Page 1 of The Syndicate’s Shadow Heiress (Branche de Lune Syndicate #1)

THE GIRL WHO DIDN’T CRY

Kali's Emotional State: Kali’s patience had worn dangerously thin, frayed to threads that threatened to snap with the slightest provocation. Tonight, every ounce of her carefully restrained fury simmered beneath the surface, waiting for release.

T

he house still held his scent, smoke, steel, the quiet strength of a man who had bled for this place.

Kali stood silent in the doorway, grief a blade twisting slowly beneath her ribs.

Behind her, a low growl broke the hush. Vaerkyn emerged from the shadows, a monster hellhound coated in smoke and ash, his eyes burning like molten lava.

He was born of blood and bone, stitched into loyalty by the man she had lost. Massive, battle-scarred, and grim, he moved with the kind of brutal grace that warned even the walls not to stand too close.

His black eyes, rimmed in silver, locked on Kali, not with threat, not with submission… just with recognition and mourning.

Kali dropped to a crouch, the marble biting into her knees, and pressed her forehead to his. The pain flared hot through her joints, not new, not surprising. Just ever-present. A constant reminder that strength didn’t mean painless.

"I know," she whispered against his thick fur. So did he. Vaerkyn’s heartbeat thudded heavily against her palm, matching the drum of grief in her own chest. The beast nudged her hand once, an order, not a plea. Breathe, his touch seemed to say. Move forward.

Her eyes burned, but no tears fell. She would not weep. Not tonight. Not while loyalty still had a heartbeat.

No one had dared touch a thing. His absence screamed through the stone and bones of the house.

Power wasn’t inherited. It was defended.

And tonight, she would defend it-with teeth, with blood, with shadow, just like he taught her.

She stood for a long moment in the doorway, letting the silence press against her like armor.

The house would never feel like home again.

She was tired. Bone-deep. Not weak. But worn. Grief had sharpened her like glass—clear, cold, and always on the verge of cracking.

But the Syndicate wasn’t waiting for her grief. It was waiting for its Queen.

She rose slowly, her hand lingering a moment longer in Vaerkyn’s thick fur before releasing him. The hellhound pressed to her side like a shadow given flesh, silent and deadly.

For just a breath, something twisted low in her chest. Not fear. Not quite. But the quiet question of whether she was ready to step into his place and have the whole world stare back.

The black Maybach Phantom pulled up to the curb outside the towering high-rise like it belonged there, like the street itself had been built to kiss its tires.

The Branche de Lune Syndicate headquarters loomed above Manhattan’s Upper East Side like a secret the city kept just out of reach.

Reflective, monolithic, and warded with enchantments so old they hummed.

The back passenger door opened with a hush of hydraulics.

Kali Allani Branche de Lune stepped out, and the cool rush of air hit her throat like a blade.

The ring around her neck burned faintly, still holding his warmth.

She didn’t flinch. Not because it didn’t hurt, but because hurt was the one thing she trusted to keep her focused.

Her stilettos sliced the pavement, four inches of razor-black enamel clicking with calculated intent.

Christian Louboutin So Kate heels: patent leather so sharp they looked like they could bleed you just for staring.

Six feet tall without the heels. Tanned skin kissed by sun and shadow.

Her long, dark brown hair, glossy like ink, swept in layers to the middle of her back.

Her steel-gray eyes, sharp, cold, and unbothered, held a promise of pain beneath thick lashes.

Full lips, painted in Blood Forbidden by Rituel de Fille, a color that looked like it had been kissed by a war and won, curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile.

She adjusted the platinum chain around her throat, where her grandfather’s Syndicate ring swung like a dog tag.

It pulsed faintly with old magic and older blood.

She wore mourning black, but not the soft kind. A sleek wrap-around silk skirt slit high on one thigh, where a strapped blade glinted against her skin, paired with a structured top that sculpted to her body like armor forged in lust and war. Feminine. Lethal.

Her scent hit the guards first, rich, spiced, and dark. Voodoo Lily by Heretic Parfum twisted with shadows and smoke, an invisible snare on the air. Sensual enough to stir heat low in the gut. Predatory enough to kill it in the same breath.

At her side, her massive hellhound walked in perfect sync. Vaerkyn. He didn’t growl. He didn’t need to. He stared down the gathered men in suits and silent weapons, daring them to flinch. Magic rippled faintly at his paws, like the shadows wanted to follow him home.

People parted before her. The doormen didn’t speak. The lobby guards nodded like they were praying she wouldn’t stop. Her aura hit the glass before her body did, ripples of shadow curling at her feet, trailing behind her like hounds on invisible leashes.

