Page 8 of Control (Dark Syndicate #1)

Daniela

The moment the door shuts behind me, the world outside feels like it disappears. The basement is cold, the kind of chill that settles deep in your bones. The dim red light barely cuts through the darkness, enough to cast an eerie glow but not enough to make the room feel any less menacing.

It’s the kind of place that makes you realize you’re already trapped in something you can’t escape.

Like what I saw a few minutes ago.

When he invited me to have drinks with his friend this morning, I should have known I’d be in for more than I expected.

Lorenzo.

I can still hear the sounds—the sharp crack of the gunshot, the thud of Lorenzo’s body hitting the floor, the blood spilling out in a slow, sickening pool.

I had to watch it. I was forced to witness that kind of brutality up close. And he just stood there like it was nothing. Like killing a man was nothing. Like a life was as disposable as a cigarette butt.

And the way his face twisted after, like he was disgusted with the whole thing.

No remorse in him. No real feeling. Just coldness.

And I hate that I noticed how hot he looked in that moment. How the darkness of what he did seemed to fit him. I hated him for it, hated him for what he was, but I couldn’t stop myself from wanting him more.

I didn’t know what to feel after that. I wanted to turn away, but I was glued to him, watching him. Part of me wanted to scream, to run as far as I could from this monster he was showing me, but another part of me… God, another part of me wanted to stay.

That’s the sick part. That’s the part that makes me hate myself.

“Daniela.” A voice growls from the shadows. My pulse spikes at the sound of it, and I instinctively hold my breath as my eyes search the dark for him. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

I freeze, my heart kicking up into my throat, the urge to run fighting with the part of me that refuses to be scared.

“Like I had a choice!” I snap back, my voice louder than I intended.

Silence follows, but the soft whimper of a woman struggling somewhere near the back of the room stabs through it.

Is she crying?

I stand frozen for a second.

I want to move, want to turn the fuck around, but my feet don’t listen.

He calls me again, and the sound of it is like a baited hook, pulling me closer to whatever hell is waiting for me, just out of reach. “Come join me over here!”

The invitation makes me sick. Like I’m supposed to be grateful for whatever he’s offering. Like I have any fucking say in the matter.

I can’t help the way my feet carry me forward, the way they click on the concrete floor, each step heavier than the last.

When he steps into the light, it’s like the shadows can’t hold him anymore.

He’s big, powerful, and dominating in a way that makes the air feel too small, too tight.

His smile is too perfect. It’s the kind of smile that doesn’t say, “I’m friendly,” but says, “I’ll fucking destroy you if you get in my way. ”

“I promise I won’t bite. Well, not unless you want me to,” he says, his voice smooth.

I can see it…the way he thinks of people as things to play with, things to break down and rebuild just for his amusement. He’s the kind of man who assumes everyone is just waiting to be moved around on his board.

But I’m not a fucking piece.

I’ve never been in a room like this before. Never seen the things happening here. The air smells like wood and something too sweet, but it’s the atmosphere that sends a tremor down my spine. I don’t need to see everything to know what’s happening.

His hand extends toward me, and I take it. His grip is rough, as though it’s been built from hard labor. But underneath the roughness, his skin is smooth—too smooth. It’s tattooed, the way every inch of him is inked with something I’ll never understand.

“Sit down,” he commands, and I sit, stiff and straight, like I’m trying to make myself invisible in the corner of the room.

He pours us both drinks and slides one into my hand. I take it, my fingers trembling just enough for him to notice.

“Do you know why you’re here, Dolcezza?” His voice is still too soft, too gentle. It’s as though he’s giving me a chance to pretend I have some control. But I know better.

“Don’t call me that. My name is Daniela—”

“I asked you a question.” His smile doesn’t falter as his hands tighten into fists, and I swear the air just got heavier. My throat constricts, and I pull my jacket sleeves down a little further, hiding the nervous twitch of my fingers.

“I…I don’t know why I’m here, honestly. Your goons, or whatever you call them, shoved me in here. It’s not like they gave me a choice.”

“Well, you’re about to find out.”

In an instant, he raises his hand and claps, and brighter lights come on, revealing a sight that has me holding my breath.

