Power (Dark Syndicate #2)

Chapter 1

Dario

Flying has always felt like a gamble, and I don’t like it one bit. Too much can go wrong. I think the engines humming beneath my feet, hear the metal groaning, and brace for the sudden jolt of turbulence that could send us plunging from the sky. One mistake, and it could all be over.

Yet, here I am, sitting in my private jet, surrounded by polished leather and soft lights, knowing there’s nothing I can do about it.

I’m not afraid of dying, not really.

It’s just that I’ve got unfinished business. People to see. People to fuck over. To kill. To destroy.

So maybe, being locked in a metal box and thousands of feet above the ground with no real guarantee I’ll make it out alive, isn’t exactly my idea of comfort.

I’ve always hated anything that feels like a coffin—places that strip you of choice, locking you into a situation where your only options are the resources you’ve got. Vulnerability? That’s a feeling I can’t stand.

I lean back and stare at the ceiling. The flight was guaranteed to be smooth, but that doesn’t mean a damn thing.

It’s always the calm before the storm that screws people over, like life.

One second, you’re sipping a drink, thinking you’re indestructible.

The next, you’re face down in the dirt with a bullet lodged somewhere vital and wondering where the hell it all went wrong.

The screen embedded in the cabin wall flickers to life, and a low beep signals an incoming call. Remo Callegari. About damn time.

This asshole has kept me waiting five minutes longer than I allow anyone to. I’m not a patient man, and I don’t wait for anyone—not even God. But Remo? He’s one of the very few exceptions.

His face appears on the screen, lit by the dim glow of his laptop. He holds a whiskey in hand and his boots are kicked up on his desk like he owns the world. The bastard looks like he hasn’t slept in days, which means things are either going well for him or very, very badly.

“You look like you’re waiting for something to explode,” he rasps.

“I’m waiting for this piece of shit to land.”

He smirks and tilts his head back. “Relax. The pilot’s got it under control. If you go down, you go down. Nothing you can do about it.”

“Thanks, Confucius. Real comforting.”

Remo shakes his head. “Ah, right. Mr. ‘I Have to Control Everything’ is having a hard time letting someone else hold the wheel.”

Lack of control—that’s what gets people killed. It’s not bad luck. Or fate. Just one second where someone else is calling the shots, and suddenly, your whole life belongs to a guy who may or may not give a damn whether you wake up tomorrow. I don’t do well with that. Never have.

“Happy to be back in Chicago?” Remo asks after a moment, swirling his whiskey like he’s got all the time in the world. “What’s it been? Fourteen years?”

“Fifteen,” I correct, jaw tightening. The memory of why I left in the first place slithers in, uninvited. “And no. Not even remotely.”

“Well, it is good to have you back. We need to catch up. You know, drinks. Talk business. Or maybe—” he pauses and his tone shifts slightly, “talk family.”

I lean back in the chair and tap my fingers at the edge of the desk.

Family. Remo's the closest thing I’ve got to one, but that's not saying much. He and I were never anything like brothers—just two boys who ended up surviving the same monster. That monster? Our father. A man who believed in beating and cursing his sons into something useful. He also didn’t care about anything if it wasn’t down a bottle and guaranteed his next high.

Remo’s the only one who really gets it. We both ran from the same man. He left first, but I was too damn proud to go until I was sure I could survive without him. That bastard didn’t raise us, he broke us. And now, we both deal in the aftermath of that brokenness.

He is my foster brother after all, though I don’t call him that. It’s the same story every time we talk—he’s crazy, I’m cold. But there’s no denying the bond between us, however twisted it is.

“You know, we’ve got a lot of catching up to do. You still owe me a drink, you know?” Remo presses.

“Yeah, yeah. You and your little innuendos. Let me guess—when you say ‘drinks,’ you really mean you’ve got a few things to complain about, don’t you?”

There’s a pause on the other end, and then Remo’s laugh crackles through the phone. “Wouldn’t say complain. More like...share some advice. You know, like how to keep your wife from running off with the first guy she sees. That kind of advice.”

Remo’s been married for a few years now, but not to the kind of woman who’d walk down the aisle willingly. No, he had to kidnap her first, then charm her into staying. And somehow, it worked. But I don’t bring it up. No need to remind him he’s a lunatic.

