The Syndicater: A Dangerous Dark Romance (Dark Verse Book 6)

Dainn cut into the Maroni compound from the back side of the hill through the woods.

As secure as the place was, there was a small break in the electric fence that ran around the property, a security measure that was easy for him to distort since the technology was old and the circuit easy to break in one spot. He had entered through the space but rewired the circuit to make sure no one else could. He wouldn’t have cared for trespassers if his flamma hadn’t been in the mansion.

Keeping his hood up over his face and blending in with the dark night, he walked quietly, careful not to snap a twig or make any noise to alert any of the guards patrolling the property.

What he’d found needed to be confirmed, but he didn’t want to contact Morana directly anymore, not when he knew how much it angered Tristan Caine. And the only reason he was even giving a shit about it was because his little flamma had asked him to. In fact, with her eyes glazed with satisfaction, she had begged him not to make waves deliberately with her brother. She liked her brother.

Fuck him.

He sighed, a part of him pissed that he’d had to share her with other people, even if they were her family, another part of him pleased to see her coming into herself.

It was the middle of the night, the cloud coverage making it dark enough for him to make his way across the lawn undetected. Once he got to the wall, he slinked along it, carefully walking around the periphery to ensure no one was around. No one was. There were just the occasional patrolling guards and nocturnal creatures. Just as quietly, he reached the back door, carefully moving the knob to test if it was locked. It was. And thanks to Morana, it wasn’t the kind he could pick. He’d need to crack it, and that would send a security alert out. Plan abort.

Moving onto Plan B, he walked around the edge of the wall, checking every window, and found them all locked.

There was only one option now, and not one he’d wanted to use since it risked exposure.

He made his way around the property, pausing every time the guards passed, and to the wing Lyla was in. It was the one closest to the driveway and the main gates and, hence, closest to the security station at the front. Regardless, he went under her window, taking hold of the trellis of vines that climbed up to the roof, knowing it was strong enough to hold his weight. He’d tested it the other night when he’d been in her room, leaving her slumbering form after having the most intense little fuckfest.

Fuck, don’t think about it.

He exhaled, clearing his mind of those memories because they would distract him, and he needed all his senses to be alert. Because if what he’d learned was true and verified, it would put everything in place.

Gripping the trellis with one hand, he pulled his body up with one arm, his muscles trained in bearing his weight and moving lightly, thanks to years of calisthenics and martial arts. Something he had done for function but now did for another added benefit—the way Lyla ogled him from behind the window in the kitchen. He had deliberately moved his workouts to the deck outside that window, knowing she enjoyed watching the way his body moved. For him, his body was a tool but for her, his body was liberation, a means to free herself from her sexual traumas, a tangible proof to let herself connect with him. He knew how much she appreciated it, how it meant more to her than just sex, and so he gave it to her however she wanted—visually, sexually, simply.

Taking hold of the edge of her window, he pulled himself up with the other hand, glad she was on the first level. And if he knew her, which he did, she would have left her window open. His flamma liked openness and hated being locked in. If she could leave anything open, she would just for her peace of mind and to remind herself that she wasn’t locked in. Her claustrophobia wasn’t one of tight spaces, it was of locked spaces, no matter how big or small.

Just as he’d predicted, her window opened inward when he pushed it.

He heaved himself up, jumping in on silent feet just as a pair of guards passed under the window. Close call.

Still crouched down, he shut the window slowly, and moved next to the wall so no one could see him if they looked up. He straightened, his eyes going to the bed where the reason for his existence lay slumbering. Blankets tucked around her, a pillow close to her chest as she curled around it, exactly like she curled around him, lips slightly parted, and she snored softly.

Dainn had no intention of doing anything with her tonight since he had a mission, but he couldn’t resist walking to the bed and standing over it as he watched her sleep peacefully. Extending a gloved hand, he tugged the blanket down a little, exposing the side of her neck where he’d left a deep mark, then lower.

She was wearing one of his T-shirts, he noticed, very pleased.

It hadn’t been his intention to come to the party the other night. He’d received the invitation and kept it just in case. But then, while eavesdropping on a conversation between Amara and Zephyr through the bugs he’d installed in their phones with a little email virus, he’d heard Zephyr say she hoped his little flamma found love and someone hot at the party, because she deserved someone amazing. And it had occured to him that in all their niceness and love and good intentions, they might try to set her up with someone.

And that would absolutely not happen. If she were going to even fake date anyone, it would be the man she was already married to. Him.

And so he’d dressed up and gone to the party, just to introduce himself and make himself known to the circle, charm the ladies enough that Mr. Blackthorne seemed like a good prospect if they were to push her into dating anyone. He’d seen the way men had already been circling around her like sharks, attracted to her ethereal beauty, mistaking her as fresh blood. They didn’t know that she wasn’t the red of blood but the red of fire. He had always seen the way men had looked at her, but it had never been as annoying as it had been then, possibly because these men didn’t just want her beauty; they wanted her soul. A soul that already belonged to the devil in him.