In the center of the room, a woman is bound to a table, her wrists secured with shiny brown tape. She wears nipple plugs on each breast, and something leather encircles her neck. In the corner, green feathers wave gently, like a flag beckoning me closer.

“Welcome to my playroom, Dolcezza.” He takes a sip of his drink, his eyes glinting as if he’s savoring my discomfort.

Then he nudges me toward the woman on the table.

The woman’s body is on full display, vulnerable in a way I’ve seen too many times but never up close.

She is beautiful, no doubt, and from here, I can clearly see the fine sheen of her arousal glistening on her shaved pussy.

“Watch with me, darling. Perhaps you’ll find yourself enthralled by this too. Don’t worry if it turns you on. Even the strongest among us can’t help but be drawn to the rawness of watching strangers fuck.”

I should get up. I should leave. I tell myself this, but my body doesn’t listen. Not even when a man from a back room walks in.

I’m rooted to the spot, stuck in this maddening spell Remo casts so effortlessly, and watching what is undoubtedly an unhinged orgy about to unfold. I feel paralyzed, not because I can’t leave, but because I want to stay.

Maybe it’s the morbid curiosity. Or maybe it’s the quiet part of me, the one I don’t let out often, that craves this—to feel, to know what it’s like to surrender without consequence.

I want to watch. I want to imagine what it would be like to let a man touch me like that in front of an audience.

To hold me down. To whisper the dirtiest things into my ear and take me like he hates me.

The man, shirtless and unabashed, approaches the woman on the table and cups her breasts in his large palms with a possessiveness that makes me shiver.

His muscles ripple under the dim lights, every movement calculated, deliberate, and hypnotic.

My eyes drop lower—there, where his trousers strain against him—and my breath catches.

Is it normal for it to be that…big?

I wouldn’t know. All I can think about is what it must feel like to be her, to be the focus of such undivided, primal attention. To have your illicit desires fulfilled in front of people who don’t even know your name.

And have someone touch you as though the world could burn around you, and it wouldn’t matter because you’re all that exists in their eyes.

That hungry, “I don’t give a fuck” desire to let loose and be pleasured. To chase your orgasm like it’s the only thing that can stop you from taking your next breath.

The man leans in close to her, his lips brushing her ear as he whispers something, his voice a dark melody.

I can’t catch the words, but I don’t need to. The way her body melts into his, how her back arches like he’s poured fire down her spine, says it all. Something twists deep inside me—envy, jealousy, and something raw and mean that I don’t want to name.

His eyes catch the dim light, warm like melted chocolate but with an edge, like blood swirling in the depths.

His hair, short and sharp on the sides but wild on top, looks like he’s been running his hands through it—or maybe someone else has.

The five o’clock shadow on his jaw adds to the danger, the pull.

It’s almost unfair how good he looks, except for his mouth.

His lips are too full. They look like they don’t belong on his face, but somehow, it just makes him harder to look away from.

There’s an accent, too, faint but there. It’s frustrating how familiar he feels. It’s like I should know him, or maybe I just want to. Those thoughts burn, bitter and humiliating.

Men like this, the kind who kiss women’s necks and pull their strings like puppets, don’t exist in my world. My life is smaller, safer, and boring as hell. I paint, I binge-watch shows, I sleep.

My friends are the same—safe and predictable, a reflection of me.

I don’t have the time or the means to make friends that push my limits. My limits stay the same.

So what the hell is Remo doing in my life? Men like him shouldn’t even glance my way, let alone pull me into their orbit. Yet here I am in his club, where he throws illegal sex parties like they’re art exhibits. And forces me to watch.

I don’t want to watch. But no, that’s a lie. The heat curling low in my stomach tells a different story. It’s been so long since I’ve felt…anything. Desire, connection, a spark. I want to believe that’s all this is—starvation, not lust for him. Not this sick urge to be the woman in his arms.

“Enjoying the show, Dolcezza?” His voice snakes into my thoughts, smooth and taunting. I flinch, realizing how close he’s sitting. Too close. Instead of feeling creeped out, I’m drawn to the warmth of his breath and the tingling sensation in the pit of my stomach.

I hate that I don’t pull away.

I hate that I feel the heat rise in my cheeks and something heavier and lower that I wish wasn’t there.