Rebirth of the Syndicate Sovereign

To appease their precious fake daughter, my parents packed me, the true heiress, up overnight and dumped me in the most brutal, povertystricken mining pits of Africa.

Three years later, teetering on the edge of bankruptcy, my biological father ordered me to crawl back. My purpose?

To take Harlow's place and marry a nearsixtyyearold man for investment capital. I let out a dark, breathless chuckle. They had no clue.

I hadn't spent the last three years digging dirt in a mine. I was operating in the shadows, forging the ultimate, untraceable financial empire—the Black Gold Syndicate. Perfect.

I was just looking for an excuse to come back and collect my debts. Chapter 1 I boarded my private jet.

Fourteen hours later, the tires screeched against the tarmac in New York City. The ride they had sent for me was a rusted, moldinfested van.

Trevor didn't even bother stepping out of the driver's seat. He just laid on the horn, rushing me. I wore a stark black tactical jacket devoid of any designer logos.

It looked ordinary. Underneath the fabric, it was toptier, customtailored ballistic armor. I shoved open the heavy oak doors of the family estate.

Warm laughter echoed through the foyer. Harlow paraded around like a prized peacock in a custom gown dripping with crushed diamonds.

Conrad and Pamela hovered around her, showering her with praise. The second I stepped inside, the laughter flatlined.

Harlow pinched her nose, her face twisting in disgust. "Ugh, what is that stench?

Sloane, did you sleep with wild boars in Africa for three years?" Pamela snatched Harlow's arm, yanking her behind her back like I was a walking disease, and glared at me, her eyes burning with deep revulsion. "Running wild in a slum for three years and you still haven't learned an ounce of class!

Get upstairs and scrub yourself clean! Don't you dare infect Harlow with that stench of poverty!" I didn't move a muscle. I just stood there, my gaze sweeping over these clowns.

Conrad scoffed, impatiently slamming a thick folder onto the mahogany coffee table. "Go take a shower and sign this agreement.

The second you marry him, Randall will wire a hundred million into our accounts." I closed the distance. I picked up the marriage contract, the paper rough against my fingertips.

Harlow peeked out from behind Pamela, her tone dripping with toxic sweetness. "You really need to grab this opportunity, Sloane.

Randall might be a little past his prime, but he knows how to spoil a woman. It beats picking through African garbage dumps, right?" My eyes scanned the dense legal jargon.

They had sold me out down to the bone. They even listed Harlow as the sole beneficiary of my organs in the event of my death. A cold smile curled my lips.

I gripped the edges of the contract. My hands twisted. I ripped the thick stack of papers into shreds, the tearing sound echoing in the silent room.

I slammed the fistful of shredded paper directly into Conrad's face. "Why the hell would I care if this family burns to the ground?" Conrad froze, the paper fluttering down around his shoulders.

He genuinely didn't expect me to fight back. A dark, ugly shade of red crawled up his neck.

He raised his hand, aiming a vicious strike at my cheek. "You ungrateful little bitch, I'll teach you—" My eyes went dead. I pivoted my weight and swung back. Smack.

The sickening crack of my palm against his jaw shattered the room. The sheer force of the backhand spun Conrad half a circle.

He crumpled hard into the leather sofa, the left side of his face instantly swelling into a bruised, mangled mess. Dead silence choked the room.

Pamela shrieked, throwing herself onto the cushions to drag him up. Harlow scrambled backward, her heels slipping on the marble floor.

She pointed a trembling finger at me, all the color draining from her face. "You hit Conrad?!" I didn't even blink.

I turned my back on the pathetic wreckage and headed for the door. "I came back to collect my debts." I tossed the words over my shoulder, my voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "You better prepare for the slaughter." Chapter 2 The caller ID flashed Pamela’s name.

I swiped accept. Conrad’s unhinged roar immediately detonated through the speaker. "You ungrateful little bitch!

You think you can just walk out?" he bellowed. "You think you can run? There’s a banquet tonight at the Imperial Hotel.

You will crawl there on your hands and knees to serve Randall! If you don’t show up, I will dig Chester’s urn out of the family crypt right now.

I’ll dump the old man straight into the gutter for the stray dogs to eat!" The name hit me like a bullet. My boots locked onto the concrete.

