SWAPPED TO THE SYNDICATE KING

ChapterThree

Jarrah

"Ten minutes."

Brodie Lawson’s voice cut through the cavernous marble foyer, cold and dry as bone dust. He stood at the foot of the stairs, hands resting casually on his leather belt, his dark eyes never leaving my face.

"Mr. Sterling’s patience is notoriously thin tonight, Miss Tahlia. Put something presentable on and leave your bags. Everything you need is already waiting for you at the compound."

I did not answer. To answer meant using my voice, a voice that carried the sharp, gravelly cadence of someone who spent her nights barking orders over loud music in boxing gyms and back alley surveillance vans.

Instead, I lowered my chin, let my eyelids drop half shut, and gave him a single, trembling nod.

I turned and walked back toward Tahlia’s suite at the end of the east wing corridor. Every single step was an agony of restraint. My body was built for combat; my default gait was a balanced, low center of gravity stride designed to shift weight instantly for a strike or a dodge. Now, I had to force myself to sway slightly, to drag my heels, to let my arms dangle uselessly at my sides as if I’d never thrown a punch in my life.

The moment I stepped across the threshold into Tahlia’s bedroom, I locked the heavy mahogany door behind me and sank against the solid timber.

My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

Breathe, I told myself, closing my eyes. Deconstruct the subject. You’re an investigator. This is just a long-term undercover assignment.

I opened my eyes and looked around Tahlia’s room. It was an ocean of soft pinks, white lace, and pale silk. The air smelled suffocatingly of French lavender and vanilla bean, sweet, innocent, and entirely defenseless.

I walked over to her vanity mirror.

Standing in front of the polished glass, I stripped off my dark wool sweater and heavy leather boots. Beneath them, my body was a map of hard work, defined shoulder muscles, a tight core, and pale, raw skin across my knuckles. Tahlia didn't have muscle mass. She lived on organic salads, herbal tea, and fear.

I pulled open her closet and grabbed a soft, cream-colored cashmere sweater that hung loosely around her frame. On me, the fabric pulled slightly across my shoulders, but the oversized cut disguised the breadth of my back. I slid into a pair of wide-leg velvet trousers and soft leather slippers.

Then came the face.

I sat at the vanity, staring at my reflection. We had the exact same face, down to the small birthmark just below our left collarbone. But where Tahlia’s face was soft, open, and perpetually wide-eyed, mine was etched with the sharp habit of suspicion. My jaw was always set tight. My brows were always slightly drawn.

I closed my eyes and forced every muscle in my face to go completely slack.

I opened them again. I let my lips part just a fraction. I softened my gaze, unfocusing my eyes slightly until I looked like a deer staring into approaching headlights.

"I'm sorry," I whispered out loud.

My voice was too deep. Too firm.

I swallowed, tightening my chest, drawing air only from the top half of my lungs to make the tone light, breathy, and fragile.

"I'm... I'm so sorry, Silas," I tried again, letting the words falter, letting a quiet tremor ripple through the cadence.

It sounded like her. It sounded like anyone else who had spent twenty-four years apologizing for existing in a family of ruthless men.

A heavy knock rattled the bedroom door, making me flinch, a genuine flinch this time.

"Five minutes, Miss Tahlia," Brodie’s muffled voice called from the hallway. "Or I will come in and carry you out myself."

"I'm... I'm coming," I called out, my voice high and small.

I grabbed Tahlia’s small leather shoulder bag, slipping my lockpick set into the bottom lining alongside her lavender lip balm. I had no gun. No knife. No encrypted comms. I was walking straight into the heart of the Sterling empire armed with nothing but a breathy voice and twenty-four years of shared DNA.

I unlocked the door and stepped out into the hall.

Brodie was waiting. The light from the sconces hit his scarred jaw as he turned to look at me. For a long, terrifying three seconds, he said nothing. His brown eyes swept down from my loosely tied black hair, still dark, missing Tahlia's light chestnut dye, but pinned back timidly, down to my soft cashmere sweater, and finally to my hands, which I had tucked tightly into my sleeves to hide my calluses.

"You look pale," Brodie said coldly, stepping back to let me pass. "Good. The boss likes them soft."

I kept my head down, staring at the polished floorboards, and followed him down the grand staircase.

