Page 4 of Intrigue (Dark Syndicate #4)

Selene

It’s been a day since I arrived in Florence, and it still greets me like an old enemy.

Cassian gently squeezes my hand as we step onto the bustling platform, gathering our wits to meet my father, who is expecting us.

We chose a hotel on the outskirts of town, far enough from the noise to get some rest after the long journey but close enough to the villa for an easy morning drive.

“You okay?” he asks after observing me for a while.

“No,” I reply honestly, scanning the crowd that is already dispersing around us. The heavy dread in my chest is betraying my calm exterior. “But I’ll be better soon. Just seems like everything is moving so fast.”

He holds my hand the way a man should, with care, with patience.

It’s the kind of touch that should ground me, should make me feel less alone in this.

Instead, all I feel is suffocation. As we move into this city, into the past, his grip tightens, not in possession, but as a promise that we will have each other.

A promise I know, deep down, I might not be able to keep.

“We’ll keep this quick. Just breathe.” He pulls me closer, his thumb brushing reassuringly over my knuckles. “We’ll do it together.”It’s gentle. Steady. Dependable. I try to let it comfort me, to pull warmth from it, but all I feel is absence.

The absence of something wilder. Something messier and more exciting. Something real.

Don’t get me wrong—I care about Cassian.

There are days when I’ve convinced myself that I love him, days when I wake up and believe in the story I’ve told myself.

That’s why I said yes. That’s why I let him slide a ring onto my finger despite the gnawing emptiness in my chest. Because maybe love isn’t always a wildfire.

Maybe it isn’t supposed to be destruction and ruin and the kind of hunger that devours you whole.

Maybe love is supposed to be safe.

That’s what I told myself when I chose him. That I needed this. That I needed him. A distraction. A way out. A chance to see what a healthy love should look like—one that doesn’t take everything from you and leave you hollow when it’s gone.

Unlike him.

Unlike the only man who ever made me feel like my entire existence had no other purpose than orbiting him. The only man who turned my world into a single, unsteady thread, then cut it clean, letting me fall without a second glance.

The one I swore I would never let near me again. That’s how I ended up with Cassian.

And that’s why I’ll stay with him.

But the moment I see my father’s men waiting at the exit, cold-eyed and silent in their perfectly tailored suits, the illusion fractures.

The warmth of Cassian’s hand, the soft promise in his presence, it all fades.

Without a greeting, one of them opens the black SUV door. Cassian and I climb in, sinking into silence as Florence unfolds outside the tinted windows. The city rushes past, familiar and agonizing, winding its way through the cracks in my armor, through every scar this place ever left on me.

I keep my eyes on the streets, willing my heartbeat to slow, willing my hands to steady.

I should feel safe.

I should feel chosen.

Instead, all I feel is the slow, creeping inevitability of something I don’t want to name. Seeing him again.

The Marconi villa is exactly the same as it was when I left. My father’s soldiers hover about like shadows, their eyes tracking our every move. Cassian guides me up the steps to the front door, unaware each stride tightens the noose around my heart.

When the massive wooden door swings open, my stomach knots painfully.

My father stands like a sentinel in the entrance hall, his stocky build unavoidable, graying black hair slicked back, deep-set brown eyes.

He’s wrapped in an expensive suit exuding old-world power, and as usual, a cigar smolders between his fingers.

He ignores Cassian, his eyes locked on mine.

Beside him, Alessandro watches me, all calm and put together, his eyes hard to read.

“Hello, Father. Alessandro,” I say, looking at him next, forcing my voice to sound as unbothered as I wish I were inside.

He nods with a slight incline of his head. “Welcome home, Selene.”

“Come,” my father commands without greeting back, his voice clipped and authoritative.

Cassian hesitates, releasing my hand slowly. He presses a comforting touch to my lower back. “I’ll let you guys catch up but I’ll be close, okay? I love you.”

I nod stiffly, not saying it back but something in me twists. Love? He thinks that’s what we have? I’ve said it back to him many times but only because I felt I was supposed to. But did I ever really mean it?

And Cassian? He doesn’t notice. He never does.

He doesn’t see the way my fingers curl slightly, nails pressing into my palm like I can force myself to say it.

But the words won’t come. Because love isn’t supposed to feel like this, like obligation, like something I have to remind myself to reciprocate.