The oxygen ripped straight out of my lungs. A phantom fist crushed my heart, and a monstrous, murderous intent instantly flooded my eyes.

They had dragged me back from the countryside when I was fifteen. Conrad had looked at me like a cockroach, utterly disgusted by my cheap clothes.

Pamela had treated me like a walking scandal, refusing to even meet my eyes. Harlow paraded around in her designer princess dresses.

She led a pack of maids to constantly mock the "beggar bastard." I existed as a complete alien in that freezing, soulless mansion. Only Chester cared.

He hobbled over on his cane, finding me curled into a terrified ball in the corner. His rough, calloused thumb gently wiped the dirt from my cheek.

He shielded me from their vicious stares and pressed a butterscotch candy into my trembling palm. "Don't be scared, Sloane," he whispered. "This is your home now.

Grandpa’s got you." The simple sweetness of that candy provided the only warmth I ever tasted in that house. Chester alone loved me as his real flesh and blood.

The day his heart gave out, the estate turned into a living hell. Conrad and Pamela worshipped the ground Harlow walked on. They shoved me into a damp, windowless basement.

And when the lawyers read Chester’s will, Harlow whispered her poisonous little lies to get me out of the picture. So they shipped me off to the deadliest mining pits in Africa.

I knew they operated on greed. I knew they possessed zero morals. But I never fathomed they could sink to this level of depravity.

Weaponizing a father’s ashes to force their own flesh and blood into a billionaire's bed. "Conrad." The plastic of my phone case cracked under my grip.

My knuckles flushed bonewhite. My voice dropped into a lethal, icy whisper. "You touch Chester’s urn.

I will personally slaughter every single breathing soul in this family." Harlow’s shrill, mocking giggle echoed through the receiver. "Oh, drop the toughguy act, Sloane.

The old man’s urn currently rests right under my stiletto. Eight o'clock tonight. The Imperial Hotel.

You show up one minute late, and I'll spit right inside it." The line went dead with an arrogant click. I stood paralyzed on the sidewalk.

I tilted my head back toward the smoggy sky. A terrifying, murderous aura erupted from my body. The temperature around me plummeted to freezing. Fine. Perfect.

I just wanted to bankrupt them. I just wanted to strip them of their precious wealth. But now, they lose the right to breathe.

Chapter 3 Conrad had drained every last cent of his failing assets to throw this extravagant gala. His goal wasn't just to kiss the boots of the Black Gold Syndicate.

He fully intended to auction me off to Randall tonight. The ballroom dripped with excessive gold and crystal.

I strode through the grand double doors, deadpan, wearing my unmarked black tactical jacket. Dead center of the room.

Harlow worked the crowd like a cheap socialite in her custom couture. She clung tightly to the arm of a balding, greaseslicked man with a massive beer belly.

That was Randall—the nearsixtyyearold holding a multimillion dollar lifeline.

Conrad and Pamela trailed right behind them like obedient lapdogs, their faces plastered with sickeningly sweet smiles. Harlow’s eyes lit up the second she spotted me.

She instantly cranked her voice up a notch, making sure the entire room caught every syllable. "Oh, Sloane! You finally made it.

Randall has been waiting for you all night." The entire ballroom snapped their attention toward me.

Elite socialites eyed my tactical gear, sneering and whispering behind their champagne flutes. Conrad stormed over, his face thunderous.

He glared at me, dropping his voice to a vicious, guttural hiss. "You look like a filthy beggar. Get your ass over there and toast Randall!

If you don't serve him exactly how he likes it, I'm scattering that old man's ashes the second we get home!" Pamela chimed in with her usual toxic venom. "You ran wild in those filthy African slums for three years.

You're lucky anyone even wants you. Wipe that look off your face and go smile for him. Don't push your luck." Randall waddled over, his massive gut leading the way.

His cloudy, yellowed eyes raked up and down my body without a shred of shame.

He curled his lip in open disgust and scoffed. "Conrad, this is the eldest daughter you just dragged out of an African refugee camp? She reeks of poverty.

You think she's fit for my bed?" Cold sweat broke out across Conrad’s forehead. He folded himself in half, groveling pathetically. "Please don't be angry, Randall!

The girl is a little feral, but she cleans up nicely. As long as you're happy, you can discipline her however you see fit!" Harlow slithered over, a glass of red wine in her hand.

