The Syndicate Heir Begs For My Love

Sienna POV

The dinner limped past midnight. We spilled out of the club into the cool night air, and Julian's men piled into the waiting fleet of armored SUVs. Engines rumbled—low, guttural, impatient.

I stood on the curb. It became immediately obvious that every seat was occupied.

Chloe leaned out of the lead SUV's window. She looked at me, then at Julian, and stated the obvious with strained formality. "There's no room. You'll have to arrange another car."

Julian stood by the open door of the second vehicle, deep in conversation with his lead enforcer. He didn't look up. He didn't notice.

Or he chose not to.

I kept my face blank—a skill I'd perfected over eighteen years in this family. "Drive," I told the driver.

The convoy pulled away. The taillights shrank to red pinpricks and vanished into the dark streets.

I was alone in syndicate territory after midnight.

I wrapped my jacket tighter and started walking. The March wind cut through the thin fabric. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed and died.

I remembered a time when Julian would never have allowed this. When we were children, he walked me home from every tutoring session, his hand hovering near the gun holstered beneath his jacket even though we were on protected ground. He'd refused the main compound, choosing a penthouse closer to my estate just to keep me within his orbit.

Now I was a ghost in his world. Less than a ghost—an inconvenience to be shed.

I turned onto a quiet, tree-lined street. My heels were the only sound against the pavement.

Then—heavy footsteps. Rapid. Close.

I didn't scream. I reached for the stiletto in my coat pocket instead—a gift from my father, who'd insisted that a Consigliere's daughter should never rely solely on a man for protection.

Before my fingers closed around the handle, a hand seized my upper arm. Not a grip of knuckles and bone but a solid, encompassing heat that swallowed my entire bicep and arrested my motion with brutal finality.

I looked up into Julian's face.

His chest heaved. His dark hair was disheveled, his suit jacket gone, his shirt collar torn open. The mighty heir who commanded three hundred soldiers had sprinted through city streets in the middle of the night.

"Why did you walk away?" His voice was a low, vibrating roar.

I stared at him. The will to fight had drained from my body. I stayed silent.

He searched my face. The anger in his eyes shifted into something darker—something closer to panic. His grip loosened, but he didn't let go.

"We're going home," he muttered.

We walked the remaining blocks in a silence so heavy it felt like wading through seawater. Just outside the iron gates of the Rossi estate, Julian stopped and blocked my path.

"What is your final choice for university?" he demanded.

I looked him dead in the eye. "South A. University."

The lie came out flat and clean.

Julian stared at me for a long moment. Then he nodded once and walked away into the night.

I went to my room and locked the door. I opened the syndicate feed on my phone and saw a notification for an upcoming mountain tactical retreat—a brutal training weekend run by former special forces contractors the Famiglia kept on retainer. I'd wanted to attend for years.

I forwarded the sign-up link to my feed.

Right before I fell asleep, Julian messaged me. He'd registered for the retreat and demanded we go together.

I opened the roster to check his name. My breath caught.

Julian had signed up two weeks ago. Long before I'd ever posted about it.

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