With Sandro, love had never been a choice. It had been wildfire, spreading too fast, too uncontrollable, too consuming. It was hands grasping, bodies colliding, whispers of forever spoken between breaths like an unbreakable vow.

With Cassian, it’s a quiet, steady ember. One I should want. One I should be grateful for. But all I can think about is how I miss the burn and I want to rip my own skin off just to feel something. Anything.

The moment his touch fades, another presence replaces it, setting every nerve in my body on edge.

Alessandro.

He doesn’t even have to touch me. He never did. He was always more than a hand on my back or a whispered reassurance. He was destruction in its purest form.

I follow my father into the villa’s depths.

My haunting phantom of an ex trails silently behind us, a shadow stitched to my heels, his stare a brand searing into the back of my neck.

The weight of it slithers down my spine, curling tight in my chest, squeezing until I can’t breathe.

Until I can’t forget that he’s right there.

The corridor echoes under my boots as I follow my father deeper into the villa, past guards who avoid my eyes. We enter his study, and my pulse spikes.

Alessandro goes to stand beside my father’s desk. He is taller than I remember. Those blue eyes slice through me, colder than marble.

Once seated, my father faces me. His voice cuts sharper than the cold silence. “You’ve disappointed me again, Selene.”

I bristle. “And here I thought you’d appreciate my return.”

His lips curl slightly, cigar smoke unfurling around his harsh features. “Always defiant. You forget your duty, your purpose. Running away, hiding behind your art dealer fiancé—it’s pathetic.”

“I’m not hiding,” I chide back.

“No?” My father chuckles darkly, eyes sliding mockingly toward Alessandro.

“Then you choose weakness. A fucking painter? How could you forget everything you were taught? You resist every path set for you. Always making reckless choices, just like your mother. I sent you to Valeria hoping you’d come back stronger, sharper. ”

“He’s good to me. Better than anyone else ever was.”

“Good isn’t useful, Selene. Strength matters here.” He looks pointedly at Sandro. “Loyalty, sacrifice, ruthlessness. My godson here embodies these. You should have chosen a man worthy of standing beside a Marconi, not some spineless collector of paintings.”

Sandro shifts subtly, his voice silk wrapped around steel. “Your father’s right. You disappoint us, Selene. Choosing weakness over strength never ends well.”

“Don’t talk to me about loyalty,” I hiss bitterly, locking eyes with him, all the pain from his betrayal rising like bile.

Sandro’s jaw clenches, a hint of something—regret, anger?—quickly masked by cold arrogance. “Still the same rebellious girl I remember.”

“And you’re still the pretentious asshole I remember,” I snap.

My father’s hand hits the polished desk, shattering the tense silence.

“Enough! I sent you to Valeria so you could learn to manipulate, to command power subtly, like the women who built empires behind closed doors with a mere shift of their skirts and bent men to their wills with a mere whisper. And instead, what have you done? You tormented your aunt, pushed her into madness and an early grave, and now you insult me further by bringing home a painter? A damned painter!! Did I not drill into you that survival means aligning yourself with ruthlessness? Instead, you choose a lapdog instead of a protector.”

“My thoughts exactly, sir,” Sandro interjects coolly, eyes gleaming with calculated amusement.

“This conversation doesn’t involve you, Sandro.”

My father cuts me off with a wave, voice edged in warning. “Valeria’s training should have sharpened you, turned you into someone who neutralizes threats instead of creating them. Sandro understands this perfectly. You would do well to mirror his strength.”

“I’d rather shit in my hands and clap.”

Sandro’s expression remains carefully blank, but his jaw tightens perceptibly, a crack in his otherwise perfect composure.

“You both don’t just get to decide who I become,” I add defiantly.

My father leans back, sighing with thinly-veiled irritation. “Oh, but I do, Selene. You will become exactly who I say, because your choices ended the moment you stepped back into Florence.”

“I’m marrying Cassian. I’m getting married. Isn’t that what you wanted?” My voice shakes despite my effort to remain strong. “Why can’t you just let me have this one thing?”

His smile turns colder. “Because Cassian is merely convenient and he’s weak. You need a made man beside you, someone who commands respect. You’ve chosen poorly, just as your mother did when she left me for that riffraff who later got her killed.”

“I don’t care about your approval,” I state. “I will marry Cassian, with or without your blessing.”