tangled up with thoughts of her. I try to shake it off. I shouldn’t be thinking of her anyway. What I need is a distraction.

Good thing the woman I’m expecting is about to show up. Right on the dot, the doorbell rings like a sharp crack, echoing through the apartment and unsettling me, just like the rest of this mess.

I take a second to look her over as she steps into the room.

Her hair’s a wild mess, falling in tousled waves around her shoulders, framing her face.

The soft glow from the lights makes her skin look almost porcelain, with a touch of pink on her cheeks.

Her makeup’s barely there, just a hint, but her red lipstick stands out, bright and daring.

I can’t stop myself from thinking about those lips, and suddenly, the burn of desire hits me hard. Trying to play it cool, I pour myself a drink.

“You gave some pretty specific instructions in your text,” she says, her voice low and almost playful. “How am I doing, sir?”

She’s got on a white button-down shirt with three buttons undone, showing off a little cleavage. That shirt barely covers the rest of her, and I can’t deny she’s got a body that demands attention.

But she’s not her.

I grunt, giving her a quick look before setting my glass down and turning my full attention to her. She’s right. My instructions were simple enough, and she’d already followed them.

She’s ready, standing there with a needy look in her eyes.

Other than the shirt, she’s completely bare. Her long, straight legs appeal to me, especially knowing she’ll wrap them around my waist when I take her.

“Stand by the bed,” I order, my voice rough.

She moves slowly toward the bed, her hand on her hip, the shirt lifting just enough to catch my eye. The sight of her, bare except for that shirt, makes my pulse race. Damn.

“Right here?” she asks, her voice a little breathless.

“Yeah. Let me see you. Really see you.” I let the words hang in the air, dragging them out. “I’m gonna fuck you hard and fast tonight. Take your shirt off—slowly, don’t rush it.”

She starts unbuttoning it, one by one, each button coming undone with deliberate slowness. When the shirt finally falls, it drifts to the floor, and she’s standing there in front of me, completely exposed, just the way I want her.

“Take it all off,” I growl, my patience wearing thin.

She drops the shirt and looks up at me with an intensity that tells me she’s all in, just like me. I step closer, my hand sliding over her face, feeling the warmth of her skin. Her breath hitches, her eyes darkening with anticipation.

“There are going to be consequences if you don’t listen to me,” I say, my tone low and serious.

A shiver runs down her spine. She’s not scared, but there’s a touch of excitement there, too. She wants this. She’s craving it.

“How will you punish me, sir?” she asks, a wicked smile curling on her lips.