Brushing his gloved finger over her cheek, wishing he could touch the softness of her skin, he memorized her face until he saw her again and then turned to leave. He had an important mission to complete.

He quickly opened her door a bit, slipping outside and sticking to the shadows. He knew the basic layout of the mansion, thanks to a little bribe to a drunk older relative of Maroni who had lived there once. Making his way down the west wing to the main area, being careful to check for cameras, he finally ended up where he’d hoped to be—the study.

Picking the lock was easy enough, since it was still the old antique type, and so was slipping inside.

Dainn stood in the dark, surrounded by the shadows, and looked around the space, first to check for cameras and then to search.

When he saw no surveillance, he relaxed and went to the desk. Now, the real search would begin. Knowing Dante Maroni had occupied this study for almost two years, he doubted what he was looking for would be anywhere easily found. If it was, then Dante would have found it already and told Morana. Dainn would have known about it. The fact that he hadn’t even known of its existence made him realize that it was either a false lead or it was well-hidden.

Guess he’ll find out.

He checked the furniture, the sides, the back, and the front, for hidden compartments but found none. It was just a simple but well-made old desk.

Next, he moved to the wall, lightly tapping it to check for any hollows. One wall, two, three, four. Up, down, sides, center. Minutes passed, and nothing.

Next, he crouched on the ground and looked at the flooring, under the rugs and outside of it, for any loose or uneven areas. Nothing.

Almost an hour passed, and Dainn didn’t find anything at all. He was in the middle of the room, recalling what his source had said.

‘The Reaper had a file,’ the man he was interrogating choked on the water he was holding him under. ‘Maroni kept it in his office after he killed him. Please. Let me go.’

Since his conversation with Xavier, Dainn had spent his time tracking down any seeds of the rumors he had talked about. He had started with tracking Maroni’s man Vin through the last contact he’d had with them, seeing all the texts going back months for clues but not finding much. Word on the ground said he’d run off with the slave he’d been using to go undercover, but Dainn was doubtful. They had run, that was true. For their sakes, he hoped they’d gotten out but if they hadn’t, it was likely that Vin was already dead and buried with the girl somewhere.

And after days of weeding through nothing about the rumors, he had found a thread. A man who had worked with the Alliance—the deal between Lorenzo Maroni, Gabriel Vitalio, and The Reaper, a deal which had looked like a partnership for cooperation for business, but the first two had joined hands with The Syndicate, and things had gotten messy. This was why he preferred to operate solo. People were messy and liabilities, especially in shady business. That one little thing had spiraled out of control, destroying both the Reaper and Gabriel, to the point that no one talked about the Alliance anymore because of what an example it had been for anyone who dared to step out of line against The Syndicate. People thought it had been Lorenzo Maroni’s doing since he had been the only one left unscathed, but Maroni had been a puppet, invisible hands pulling his strings behind the scenes, untouched because he had kept himself in their line.

Dainn stayed crouched on the floor in the dark, examining the entire space with clinical, methodical eyes and a cool mind. He thought to himself where he would hide things he kept as leverage that he never wanted anyone to find. His eyes stopped on a small painting of the hills, one he knew Dante Maroni hadn’t moved because it had been his mother’s creation.

Could Lorenzo Maroni be that predictable?

Dainn straightened and went straight to the painting, hoping he didn’t have to destroy it. He might not have been emotional, but Dante Maroni was, and he’d loved his mother. In fact, Dante’s blind love for his mother must have been something Lorenzo had relied on and expected that his son would never touch the painting.

Dainn tilted the small painting to the side, finding nothing but a wall at the back. He tapped it just to be sure. Stone.

He took the painting off the hook and turned it around. Sure enough, the inner lining at the back of the frame bulged. What a foolish place to hide shit. This just proved what he knew even more—Lorenzo had been more stupid than smart, more balls than brains.

Quickly removing a knife from his inner pocket, he made a small cut at the back and peeked inside.

Papers.

Clinically, he cut the back open, being careful not to nick the painting, and removed the singular file.

Pressing the lining back and hanging the artwork back exactly as it had been, he turned the file over, making out nothing in the dark.

Nothing but a symbol, one he’d seen many times. Two intertwined snakes eating their own tails.

He tilted the file toward the window, looking at the large print on top of it in the minimal light. Two words.

PROJECT

OUROBOROS

It was real.

Fucking hell.

He pocketed the knife and put the file inside his hoodie to keep it safe, knowing its importance. He was going to read every fucking word of it when he got to a secure location.

Returning to the desk, he left the photograph he had brought with him for Dante Maroni to find. A gift since his flamma had asked him to keep them in his circle of protection now.

And then the Shadow Man slipped away like he’d never been there.