“Right, your wife. You know, I was wondering how long it’d take for her to get tired of you and run for the hills.”

Remo chuckles darkly. “She is a tough one to handle. But don’t worry, I’ve got a tight grip on her now. She’s never escaping me.”

“How romantic. Does she know you’re a raging psychopath, or are you still covering it up with that charm of yours?”

“Shut up. You’re just jealous.” His voice shifts to something more serious. “But enough about that. You are coming over. End of story.”

I rub my temple, already feeling the stress creeping up my neck. “We’ll see, Remo. I have a few things to sort out first. Not exactly in the mood for grand entrances just yet. But yeah, soon. You know how it is.”

“Yeah, I do. Well, I’m here whenever. Welcome back, brother. I’d call you by the name I’ve always known, but honestly, I have no clue what you go by these days—Mr. Secret Identity.”

I snort. “Yeah? And I’d call you sane, but we both know that’s a stretch.”

Remo chuckles. “Touché. Now buzz off.”

After we hang up, I’m left with the echoes of memories that still sting like fresh wounds. There are days when I still feel that weight—the way his hands crushed me when I was younger. A son he couldn’t be bothered to love.

When Remo ran, I was left to pick up the pieces.

A boy alone, learning to survive. Learning that the world doesn’t give a damn about you.

My father’s face flashes in my mind—swollen from years of alcohol and rage, always scowling, always telling me I’d never amount to anything. That I’d die just like he would: a pathetic excuse for a man. Till today, his words still haunt me.

You will always be like me, son. Worthless.

Screw that.

I’ve spent my whole life proving people like him wrong. I am worth something. I’ll show them all. Every last one of them.

I stare at my phone and tap the screen, not bothering to check for new messages. I know exactly what I need to do.

I think it’s time I set things in motion.

I swipe through the documents laid out in front of me.

Names, locations, contracts. My mole in the police department’s been working overtime, digging up every last bit of dirt he could on potential rivals here.

I’m not interested in small-time players.

I’m here for the real targets. People with enough power to bleed the city dry.

It’s a fine art, figuring out who’s been where and who’s done what—these men think they’re untouchable.

And I’m about to make them very terribly wrong.

A few minutes later, the flight attendant approaches—too eager for someone I’ll forget the moment this flight lands. She leans down, bringing her chest too close to my face, like she thinks I might be interested.

"Can I get you a drink, sir?" She asks, a little too sweetly.

I look up again, keeping my expression blank. I would offer her a smile, but she doesn’t deserve one.

"Not interested."

She pouts, clearly not used to being dismissed. “Not even in a preflight snack?” She tilts her head, voice dropping into something lower, more suggestive. “A big, strong man like you probably has a large appetite. Needs a lot of...sustenance.”

I take her in properly now. It’s not just the obvious—the tight little waist, the impressive rack, the long legs. She’s a woman who knows exactly what she’s selling.

She’s undeniably beautiful, though it’s the kind of generic, surgically enhanced kind that doesn’t stir much in me. I rack my brain, trying to recall the last time I lost myself in a woman and truly enjoyed the experience; it feels like ages.

A long time ago, I might’ve indulged. Now, it just feels like another pointless transaction. One, I have no interest in making.

I lean back, fingers drumming against the armrest.

Damn it all, I could use the distraction.

"All I need is your mouth around my cock. Get on your knees."

Excitement makes her eyes shine, then bulge in surprise first, and a second later, desire makes them go half-lidded. She grins at me.

"Of course, sir."

Her tongue peeks out one side of her mouth and she drags it over her lips in a move that's meant to be sexy but only succeeds in pissing me off.

She drops to her knees, her ass pressing against the tight fabric of her little red skirt. I wait until her face aligns with my crotch before gesturing for her to use her hands.

The blonde wastes no time obeying, that restless energy driving her forward. If I weren’t an asshole, I might let this stretch beyond here—but I am, and I grow tired of people easily.

I waste no time wrapping my fists around her ponytail and yanking her head backward. She lets out a throaty moan, neck bared.

"I'm sure your contract has a no-fraternization clause." My grip tightens in her hair, twisting it around my palm. "You’re not supposed to proposition the guests. And yet, here you are—breaking the rules like the dirty little slut you are."

When I nudge her, she obediently turns around to face me, eyes limpid with desire.

I motion at my pants, "Take it out."