Sins Of The Syndicate

The Gilded Cage

The Madrid docks were a blur of industrial grey and the freezing bite of the autumn wind.

I didn't get to see the city. I didn't get to see the sky.

I was moved from the belly of the ship directly into the back of a blacked-out SUV, my wrists still chafed from the zip ties the guards had used during the transfer.

We didn't go to a mansion. We pulled up behind a sprawling, windowless building draped in neon purple lights.

The Golden Lily.

"Get out," a guard growled, shoving me toward a heavy steel service entrance.

I was led through a maze of narrow, red lit hallways that smelled of expensive perfume and floor wax.

The thrum of bass vibrated through the soles of my shoes, a steady, mocking heartbeat.

They pushed me into a private office at the very back of the club.

The walls were lined with soundproof velvet, and the air was thick with the scent of sandalwood, his scent.

Leonardo was sitting behind a massive glass desk, a single lamp illuminating the sharp, handsome angles of his face.

He looked like a god of the underworld, his dark eyes tracking my every movement as I was forced into the chair opposite him.

"You look pale, Sofia," he remarked, his voice a low, melodic baritone that made my skin crawl.

"The journey from Palermo was long. I trust my men treated you... appropriately?"

"You killed my father," I rasped, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears.

"You burned my home. What do you want from me?"

Leonardo stood up, his tall frame casting a long, intimidating shadow over the desk.

He walked toward me with a slow, predatory grace. He didn't stop until he was inches away, leaning down, so his face was level with mine.

"I want the debt paid," he whispered. "Your father was a king, but he was a king who owed the Thorne Syndicate more than he could ever return. Now that he's gone, the debt falls to the last of the lineage."

He reached out, his long fingers tracing the line of my jaw.

I forced myself not to flinch. I kept my eyes wide and watery, playing the part of the broken, terrified girl he expected me to be.

Underneath the desk, my hand surreptitiously brushed against the edge of a heavy silver letter opener he had left near the edge.

"You’re going to work, Sofia," he continued, his thumb brushing over my lower lip in a gesture that was both a threat and a promise.

"This club is the crown jewel of Madrid’s nightlife. You will be its centerpiece. You will dance, you will smile, and you will ensure that every man who sees you feels the need to empty his pockets into my accounts.

You’ll be the 'Fallen Queen' of the Golden Lily."

"I won't," I breathed, letting a single tear fall to sell the act.

"You will," he countered, his voice dropping to a gravelly low. "Or I will send you to the basement where the men aren't nearly as patient as I am."

“Do you know what those men are capable of doing?” letting out a cunning smile.

He grabbed my arm and pulled me up, leading me toward a private lounge area behind the office.

The room was draped in charcoal silk, with a large leather sofa and a bottle of expensive bourbon on the side table.

That night, Leonardo showed me the true cost of my father’s sins.

He claimed me with a cold, possessive brutality that left me shivering and hollowed out.

I didn't fight him, not yet.

I let him think I was defeated.

I leaned into the "submissive" role he wanted, all while my eyes searched the room.

As he leaned over to pour himself a drink afterward, his back turned to me for a split second, I saw it. On the side table, a heavy, jagged crystal decanter stopper.

I didn't grab it then. I waited.

For the next week, the nightmare repeated.

I was forced onto the stage every night, wearing scraps of emerald silk that left me feeling naked and ashamed.

I moved to the beat of music I hated, my eyes dead, my body a machine.

Leonardo watched me every night from his VIP booth, his gaze fixed on me like a prize he had finally broken.

But he hadn't broken me.

I was a Galante, and Galante don't break; we wait for the fire.

The breaking point came on a Tuesday night. Leonardo summoned me to his private lounge after a grueling three-hour set.

He was arrogant, his guard lowered by the success of the night and the whiskey in his glass.

"You're learning, little bird," he murmured, his hand wrapping around my throat, not to choke me, but to force my head back, so I had to look at him. "You look quite beautiful when you’re obedient."

He leaned in to kiss me, his grip on my waist tightening.

This was it.

I reached into the folds of my sheer skirt, where I had hidden the silver letter opener I’d stolen from his desk days before.

As he pulled me flush against his chest, I didn't scream. I didn't beg.

I drove the silver blade straight into the meat of his hand, pinning it to the leather armrest of the sofa.

Leonardo let out a guttural roar of shock and pain, his grip on me instantly slackening.

Blood, hot and dark, sprayed across the emerald silk of my costume.

I didn't wait to see the expression on his face. I turned and bolted.

I ran through the service hallway, the neon lights blurring into streaks of violet and red.

I burst through the kitchen, ignoring the shouts of the guards, and threw myself through the heavy steel fire exit.

The Madrid rain hit me like a physical blow, shocking my lungs.

I ran barefoot onto the asphalt of the main road, the sheer fabric of my dress clinging to my body.

Behind me, the alarm sirens of the club began to wail.

I didn't look back.

I stepped into the path of a pair of blinding white headlights, the roar of a high-end engine filling my ears.

SCREECH.

The world tilted.

The impact was a dull, heavy thud that sent me spinning into the darkness. As the rain washed over my face, mixing with the blood on my hands, I saw a silver car skid to a halt.

A man stepped out, a man whose face held a horror I hadn't seen in a Thorne in years.

"My God," he whispered, kneeling in the rain beside me.

"Hang on. I’ve got you."

The darkness finally took me, but as I lost consciousness, I knew one thing for certain.

I had left my mark on Leonardo Thorne. And he would never forget the name Sofia Galante.