SWAPPED TO THE SYNDICATE KING

Chapter one

Jarrah

The heavy, sixty-kilogram boxing bag swung toward me through the dim light of my Docklands loft, and I met it with a sharp, left hook, right cross combination that cracked through the empty studio like a gunshot. The leather was damp with my own sweat. Rain slammed violently against the high skylights overhead, drowning out the dull hum of late night freight traffic along the Melbourne docks.

I reset my stance, breathing in short, measured bursts through my nose. Sweat ran into the corner of my eye, stinging, but I did not stop.

I had been at it for three hours. My hands were wrapped tightly in coarse black tape, my canvas shoes gripping the worn rubber flooring. Out here, I was not a pawn in a century-old underworld bloodline. I was just Jarrah.

A sharp, high-pitched electronic chime cut through the rhythm of my strikes.

I froze mid pivot. My eyes flicked to the polished timber worktable near the back office door. Sitting beside three monitors displaying encrypted property registries was my burner phone, a satellite-linked handset with only three contacts programmed into its memory.

It was glowing red.

I unwrapped my right hand with quick, practiced pulls of my teeth, stepping over to the desk. The caller ID displayed a single, localized encrypted string from the south side of the Yarra River.

Gideon O’Reilly.

I let it ring five times before picking it up. I just pressed the receiver to my ear and waited, my heart still hammering in my chest.

"Jarrah," Gideon’s voice came through the speaker, low, quiet, and stripped of its usual smooth, legal composure. "You need to come home. Now."

"I have a home, Gideon," I replied, my voice raspy from the dry air of the loft. "And it’s forty minutes away from the estate. If Silas sent you to lecture me about skipping the rehearsal dinner."

"Tahlia is gone."

The breath locked in my lungs. The heavy rain on the skylight suddenly sounded deafening, pounding like iron rivets into the roof.

"What did you say?" I asked softly, my grip tightening on the hard plastic until the casing groaned.

"She’s gone, Jarrah," Gideon repeated, a rare tremor edging his words. "Her room is empty. Her security escort was bypassed from the inside. She left three hours ago, and she is not answering her encrypted channel. Silas is threatening to tear the city apart. If Baden Sterling finds out before dawn..."

He did not need to finish the sentence.

Baden Sterling did not compromise. He did not delay. In three days, the entire Victorian underworld was scheduled to gather at St. Patrick’s Cathedral to watch the Barry family hand over their softest, most fragile daughter to seal a violent, decade-long truce. If Baden arrived at the altar and found an empty aisle, it would not be a broken engagement, it would be an absolute execution of our entire bloodline.

"I’m on my way," I said, and killed the call before he could answer.

The drive south toward Toorak was a blurred nightmare of rain-slicked asphalt and yellow streetlights reflecting off the dark surface of the Yarra.

I drove my battered black Ford sedan with cold focus, my mind racing through every possibility. Tahlia was not a strategist. She does not know how to run. She was gentle, a girl who spent her mornings arranging white peonies and playing classical piano in the conservatory. She flinched when the door slammed too hard. The thought of her navigating the city’s underground transit alone, terrified and hunted, sent a sickening spike of anxiety straight through my chest.

Why didn't you come to me? I thought, my hands gripping the leather steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. If you wanted out, Tahlia, I could have hidden you where neither Silas nor Baden Sterling would ever find you.

Ten minutes later, I pulled through the massive wrought-iron gates of the Barry estate.

The sprawling, bluestone Victorian mansion sat tucked behind high stone walls and ancient oak trees, looking less like a family residence and more like a high security prison. Four black SUVs were parked along the gravel driveway, their engines idling quietly in the rain, exhaust swirling in the cold air. Private security guards in dark raincoats stood stationed every ten meters along the perimeter, their hands resting near their jacket holsters.

I threw my car into the park, shoved my door open, and marched up the wide granite steps into the grand entrance hall.

The air inside tasted of stale cigar smoke, expensive scotch, and raw panic.

"Where is she?" I demanded, my heavy boots leaving wet prints across the pristine marble floor.

Uncle Silas was standing by the grand marble fireplace, a half empty glass of amber liquor shaking in his hand. His face was blotchy, his tailored shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his dark eyes bloodshot with rage. Standing beside him was Gideon O’Reilly, looking impeccably neat as always in his charcoal suit, though his silver hair was slightly disheveled.

Silas spun around at the sound of my voice. "Look, who finally decided to show up," he spat, setting his glass down with a hard clink on the mantle. "The wild twin?" The one who spends her nights groveling in dark alleys while her sister prepares to save this family."

"Shut up, Silas," I growled, stepping right into his line of sight, refusing to give him an inch. "Where did she go? Who was she with?"

"She ran with that scum," Silas snarled, his voice rising into a sharp, ugly pitch. "That pathetic little club promoter she’s been sneaking around with for six months. Julian. We found a secondary burner phone hidden in her closet. The last message was sent at midnight, a flight confirmation out of the country."

I took a slow, deep breath, forcing my analytical brain to take over. "If she’s at Melbourne Airport, my team can intercept her before she clears customs. I can track the passenger manifest in ten minutes."

"It’s too late for that," Gideon interrupted softly, his voice calm, heavy, and chillingly precise. He stepped forward, holding out a single sheet of heavy, cream-colored stationery. "She did not take a commercial flight, Jarrah. They chartered a private vessel out of Port Phillip Bay two hours ago. They’re already in international waters."

I took the paper from his hand.

The handwriting was Tahlia’s, delicate, slanted, and trembling so badly the ink had smeared in several places.

I’m sorry, it read. I can not do this. I can not marry him. Please do not look for me.

Sitting on the edge of the mahogany table behind Gideon was Tahlia’s engagement ring, a massive, emerald cut diamond set in platinum that Baden Sterling had delivered to the house six weeks ago. It caught the dim chandelier light, glittering cold and lifeless.

"She chose a death sentence," Silas whispered, stepping closer to me, his breath thick with the sour stench of whiskey. "If Baden finds out she fled, he will destroy our shipping lines by morning. He will pull our corrupt judges off the bench. He will slaughter every captain on our payroll."

"Then you find another way to renegotiate," I snapped, tossing the note onto the table. "Offer him more space. Give him the Docklands warehouses. Offer him."

"Baden Sterling does not want warehouses, Jarrah," Gideon said quietly. He walked over to the double oak doors of the study, pulled them shut, and turned the heavy brass key on the lock with a soft, final click.

The sound echoed through the room like a trap snapping shut.

I turned around slowly, my muscles instantly stringing tight, my combat balance shifting lower. "What are you doing, Gideon?"

Gideon did not answer right away. He just looked at me, his sharp blue eyes sliding up from my wet leather jacket, past my bare, bruised knuckles, up to my face.

Silas stepped up beside him, his manic rage suddenly settling into a dark, desperate resolve.

"The wedding is in seventy-two hours," Silas said, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying whisper. "Three hundred guests are attending. The press is already stationed outside the cathedral. Baden Sterling is expecting a bride with pale skin, dark hair, and the Barry family name."

He took one more step toward me, reaching out to grab my chin in a tight, unyielding grip. I flinched, but he held fast, staring straight into my gray eyes.

"You have her face, Jarrah," Silas whispered, a grotesque, desperate smile curving his lips. "You're going to put on her dress.”