Page 14 of Intrigue (Dark Syndicate #4)

Selene

Ten years ago.

The compound is too quiet tonight.

I should be in my room, pretending to be the obedient daughter Don Marconi expects me to be. But I’m not. Instead, I’m outside, in the dimly lit courtyard behind the estate, gallivanting by the ivy-covered walls.

Waiting.

I tell myself I’m out here because I can’t sleep, because the house feels suffocating, because I need air. But I know better.

I’m waiting for him.

Ever since Alessandro Vescovi walked into my father’s house three weeks ago, everything has felt different.

Not that I’ll admit it.

I don’t like him, not really. He’s cocky, infuriatingly calm, and has this way of looking at me like he already knows my secrets before I do. I should hate him for it.

But I don’t.

I can’t.

Not when he’s the only person in this godforsaken house who doesn’t treat me like a delicate little thing meant to be hidden away and paraded when convenient.

Not when I catch him watching me when he thinks I’m not looking, those cold, assessing eyes of his heating my skin in ways I don’t want to think about.

And definitely not when I hear the gravel crunch softly behind me, followed by his deep voice, so smooth and laced with something I can’t name.

“You’re going to get caught one of these days, little Marconi.”

I don’t turn.

Instead, I exhale, slowly, like I wasn’t just shivering at the sound of his voice. “And you’re going to get yourself killed one of these days, Vescovi.”

A quiet chuckle. “Probably.”

He steps beside me, close enough that I catch the scent of him—smoke, leather, something that shouldn’t make my stomach twist the way it does.

I shift slightly, finally glancing at him. “You do realize that if anyone sees us alone like this, my father won’t just be mad, right?”

He cocks his head, amused. “Oh? What would he do?”

I press my lips together. “He’d have you kneeling in that study of his before sunrise, with a gun to your head. And you know it.”

Sandro tilts his head toward the house behind us. “You think he’d really kill me?”

I don’t answer right away.

Because yes, I do.

My father is many things, but sentimental is not one of them. Sandro might have been taken in because his father used to be very close to mine, but my father doesn’t see him as a son. He sees him as a weapon. A valuable, trained, loyal soldier.

And if there’s one thing my father does not tolerate, it’s disloyalty.

“He’d kill you if he thought you were touching something that didn’t belong to you,” I say finally, keeping my voice even.

Sandro hums, his eyes gleaming with something wicked. “You?”

A slow, measured nod.

Me.

Because to my father, that’s all I am, something to be owned. To be used. My future isn’t mine. My body isn’t mine. I’m not even a person to him, I’m a pawn. A bargaining chip he’ll marry off to some powerful ally when it suits him.

And Sandro?

Sandro is not an ally.

He’s a stray dog my father has trained into a weapon. And weapons don’t get to touch the Don’s property.

Which means this— us, whatever this is, whatever this could be —is not just forbidden.

It’s a death sentence.

Sandro watches me, eyes obscure. And then, he steps closer.

“You sure about that?” he murmurs.

My pulse jumps. “About what?”

“That I’d be the one getting killed.”

Something dark laces his voice. Like he’s not afraid of my father. Like if Don Marconi ever came for him, he wouldn’t kneel.

He’d burn the whole fucking house down first.

I should be scared of that and run.

But instead, I lock onto his icy blue eyes, and for the first time in my life, I feel alive, like stepping off the edge, diving headfirst into the freezing depths, daring the fall.

“Shouldn’t you be inside?” he asks.

I scoff, kicking at a loose stone near my foot. “Shouldn’t you?”

He hums, tilting his head slightly, studying me. I can feel it, the weight of his stare, the way his presence alone is too much.

“I don’t like being locked in,” he murmurs.

Something about the way he says it makes me pause.

“You say that like you know how it feels.”

His gaze flicks over me then, hard to read. But there’s a shift, subtle but there, like I’ve pressed against a wound he thought was buried too deep to find.

For a second, I think he’s going to ignore the question. But then, he surprises me.

“I was ten when I learned what it meant to be alone,” he says quietly. “My parents died in a fire. My father was a soldier under Moretti’s crew. Your father’s biggest rival now. Back then, they were equals. Someone set the house ablaze to send a message and start this war.”