She shoved the crystal flute toward me, her eyes radiating venom. "Did you hear that, Sloane?

Randall taking an interest in you is the greatest blessing you'll ever receive in this pathetic life.

Get on your knees and offer him this drink." Randall stroked his greasy chin, a disgusting, lecherous grin stretching across his face. "Harlow is absolutely right.

Drop to your knees and drink this, little girl. Keep me satisfied tonight, and I'll wire your family ten million tomorrow morning.

Cross me, and I'll bankrupt the Conrad estate by sunrise." Cruel laughter rippled through the surrounding crowd of elites.

Every single person watched me like an animal in a zoo, fully expecting me to drop and beg like a dog. I stared at the three repulsive faces crowding my personal space. I smiled.

I reached out and plucked the wine glass directly from Harlow's fingers. Conrad exhaled a heavy breath, visibly relieved, fully believing I had finally submitted.

Harlow’s lips twisted into a toxic, victorious smirk. Randall puffed out his chest and thrust his gut forward, waiting for my knees to hit the marble. A split second later.

My wrist flicked. I threw the entire glass of vintage Merlot right into Randall’s greasy, aging face. The dark red liquid arced through the air. Splash. Not a single drop missed.

Chapter 4 The laughter caught instantly in their throats. Crimson wine dripped from Randall’s bald scalp, staining the lapels of his custom suit.

He looked exactly like a pathetic, plucked chicken caught in the rain. He froze. Two seconds of stunned silence. Then, he let out a guttural, piglike squeal. "You little bitch!

You threw that at me?!" Conrad jumped out of his skin. He pointed a trembling, furious finger at me. "You ungrateful animal! Are you trying to get us all killed?

I'll beat you to death right here!" Harlow shrieked, her voice vibrating with pure excitement. "Dad! She completely disrespected you!

She doesn't even care about Chester's ashes!" A vicious glint flashed in Conrad’s eyes. He whipped his head toward the entrance. "Simon! Bring the black box in!

Now!" Simon scurried into the ballroom, his hands trembling violently around a black marble urn. Chester. My pupils dilated. A jagged, rusted blade twisted right behind my ribs.

The oxygen evaporated from my lungs. "Conrad, don't you dare!" Blood roared in my ears. I lunged forward. But I was a fraction of a second too late.

Harlow snatched the marble box from Simon's grip. A toxic, triumphant smirk ripped across her face. She raised the heavy black urn high above her head. She locked eyes with me.

And she slammed it onto the marble floor. Crash. The marble shattered into jagged splinters. A thick, pale cloud of ash erupted into the air.

Pamela frantically waved a manicured hand in front of her nose, her face twisting in disgust. "Even dead, the old man finds a way to ruin the carpets.

What a disgusting omen." Conrad glared down at me. "That is what happens when you disobey me." My knees hit the floor. Hard. I clawed frantically at the ground.

My trembling fingers scraped against the cold, wet marble, desperately trying to scoop up the pale dust. But it mixed with the spilled Merlot. It clumped with the shattered glass.

I couldn't gather him. My fingernails dug into the grout until they cracked. Warm blood slicked my fingertips. "Grandpa…" A raw, jagged rasp tore its way up my throat.

My vision blurred. Acid burned the back of my eyes.

The only source of warmth during that freezing year I turned fifteen had his ashes scattered and bones ground to dust by his own son and granddaughter!

Monstrous hatred and agonizing pain churned wildly in my chest like boiling magma. Randall wiped a thick smear of wine from his chin.

He stared down at me, a twisted, sick laugh rumbling from his chest. "I love a feral bitch! She's got fight! Restrain her! Drag this little whore up to the penthouse suite!

I'm going to break her in tonight!" He snapped his fingers at the towering security detail near the door.

A halfdozen massive bodyguards lunged toward me like a pack of ravenous wolves. Pure, cruel satisfaction washed over the faces of my family.

The surrounding elites just stood there, clutching their drinks. Cold, silent observers watching a stray dog get put down. I slowly stood up.

A grotesque paste of blood, wine, and ash coated my hands. I locked eyes with Conrad, Harlow, and Pamela. I wasn't looking at my family anymore.

