The Syndicater (Dark Verse #6)

7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Unknown

Things were falling apart, exactly as he intended.

The Syndicate had been alive for many, many decades, forty years of which he had spent at the helm. He had been one of the few responsible for their restructuring and organization into one of the strongest silent forces in the world. He had rebranded, rebuilt, and remodeled their organization from the top down in a way that ensured everyone at each level stayed protected. If someone did get compromised, they were disposed of and replaced. The others had called him one of the snakeheads for a reason—he led the entire body through the seedy underbelly of their world, making sure everything stayed hidden in the tall grass, out of sight, naming him after the snake ring he always wore on his middle finger, a symbol that had been adapted into the entire organization at every level, a symbol, the true purpose of which, only he and a few others knew, and most of them were dead.

He sat on a yacht, swaying with the waves, and read the report one of the junior-level associates had sent him on the phone while debauchery happened all around him. It didn't faze him anymore. In the beginning, he had partook in his own enjoyment, but over time, it all began to blend together. Pussy was pussy and cock was cock. Nudity became stale when it was the norm. It was the personality that attracted him, the spirits that he liked to break and bend and birth. The headiness of knowing he could shatter a soul without laying a finger on it is what made him feel like a true god.

And none had been sweeter to break than his little red. Such a sweet, soft delight, so malleable. He hadn't understood her malleability meant she bent before she could break. It had been a shame when he'd had to let her go because of the others in the organization.

Well, now there weren't any others. And he could have her again one last time, perhaps.

The body of the last of his associates was somewhere deep in the sea, being fed on by the sharks, not dissimilar to how they'd been.

"Sir, would you like a glass of something?" a sweet little thing asked him, and he shook his head. Usually, he would have dragged her on his lap, but he was more distracted these days.

A business party was on board for a new public leader in some corner of the world. He scoffed. Who the world thought was a good man was buried in underage pussy and snorting a line of illegal substances from another's tits. The Syndicate was the prime supplier of both for such events, hiding behind multiple layers of smaller companies. There was not a trade the organization didn't have its hands in—sex, drugs, weapons, more . If there was a buyer for it, The Syndicate would be involved in the supply, but never with their name. Most didn't even know about its existence.

And even though everything had a place, nothing, absolutely nothing, sold like power in the world. Human beings, at their core, were perverted beasts cloaking their true nature with civilization. Give humans a chance to let out their perversions and feel powerful, even momentarily, and they would do anything to do it again, and again, and again, just to experience the high. Some even had the thrill of pretending to be upstanding, upright humans while unleashing their inner selves in secret, another twisted manifestation of power.

He had a hoard of evidence against the most powerful kings and kingmakers of the world. If he wanted, he could release just a sliver and crumble entire systems. And that was the real rush of it all for him too—the power, but of a different kind. He truly didn't care about the systems or the sins, it was making sure he was still a god amongst men, that he was still an adversary no one would dare to cross, that drove him now.

He hadn't made many mistakes in his time except one, one crack that had split over time and became a gorge so deep everything was falling into it.

His one small mistake had come to bite him back in the head. But it was a rush too, a challenge after a very long time, a test to prove his mettle and defeat a worthy opponent.

It was survival of the fittest in their world, and he had been and would continue to be the fittest of them all.