A chill creeps over my skin.

I’ve heard the story before. And how Don Marconi took in his best friend’s son, raised him like family. But no one ever talks about what came before. About what he remembers.

I angle myself toward him. “Did you see it happen?”

His jaw ticks. When he speaks, his voice is flat, distant. “I smelled the smoke before I saw the flames. I hid in a crawlspace under the stairs. I heard them scream but I couldn’t do anything.”

A lump forms in my throat. I don’t move.

He isn’t just telling me a story. He’s pulling me into it.

The feeling of being trapped with smoke andheat pressing in. The screams. A child, curled into a space too small, too dark, breathing in death, listening as everything he knew burned to ash around him.

And he survived.

I don’t know why I reach for him, but I do. My fingers brush his wrist, just a whisper of contact.

His eyes snap to mine, sharp first and then surprised.

I don’t pull away.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

Something unreadable flashes across his face, but he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t move or speak. He just watches me, his eyes dipping to my lips for a fraction of a second before locking back onto my eyes.

I swallow hard.

There’s something between us now. Something we both felt the first time we met.

It’s not just the past. Or our shitty interconnected lives.

Something else. Something we don’t have words for yet.

This—whatever this is—it’s dangerous.

We aren’t supposed to be standing here like this, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off of him. We aren’t supposed to be anything.

He’s my father’s godson, the closest thing to a brother I’m supposed to have.

But we are not family.

Not even close.

And for the first time in my life, I want to cross a line.

I tilt my chin up slightly. “You’re not supposed to be out here with me.”

His lips twitch, something salacious curling at the corners. “I know.”

I should walk away, or say something cutting, roll my eyes, pretend I don’t feel like my skin is on fire just from standing near him.

But I don’t.

Instead, I say, “I hate this place.”

His brows lift slightly. “Your house?”

“My prison.” I exhale sharply. “My father watches my every move. I can’t step outside without a guard. I can’t speak to a man without it being considered a strategy. And I certainly can’t be alone in the courtyard in the middle of the night with someone like you.”

He grins. “Someone like me?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “You know exactly what I mean.”

His slow-spreading smile deepens, and God help me, it’s unfair how good he looks when he does that. “I do. And yet, you’re still standing here.” Throwing my words back at me. Classic, Vescovi.

I scowl. “I like defying my father.”

“Careful, little Marconi.” He steps closer, dropping his voice even lower. “You say that too many times, you might actually mean it.”

Something shifts in the air between us.

The playful tension melts into something hotter, heavier. My breath catches.

His eyes drop to my mouth.

Slowly.

My pulse pounds. I’m not supposed to want this. To want him .

But I do.

God help me, I do.

His hand lifts, fingers skimming my jaw, tilting my chin up just slightly. Not forcing. Just testing.

I don’t pull away.

That’s all the confirmation he needs.

He leans in, gently, like he’s giving me a chance to stop him.

I don’t.

And then his lips brush against mine.

Soft at first, barely there, like he’s waiting for me to take the lead.

So I do.

I press forward, my hands curling into his shirt, tugging slightly. A quiet groan rumbles in his chest, and then his hands are on me, one at my waist, the other sliding into my hair, fingers tangling, tilting my head so he can kiss me deeper.

I feel him.

Not just the heat of his body, not just the way he tastes like something dark and forbidden, but the weight of it.

The way he’s been holding back.

The way he’s wanted this as much as I have.

And the way he’s done fighting it.

When he pulls back, my lips are swollen, my breath ragged. His thumb brushes my bottom lip, eyes hooded, dark.

“I should walk away and make sure this doesn’t happen again,” he mutters.

I grip his wrist, holding him there. “But you won’t.”

A sinister curve of his lips. “No,” he murmurs. “I won’t.”

We both know what this means.

We both know the consequences.

But in this moment, with the taste of his mouth still on mine and my father’s house standing tall behind me, I don’t care.

Let my father go to hell.

Let the whole damn world follow.

Because Alessandro Vescovi just kissed me.

And I’m never going to be the same.