Chapter 7 - The Syndicate's UltimatumThe honeymoon of blood and silk lasted exactly one week before the underworld reminded them that monarchs do not get to rest.
It began with an encrypted text on the penthouse's master console: The Council demands an audience. Midnight. The Docks.
Julian stood before the console, his expression carved from granite. The Council of Five—the shadowy syndicate leaders who controlled the shipping lanes, banks, and cartels of the East Coast—had smelled blood in the water after Vance’s failed hit. They knew Julian was vulnerable, and they knew about the civilian living in his penthouse.
"You're not going," Maya said, stepping up behind him and resting her hands on his shoulders. She could feel the hard, coiled tension in his muscles. "It's a trap."
"If I don't go, they bring the war to these doors," Julian replied, covering her hands with his own. "They think I've gone soft because of a dog walker from Brooklyn. I have to remind them why they pay me tribute."
"Then I'm coming with you."
Julian spun around, his eyes flashing with sudden fury. "No. Absolutely not. That is a slaughterhouse."
"You said it yourself," Maya countered, her chin tilting up with a defiance that mirrored his own. "I'm part of the pack now. A wolf doesn't leave its mate behind while it faces the hunters."
For a long, agonizing moment, they stared at each other—two stubborn wills colliding in the quiet luxury of the penthouse. Finally, Julian let out a dark, defeated sigh, a ghost of a smile touching his lips.
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"God help me," he muttered, pulling her against his chest. "You're going to get us both killed."
Hook: At midnight, parked in the shadows of the abandoned Brooklyn Navy Yard, the Aston Martin’s headlights cut through the fog. Waiting for them on the rusted pier were twelve armed enforcers and the oldest, most ruthless don in the syndicate—Donato Moretti. And Moretti wasn't holding a gun; he was holding a detonator.