Astraeus stirred in the back of her mind, his voice cool and curling like smoke. Her blood-born dragon. Her shadow-bonded sentinel. He had been with her since the cradle—since before memory, before blood.

Her smile was barely a twitch. "They will."

The top floor was carved from silence and stone.

The conference room spanned the entire east wing, more throne chamber than boardroom.

The long, obsidian table gleamed under cold, enchanted light.

Syndicate elders, regional lieutenants, and inter-faction observers filled the seats, their silence heavy with calculations and unspoken dread.

Irina leaned against the far wall. Ride or die wasn’t a phrase they used out loud. But Irina had bled beside her, lied for her, and would burn the world with her if asked.

Kali stood at the head of the table. Not seated. Let them look up at their queen. Vaerkyn curled at her feet like a shadow forged in hell.

She let her eyes drag across the room, one long, slow, judgmental sweep.

"Oh, don’t mind him," she said, voice silken with threat. "He won’t fuck you up unless I say so. Unless, of course, I find out you had anything to do with my grandfather’s death."

She looked down at the beast beside her and patted his massive head. "You’d like that, wouldn’t you, boy?"

Vaerkyn licked his fangs. One of the guards swallowed audibly.

She caught Irina’s gaze across the room. No words. Just that shared thread of steel between them. If the room turned hostile, Irina would move first, and she wouldn’t be drawing her blade in defense.

The elder reading the will cleared his throat like it might save him. "Kali Allani Branche de Lune shall inherit the Branche de Lune Syndicate. As is her bloodright. As is her burden. May the shadows guide her."

The shadows didn’t wait for applause. They moved. Tendrils of darkness slithered across stone, coiling around Kali’s heels like hungry, waiting familiars.

Her grandfather had ruled with brutality and brilliance. He taught her the game, but not mercy.

Astraeus rumbled low, “You are not here to be accepted. You are here to reign.”

Kali smiled then. The kind of smile that promised endings.

Lucian moved first. Of course he did.

The vampire lounged with the confidence of someone who hadn’t been properly terrified in centuries—and the arrogance of a man who had always wanted the throne without the bloodline to claim it.

Kali didn’t trust him. She never had. But now?

Now she suspected he hadn’t just waited for her grandfather’s fall. He might’ve helped it happen.

"You’ve inherited the crown, Kali," he said smoothly. "But the Syndicate runs on more than just legacy. It runs on fear, deals, and blood pacts. You’ll need more than a name."

Kali didn’t answer right away. Her magic surged, eager to bite, but she forced it back. Let him speak. Let him hang himself on his own arrogance.

Kali’s tone dropped into a dangerous softness. "I’m giving you one chance, Lucian," she said. "You can bend, or I can break you."

He didn’t answer. Just smirked. Wrong answer.

Her shadow struck. A whip of black magic coiled around Lucian’s throat, lifting him two feet off the floor. His boots kicked. His smirk vanished.

"You mistake me for someone who gives a damn," she said, voice amused. "I don’t need your loyalty. Just your obedience."

She raised one hand. The ceiling groaned. The skylight peeled open. A blade of sunlight cut through the room, focused like a laser.

Lucian screamed. Smoke. Flame. His coat caught, then his skin. She let him burn. Just long enough.

Then snapped her fingers. Darkness returned. He dropped, smoldering. Another snap. The skylight reopened. He screamed again. Then silence.

Lucian collapsed at the edge of the table, twitching. Kali clicked her tongue. "Oh, Lucian," she cooed. "You probably don’t even have enough juice left to teleport home, do you?"

She tilted her head. Mock-thoughtful. "Best have someone come fetch you. Can’t have you oozing on my floors."

Her smile sharpened. "And do hurry. It’s going to take you a long, long while to heal from that."

She turned her back. Didn’t need to see him.

"This Syndicate has gotten soft," she said, her voice dry. "Too many egos. Not enough spine."

She walked forward, steel eyes scanning the room like a war ledger.

"I will expand our power. Reclaim our reputation. And use every asset we own, artifacts, secrets, magic, and clubs, to burn down anyone who thinks we can be challenged."

A pause. "You’ve got one shot to prove you’re not useless. Blow it, and you’re out, headfirst."

Her smile came slowly. Bright. Vicious. "Anyone not useful will be replaced. Anyone disloyal will be buried, but not before they’re shown why loyalty would’ve been the smarter move."

Lucian whimpered.

The throne was hers now. And it didn’t care that she was grieving. It only cared that she ruled.

And she looked damn good on it.