Page 7 of Control

The city sprawls beneath me, an endless sea of lights and steel. From the penthouse, it all looks like a game’s board, each building a piece to be controlled, each person just another pawn moving in the shadows. But even from up here, with everything at my fingertips, there’s a gnawing in the back of my mind.

Something that won’t stop.

Her.

I’m supposed to be focused on the arms deal. That’s what I should be doing. But her image keeps slipping into my thoughts, uninvited. I can’t even think about the deal without her face hovering at the edge of my mind like a damn ghost.

“Have Livia find out everything you can about this woman,” I bark, leaning over my desk, my eyes hard as I lock onto Marco. “Her name, her past, her present. I want to know where she lives, who she talks to, and what she does. I want every detail. No stone unturned. Understand?” My voice is sharp.

Marco nods without hesitation, but he knows better than to move too quickly. This isn’t a simple request. It’s a demand, a reminder that my expectations never slip. I don’t need to repeat myself. My men have been with me long enough to know that the silence that follows a command like that is heavy and loaded with consequences.

“Right away, boss,” Marco replies, his tone clipped and formal.

“Make it thorough. I want surveillance, records, and any contact information. Everything.” I lean back, my fingerstapping the armrest of the chair, a low hum of impatience beginning to pulse in my chest.

Marco doesn’t react. He’s seen me push people to the edge and beyond. He knows how far I’ll go for information, and he knows better than to question me.

“Understood, Boss,” he says as he walks out of the room.

My mind, though…it keeps pulling back to her.

I glance across the room. The penthouse is almost too still in its silence. It is everything it should be—high ceilings, polished concrete floors that reflect more than just light, and glass walls that open up to a view of Brooklyn. The furniture is sharp, minimal, and expensive—black leather chairs that don’t invite you to stay and modern art on the walls that don’t need explaining.

My empire, the empire I’ve built with blood and sweat, is always a few calls away from being run into the ground if I lose my focus. But right now, I can’t stop thinking about her. The woman is like a fucking riddle in my head. A distraction I can’t shake.

A few hours later, my phone buzzes with a secure message. It’s from Livia. Of course, it is. She always delivers. She doesn’t just track people; she dissects them, peeling back their lives with a few keystrokes. When I open the file, the photos and reports flood in, meticulously organized.

Livia’s notes are precise and annotated with timestamps and patterns that I wouldn’t have caught myself. It’s almost unsettling how fast she works. It’s like she’s plugged into the veins of the city itself. This is why she’s one of my most trusted allies. Livia doesn’t just find information; she owns it.

Daniela Volpi.

She has been in a few art shows. Nothing big, just small-time galleries. Her art is…raw. It’s everything that should make me dismiss her, but instead, it pulls me in. It’s bold, with expressivestrokes and colors that scream. It’s like she’s bleeding on the canvas, exposing all the shit she keeps hidden inside. I don’t know what she’s hiding, but I know it’s there. I’ve seen that kind of vulnerability before.

The more I dig, the more I find. She doesn’t have much left in this world. Twenty-five and broke. She used to show her art in galleries but is now living off the grid. No close friends. No family. Her parents are dead—they died in a car accident when she was barely a teenager.

Just a bunch of half-assed connections and the empty echo of a life she’s trying to rebuild. Or run from. That’s the thing about people like her. They think they can start fresh, but they can’t. You can’t outrun your past. You can’t escape the things you’ve seen.

I would know. It’s the story of my life. A fire I didn’t mean to start, a family gone in seconds. And the rest? A blur of cold hands and strangers who weren’t kind enough to lie to me. My past? It’s a scar etched deep into my chest, one I wear like a brand.

But for a moment, I almost feel it—the crack in my chest that always comes when I think about what it means to lose family. To be alone. The weight of all those years spent running from the things I’ve done, the things I’ve let happen.

I shove it aside, just like I always do.

I fucking love being alone.

Still, I can’t stop thinking about her, about the crap apartment she calls home, about her artwork, and her pain lingering in every corner. There’s something in me—something dark, something I don’t want to acknowledge—that calls out to it. To her.

I lean back in my leather chair and stare at the photo of her online again. She’s standing in front of one of her pieces, looking unsure of herself. But it’s her eyes that get me. They’ve got thatlook—the one that says she’s been through too much but keeps going anyway. You can see it in people’s eyes, that brokenness. It’s a mark that doesn’t fade.

I have a lot of those marks myself. But I don’t wear them the way she does. I control everything around me, everything that gets close to me. But her…I can’t control her. And that pisses me off. I hate it.

“Why can’t I get you off my mind?” I mutter angrily to myself, slamming the laptop shut. But the thought doesn’t bring any relief. If anything, it makes the weight in my chest heavier.

I grab the whiskey bottle, pour a glass, and let the burn in my throat remind me that I’m still in charge here. Still in control. But I’m starting to doubt it. I’m starting to wonder if I’ve ever truly been in control of anything.

My phone buzzes. It’s Marco. Probably informing me of our most recent drop.

“It’s done. We’ve got everything cleared at customs,” he says.

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