Silas and Gideon were standing in the foyer. Silas would not look me in the eye, he stood by the grand fireplace, clutching a fresh glass of scotch, his face pale and sweating. But Gideon stepped forward, his eyes soft with that masterfully crafted paternal sorrow.

"Be brave, sweet girl," Gideon whispered, reaching out to gently squeeze my hand.

I felt a sudden, violent impulse to snap his thumb backward to sell me into this cage. Instead, I forced my hand to tremble in his grip, pulling back lightly as if terrified of the touch.

"Don't... don't let him hurt me, Gideon," I whimpered quietly, looking up at him through my lashes.

Gideon’s lips twitched with a hidden, satisfied smile. "It's all for the family, Tahlia. Just be obedient."

Brodie grabbed my elbow, not roughly, but with a firm, iron grip that signaled I had no room to run. He led me out into the pouring Melbourne rain, holding a black umbrella over my head as he opened the rear door of a heavily armored black SUV.

The interior smelled of expensive leather, ozone, and faint cigar smoke.

I slid into the plush leather back seat. Brodie slammed the door shut. He climbed into the front passenger seat next to a silent, muscular driver.

The heavy SUV pulled down the long gravel driveway of the Barry estate, passing through the massive wrought iron gates into the wet, dark Melbourne night.

I pressed my back against the leather seat, staring out the tinted window as the lights of the city blurred through the rain. Every muscle in my body was screaming at me to break the glass, choke the driver, and vanish into the alleys of the city.

Fourteen days, I reminded myself, digging my fingernails into the palms of my hands inside my sleeves until the pain grounded me. Fourteen days to steal his access codes, clear Tahlia's trail, and burn both families to the ground.

Thirty minutes later, the urban sprawl gave way to the winding, dark coastal roads along Port Phillip Bay. The SUV turned off the main highway, navigating a private asphalt road flanked by dense forest and heavy iron perimeter fencing topped with modern thermal cameras.

The vehicle stopped at a massive concrete gate house. Two guards in dark tactical gear stepped out, checking the undercarriage with security mirrors before waving us through.

The SUV ground to a halt in the underground garage.

"Out," Brodie ordered, opening my door.

My knees felt cold as I stepped onto the concrete floor. Brodie guided me toward a private glass elevator that took us directly to the top floor of the main residence.

The elevator doors slid open silently, revealing a vast, dimly lit penthouse living room with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the stormy ocean. The room was cold, minimalist, and dominated by a massive stone fireplace where blue flames flickered softly.

Standing in front of the fire, back turned to us, was a man.

He was broad-shouldered, towering easily over six foot three, dressed in a black tailored shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Intricate, dark ink climbed up the side of his muscular neck. In his right hand, he held a crystal glass of amber liquid, swirling it slowly.

"Leave us, Brodie," a deep, low baritone voice echoed through the room.

"Yes, boss," Brodie bowed his head slightly, stepping back into the elevator. The glass doors closed, leaving me entirely alone with Melbourne’s most ruthless syndicate kingpin.

Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating, punctuated only by the distant roar of the ocean crashing against the cliffs far below.

Slowly, Baden Sterling turned around.

The firelight caught his face, sharp, ruthless bone structure, framed by dark ash brown hair and a harsh jaw line of stubble. But it was his eyes that stripped the air right out of my lungs.

They were a striking, terrifying amber-gold. And as they locked onto me, there was no warmth, no bridal anticipation, and no pity.

He just stood there, his sharp gaze sliding slowly down my posture, from my pinned back hair, down my soft sweater, to the way my feet were positioned on the hardwood floor.

A slow, dangerous curve touched the corner of his lips.

"Well," Baden murmured, his deep voice carrying a dark, razor-sharp edge as he took one slow step toward me. "Look what the Barry family dragged in."

He stopped just three feet away. The smell of cedarwood, rain, and expensive whiskey rolled off him in waves.

"You're shaking, Tahlia," he said softly, reaching out a long, tattooed hand. His fingers didn't touch my face, instead, he lightly brushed the fabric of my sweater over my collarbone, feeling the rapid, violent thud of my heart.

He leaned in closer, his amber eyes narrowing into deadly gold slits as he looked straight past my soft expression, deep into the back of my eyes.

"Tell me," Baden whispered, his breath warm against my ear. "Does my little bride always carry the scent of gun oil and heavy punching bags on her skin?”