Chapter 62

Cilax’s war.

The throne room of the syndicate was never meant for peace. Built into the volcanic cliffs of Miravile. It resembled a Roman coliseum.

A place designed for blood, spectacle, and power. Every stone was etched with names of leaders who had ruled with brutality, cunning, or charm. Most with all three.

Tonight, it would witness a challenge.

Tonight, Cilax Duarte would attempt to take Damian Cross of his crown.

I stood in the corridor just beyond the arched marble entrance, dressed not in silk but in tailored black, the same matte shade Damian wore when he made his first kill.

My dress hugged my form like armor. My mother’s pendant recently recovered from the greenhouse ruins rested on my collarbone like a talisman.

Rourke approached me. “You don’t have to speak, you know. He can still handle this on his own.”

I met his eyes. “This war isn’t just Damian’s anymore.”

He didn’t argue.

Behind me, the heavy doors swung open.

And the devil's bride stepped into the lion’s den.

Hundreds of syndicate members filled the arena-style chamber, seated on raised benches. Beneath the glass dome, the moonlight streamed in pale and cold.

At the center stood two figures. Cilax Duarte, in crisp white, and Damian Cross, flanked by loyal guards.

Cilax smiled when he saw me. His smile was a serpent’s coil.

“Well, well,” he purred. “The wife joins the show.”

I didn’t flinch. “You’ve made it quite the performance.”

He walked toward me, slowly, predatory. “Do you know what I love about traitors, Mrs. Cross?”

“Tell me.”

“They always believe they’re rebels. Until they’re executed.”

The chamber murmured, laughter and unease rippling like a tide.

Damian’s voice cut through it. “This vote is not law. It’s theater. And your claim, Cilax, is rooted in lies.”

Cilax's eyes glittered. “Oh, is it? Shall we remind them of your sins?”

He turned to the room.

“Let’s start with the EVE project,” he said. “A secret operation run by the Cross and the late Gabriel Castillo. And an illegal genetic experiment to breed the perfect successor.

They created twins. One was discarded. The other…grommed. One became his pet. The other? A weapon.”

Gasps. Murmurs.

My spine straightened.

Cilax continued, triumphant. “He hid the existence of Eva Castillo. Let his enemies fester inside her. And now she’s free. Alive. And unstable.”

More noise.

“Where is she now?” Someone shouted.

“Recovering,” Damian said coldly. “In our custody.”

“You mean your wife’s custody?” Cilax sneered. “Because make no mistake Claire Castillo is the daughter of a traitor. She should never be allowed inside this council, let alone in your bed.”

The words echoed.

Traitor. Daughter. Bride.

And then I stepped forward.

My voice was calm. Measured. Lethal.

“You’re right, Cilax,” I said. “My father was a traitor.”

The room silenced.

“But he was also a man who knew power when he saw it. And he feared Damian because he couldn’t own him.”

Cilax scowled.

I walked slowly into the center, the pendant around my neck catching the moonlight.

“My sister Eva was not created by Damian. She was abandoned by my father. And I was chosen to succeed him not because I was a perfect clone. But because I earned it.”

I turned to the syndicate, speaking louder now.

“Yes, I’m his wife. But before that, I was a woman who watched the empire crumble around her. I saw betrayal in my face. Including yours, Cilax.”

He bristled.

“You claim you want order,” I said. “But all you want is power. To gut this syndicate and wear its skin like a crown.”

I walked to the edge of the dais.

“If you think I’ll stand aside and watch you destroy everything we’ve built, then you don’t know me at all.”

A hush all over the chamber.

And then one voice spoke.

“We vote,” said an elder at the back. “The challenge has been made. The floor has spoken. We cast now.”

The vote took thirty minutes. Each syndicate family’s senior member cast a token into the basin at the base of the throne. Silver for Cross. Obsidian for Cilax.

The basin glowed under the counting light.

Rourke stood at the edge, watching every movement, every flicker.

When the final token dropped, silence reclaimed the air.

The elder stepped forward.

“By syndicate rite,” he said, lifting the basin, “The vote stands.”

He turned slowly, showing the result.

Silver: 64. Obsidian: 38.

I exhaled, Cilax clenched his jaw.

The elder turned to the room. “Damian Cross remains sovereign of the syndicate.”

The arena erupted. Cheers, curses, and movement.

Cilax didn’t wait. He lunged for a blade beneath his jacket.

And Damian, prepared, was faster. The gun was silent.

The shot wasn’t.

Cilax dropped to his knees, clutching his side, bleeding from the ribs.

“Let him live,” I said.

Damian’s hand lowered.

Cilax glared at me. “Why?”

“Because this war needs witnesses. And corpses are forgetful.”

Guards seized him, dragging him away.

The throne remains untouched. But the crown had shifted.

Later that night, Damian sat alone in his private chamber, shirt stained with blood that wasn’t his. He held a glass of scotch, untouched.

I entered quietly. “You should sleep,” I said.

He looked at me.

“I don’t want to sleep,” he murmured. “Because I might dream about shooting you instead.”

I walked closer, “But you didn’t.”

He stared into the fire. “I was ready to. For the throne. For order.”

“But you didn’t,” I repeated. He looked up, eyes filled with shadows.

“Why?”

He stood, walked to me, and cupped my face.

“Because when you stood there, defending me…you weren’t my wife.”

I blinked. “Then what was I?” He kissed me softly, like an answer. “You were my queen.”

The same night, a figure moved through the servant tunnels to the manor.

Dressed in white. Burn scars down one side.

Eva.

She held a file in one hand. Stolen, sealed, marked project ADAM.

She smiled to herself. “If Claire was Eve…”

She opened the door to the restricted archives.

“Then I’ll find him…”