I was looking at three walking corpses. The bodyguards reached for my collar. BOOM. A deafening explosion rocked the foundation.

The heavy, solid brass double doors of the ballroom blasted entirely off their hinges. Conrad collapsed flat onto his ass.

Highpitched screams pierced the air as the elite crowd scrambled in terror. Thick, gray smoke billowed into the room.

Hundreds of heavily armed mercenaries, strapped in pitchblack tactical gear, flooded the ballroom like a lethal tidal wave.

Axel stepped through the smoke in a long black trench coat. His heavy combat boots crushed the scattered glass beneath his weight.

His lethal gaze swept across the terrified room, his voice echoing like absolute thunder. "Who dares touch her?!" Chapter 5 The fat on Randall’s face violently spasmed.

Under the flickering, broken lights of the ballroom, he locked onto Axel’s face. Suddenly, a sickening gleam of wild ecstasy erupted in his cloudy eyes. He recognized him.

This was the man currently pulling all the strings in New York City. The man even Nelson, the city's richest billionaire, groveled to.

The regional director of the Black Gold Syndicate. Axel! Randall ignored the vintage Merlot dripping from his bald scalp.

Like a starving stray spotting a bone, he bowed deeply, shuffling forward with a sickening, desperate grin. "Oh! Axel! What an absolute honor! You should have called ahead!

I would have waited by the doors to welcome you myself!" He shoved out his liverspotted hand, desperate to shake Axel's. Axel didn’t even blink at him.

His glacial stare swept right past the bloated man, locking instantly onto the pale ash scattered across the floor—and my bloodsoaked hands. Axel’s pupils contracted to pinpricks.

The lethal intent radiating off his body was thick enough to choke on. Randall, oblivious, assumed the chaos had offended the VIP.

He immediately whipped his head around, jabbing a vicious finger in my direction. "Please don't be angry, Axel! It's all this feral street rat we just dragged back from Africa!

She threw a drink in my face and threw a psychotic tantrum right here on the floor!

She’s polluting your air and ruining the entire gala!" The name 'Axel' hit Conrad like a defibrillator. The Black Gold Syndicate!

He had drained his accounts to throw this pathetic party just for a chance to kiss this exact man's boots.

Conrad scrambled up from the floor, violently shoving a stray chair out of his way. A sickeningly sweet, desperate smile plastered itself across his aging face. "Axel!

What a tremendous surprise! Please, forgive my lack of a proper welcome!" Desperate to prove his loyalty, Conrad didn't hesitate for a single second.

He aimed a furious glare at me and spat. "Let me be clear, Axel—this ungrateful animal might share my last name, but I disowned her three years ago!

She crashed my party and smashed her own grandfather's urn to pieces! She’s completely psychotic! Do whatever you want with her!

Just please, do not let this useless bitch affect the Syndicate's investment in my family!" Pamela hurried over, her face twisting in utter revulsion as she looked at me. "He's absolutely right, Axel.

She's been running wild with absolute trash in the African slums. Zero class. Zero manners!" Harlow took it a step further.

She deliberately adjusted the plunging neckline of her gown. Swaying her hips, she slithered up right next to Axel.

She deliberately pressed her generous curves against his arm. "Axel~ You have to help us~ My sister is terrifying. She's acting like a murderer. Just look at her hands.

Covered in blood. It's disgusting. Please, have your men drag her away.

Lock her in a cell and throw away the key!" The Conrad family and Randall tripped over each other's words, piling on the accusations.

They fully believed that by kissing Axel's feet, they could crush me into the dirt forever.

Randall grew so confident he actually thumped his chest. "Axel, there's absolutely no need to dirty your hands with this garbage!

I'll have my security drag her up to the penthouse right now! I guarantee you, I'll break her in until she's crawling on her knees like a trained dog!

Once I'm done teaching her a lesson, I'll pass her around to your men for a little fun!" Chapter 6 My hands were completely numb.

I didn't feel the jagged glass slicing into my palms. I just carefully, desperately scooped the pale ash and bloody shards against my chest, pulling him close piece by piece.

Axel stared at the pulverized marble. He stared at the blood dripping from my fingertips. The muscles in his jaw locked.

Thick, violent veins pulsed against his temples like coiled snakes. His eyes bled into a terrifying, murderous red.

