Chapter 7 - The Syndicate’s QueenThree months transformed me from a broken survivor into the most feared shadow in the New York underworld.
I wasn't just Vincent Moretti’s partner in business anymore; I was his equal.
My past life as Lena the waitress was a fairy tale told about someone else entirely. Now, I sat at the head of walnut conference tables across from syndicate capos, rival bosses, and corrupt politicians who trembled when I spoke. I learned how to launder millions through offshore accounts, how to sniff out rats before they could blink, and how to command absolute loyalty with a single, unblinking stare.
Vincent and I were inseparable. Our partnership was forged in fire, blood, and mutual obsession. He had rescued me, yes—but somewhere along the way, I had become the only person in the world who could look the terrifying mafia boss in the eye and make him smile.
Until the night of the harbor gala.
It was held in a private, heavily guarded shipping warehouse transformed into a ballroom overlooking the East River. Hundreds of New York’s elite—bankers, politicians, and high-ranking syndicate leaders—mingled under crystal chandeliers strung from iron girders.
I wore a floor-length crimson silk gown that hugged my curves like liquid fire, my hair swept up in an elegant chignon, and a diamond choker sparkling around my neck—a gift from Vincent commemorating our first successful acquisition.
Vincent stood beside me, holding a glass of scotch, chatting smoothly with a senator from New Jersey.
"Excuse me for a moment," I murmured to Vincent, feeling the rich seafood dinner sit heavily in my stomach. A sudden, sharp wave of nausea washed over me, making the sparkling chandeliers spin overhead for a fraction of a second.
Vincent frowned instantly, his protective instincts flaring. "Do you need me to come with you?"
"No," I smiled reassuringly, squeezing his hand. "Just need some fresh air by the balcony. I'll be right back."
I slipped away from the glittering crowd, pushing open a heavy fire exit door that led out onto a metal catwalk overlooking the dark, swirling waters of the East River. The cool night air hit my face instantly, clearing my head.
I leaned against the iron railing, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath.
What is wrong with me? I thought, pressing a hand against my slightly dizzy stomach. I hadn't felt this kind of fatigue since the night Marcus broke my arm.
Suddenly, the heavy metal door clicked shut behind me.
I turned around, expecting to see one of Vincent’s enforcers checking on me.
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Instead, the man stepping out of the shadows wasn't wearing a suit. He wore a stained mechanic's jumpsuit, a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, and a twisted, jagged smile that made my blood run instantly cold.
Marcus.