He snapped his head up, his lethal glare locking onto the stillbabbling crowd.

Harlow obliviously batted her eyelashes, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "Axel, just ignore the psycho.

Why don't we head up to the VIP lounge and talk investments—" Axel didn't even acknowledge her existence. He strode straight past her, closing the distance between us.

The entire ballroom held its breath. The elites watched in terror, fully expecting the ruthless Syndicate director to put a bullet in my head for ruining his night. Thud.

Axel dropped to his knees. He slammed down directly into the pile of shattered glass.

Jagged shards instantly tore through his tailored trousers, dark blood blossoming against the fabric. He didn't even flinch.

The man who held the entire city in a chokehold bowed his head perfectly straight to the floor.

His voice physically shook, raspy and choked with absolute devastation. "I was too late. I let them hurt you.

Whoever laid a single finger on her will be carved into pieces and fed to the dogs." His words swept through the room like a freezing, lethal wind. Dead silence.

Randall, still failing to grasp the reality of the situation, waddled forward with a sickening, apologetic grin. "Oh, Axel!

You shouldn't have to dirty your own knees, this crazy bitch is just polluting your—" CRACK. Axel didn't even let him finish.

His heavy combat boot launched upward, slamming directly into Randall's massive gut. The explosive force sent the twohundredandfiftypound man flying backward through the air.

Randall crashed hard into a thick glass display table, shattering it into a thousand pieces. The ballroom flatlined. Not a single soul dared to breathe.

Conrad and Pamela collapsed against the wall, trembling uncontrollably. Axel didn't spare them a glance.

He ripped off his heavy black trench coat and draped it securely over my violently shaking shoulders.

He shifted onto one knee, gently cradling my mangled, bloodsoaked hands as if I were made of glass. Collective gasps echoed through the room. Conrad's jaw hit the floor.

Pamela pointed a trembling finger at me, choking on her own spit. Harlow froze. Then, a sharp, incredibly ugly laugh ripped from her throat. "Ha!

So this is your grand master plan!" Harlow shrieked, her eyes wild with toxic contempt. "Sloane, you spent three years running wild in the dirt, just to spread your legs and hook up with Axel!" The realization hit Conrad like a freight train.

The terror melted off his face, instantly replaced by utter contempt. "Pathetic!

I actually thought you had real power!" Conrad spat, sneering at me. "You're just using cheap parlor tricks to play god! Axel, don't let this used trash fool you.

God knows how many men she spread her legs for while rotting in those slums!" Axel shot to his feet.

He ripped the Glock from his waistband and jammed the steel barrel directly between Conrad's eyes. "You want to die." "Stand down," I forced the words through my raw throat. "Putting a bullet in them now is letting them off too easy." Seeing Axel instantly obey my command only solidified Harlow's twisted theory.

In her mind, I was just a cheap whore who had manipulated a powerful man.

Harlow tilted her chin up, radiating extreme arrogance. "Axel, you're nothing but a lapdog for the Black Gold Syndicate!" she sneered, her voice echoing through the silent room. "You really think you can play god and protect this little slut?

I've already secured the backing of the ultimate national kingpin—Bruno!" Chapter 7 The name 'Bruno' drained the color from every elite in the room.

He was the undisputed kingpin of the East Coast underground. Harlow shot me a disgustingly triumphant glare. "You just wait, Sloane!

In three days, the Black Gold Syndicate is hosting a welcome gala for their mysterious founder—the Sovereign! I'm bringing Bruno personally!

I'm going to rip off your mask right in front of the Sovereign and expose exactly what kind of cheap whore you really are!" Harlow strutted out of the ballroom like a victorious peacock, dragging Conrad and Pamela behind her in a cloud of sheer arrogance.

I just shook my head. She was terminal. Three days later. The Zenith Penthouse. The most exclusive, highsecurity venue in the city.

The North American branch of the Black Gold Syndicate bled millions just to prep this room. All to welcome the elusive, mythical architect of their empire—the Sovereign.

Every single billionaire, political heavyhitter, and underworld boss in New York stood at attention. Terrified. Nobody even dared to breathe too loudly.

I sat in the shadowed VIP booth on the second floor. Oneway reinforced glass gave me a perfect, godlike view of the chaos below.

Axel stood rigidly at the front of the stage, ready to initiate the welcome protocol. BOOM. C4 blew the solid brass double doors clean off their hinges.

Thick cordite smoke flooded the airspace. Over a hundred heavily scarred, fully kitted foreign mercenaries stormed the room.

Dozens of red laser sights instantly painted the foreheads of the elite guests. Highpitched screams ripped through the penthouse.

New York's heavyweights dropped to the floor, covering their heads in terror.

A heavily tattooed, bald man in a sprawling mink coat swaggered through the wreckage, a thick Cuban cigar clamped between his teeth. Bruno. The East Coast apex predator.

Harlow clung to his bicep like a venomous viper, pouring out of an obscenely lowcut crimson gown. Conrad and Pamela strutted right behind them, trailing like pathetic lapdogs.

They acted like they owned the damn building. Bruno whipped a goldplated Desert Eagle from his coat. He aimed straight up and pulled the trigger. Crash.

Hundreds of crystal shards rained down from the shattered chandelier. The screaming stopped. Pure, suffocating silence.

Bruno blew a thick ring of cigar smoke into the air, a manic grin stretching his face. "I'm commandeering this venue tonight!

Everyone else, face the wall and get on your knees!" Nelson, the wealthiest billionaire in the city, opened his mouth to object.

A mercenary instantly cracked the butt of his rifle across Nelson's skull, dropping him into a pool of his own blood. Nobody moved a muscle after that.

Harlow threw her head back and let out a shrill, arrogant laugh. Her stilettos clicked loudly as she marched straight to the stage, completely untouchable.

She jabbed a manicured finger right at Axel's face and spat. "Axel, you blind, pathetic mutt! You cut off my family's funding for Sloane? For that cheap whore?!

Bruno is here to personally back me up!

Let's see you try to protect that cheap whore now!" Conrad eagerly stepped forward, his face twisted in a disgustingly smug sneer. "Axel, you let that little animal completely brainwash you.

Embezzling syndicate funds to play her white knight. You really think you own the Black Gold Syndicate? Isn't your legendary 'Sovereign' supposed to be here tonight? Perfect!

I'm going to ask the Sovereign personally how he tolerates such massive insubordination!" Pamela chimed in, her voice dripping with venomous spite. "Exactly!

The second the Sovereign walks in, we're exposing every dirty little secret about that filthy slut!

Axel, you better prepare to be thrown out on the streets!" Chapter 8 Axel instinctively flicked his gaze toward the shadowed VIP booth on the second floor.

Without my explicit order, he wouldn't move a single muscle.

He swallowed his lethal rage, his jaw locking as he ground out, "Know your place." To the Conrad family, Axel's forced restraint looked like pure terror.

Harlow laughed even louder, her body shaking with toxic glee. "Oh, is the big bad Axel scared?

Too late!" She spun around and looped her arms around Bruno’s thick neck, pouting playfully. "Bruno, I don't want to look at him anymore.

Make him get on his knees and beg me~ And that 'Sovereign' guy playing god in the shadows?

When he finally crawls out, make him hand the North American branch over to me, okay?" Bruno roared with laughter, his thick, heavily ringed fingers gripping Harlow’s chin. "You got it, baby!

Sovereign my ass! He's nothing but a piece of shit to me! If he hides, he lives.

But if he shows his face today, I'll blow his brains out right alongside you!" He raised the goldplated Desert Eagle, jamming the cold steel barrel directly against the center of Axel’s forehead. "Axel.

You get exactly three seconds. Drag that little bitch Sloane out here so Harlow can carve her up! Then hand over total control of the Syndicate.

Or I blow your brains all over this stage." The suffocating tension in the room hit a breaking point. A sick, twisted ecstasy plastered the faces of my family.

In their minds, they already saw Axel's brains splattered across the floor. They saw me stripped naked and tossed into the gutters.

They truly believed they had just conquered the entire New York underworld. "Three!" Bruno started the countdown, his heavy finger curling around the trigger. "Two!" Harlow vibrated with anticipation.

Right as Bruno opened his mouth to shout 'one'— A low, chilling laugh drifted from the shadowed VIP booth on the second floor. It wasn't loud.

But routed through the penthouse's stateoftheart acoustics, the sound sliced through every single corner of the silent ballroom. "You wanted to see me