Syndicate Dream Novels & Stories

He wondered. Even if it was a dream, he felt that everything in that dream was so real. He also still remembered how the bride looked. She had long black wavy hair and also beautiful grey eyes. Then he talked to himself, "Will she be my bride? Was the dream a vision of my future like my others' dream?" Daniel was happy for that dream because he hoped that he could get married at the age of 23. It implied that he still had two years left to find his bride.

It smelled like him, like smoke and cedar, and power barely restrained. When I walked into the living room, the first thing I noticed was the coffee table. Files spread open. Maps of the city. Security feeds flickering across a tablet. And then, a single sheet of paper with a symbol scrawled across it—an ouroboros. The Syndicate. The same emblem that haunted his nightmares and, by extension, had begun to haunt mine. I stared at it, trying to steady my breathing. The name alone carried weight—a whisper of organized chaos that operated beneath even Alexander’s reach. If they were back, it meant one thing: someone wanted revenge.

"The Moon is debris. The Collective is crashed. You have no power here." Mr. Henderson chuckled, a dry, rhythmic sound. "Oh, Miss Vance. You have a very 'User-Centric' view of the universe. The Syndicate was merely a tenant. The Collective was an uninvited squatter. But the **Insurance Division**? We are the ones who own the mortgage on reality." He tapped his tablet, and a series of numbers began to scroll across the screen in a cold, flickering green.

"You only move when you think someone you love is in pain. It’s your biggest weakness. The Board needed to see if you would jump into a shark tank for a sister who tried to kill you. You did. That proves you are ready." "Ready for what?" "To lead the New World," Catherine said. She stood up and walked toward me. She reached out and touched Elle’s cheek. I wanted to bite her hand off, but I stayed still. "The Syndicate was about money. The Board is about control. We run the banks, the hospitals, the governments. But the people are starting to wake up. They need a face they can trust. A mother. A survivor." "I will never work for you," I spat.

Sebastian’s gaze met hers once more. “Atlas waking up will attract more than just me.” Aurora felt the tension in the room rise instantly. Lucien straightened. “Explain.” Sebastian chuckled softly. “You already know.” Victor’s voice dropped to a dangerous calm. “The Syndicate.” Sebastian gave a small approving nod. “Exactly.” Aurora frowned. “What syndicate?” For the first time since the convoy arrived, the six billionaires exchanged uneasy glances. Adrian finally spoke. “A group of investors.”

he asks. "I’m sure Kir will bring it up tomorrow," I tell him. "Obviously we’re going to have to adjust to not having Saint’s skills in the field." Butcher hums a low note in his chest. Nods once. Goes back to staring at the dark treeline. The names aren't vanishing. We wiped Scott off the board, but the board is still crowded. Senior Vanguard operators are still breathing. The men who are funding The Syndicate are still powerful and rich.

“You’ve said that before. I heard human mates’ fertility skyrockets when mating with a wolf. It’s perfect for breeding, even you can’t fuck this up.” Their voices echoed within the pavilion, their faces concealed within the shadows, they were known as The Syndicate. Comprised of seven Elders graced with immortality, unknown to the public and I was never granted the privilege of seeing their faces or their names. Everyone assumed I wasn’t governed by rules, and that I had access to immeasurable power without consequences. I answer to The Syndicate, I follow their rules and regulations without any voice of my own. I detested the Syndicate, they deemed themselves gods and frankly they were. The

It's not like they noticed any missing valuable gems or metals, they had too much to care, and well, a girl's gotta eat. Today my assignment was no different; I was contracted by a crime syndicate to steal an important art piece from their rivals: The Weston Syndicate. At least, that is what Aller told me this morning when I asked who the client was. He was very dodgy with his answers. I had some concerns, but I pushed them aside when he assured me I would get a handsome pay. Yes, I am quite a selfish bitch, sue me. I hardly cared if I stole from the Terils or a Syndicate; a mark was a mark to me. Syndicates have evolved in the last 200 years. When they first were born, they were called mobs

Major Ndlovu was the seller; the syndicate was buying. Major Ndlovu was selling to the syndicate for two simple reasons. The first was that, contrary to expectations, the syndicate had built a reputation of never double-crossing their clients for any reason; that’s the type of goodwill that it had cultivated. Secondly, the syndicate was offering U.S dollars. Where the syndicate got its huge sums of U.S dollars was none of the customers’ business; and likewise, where the customer got the merchandise, was none of the syndicates business. Such is the nature of some transactions.

He nodded a quick thanks anyway. “The Syndicate is a total psycho,” I muttered, taking a big first sip. It burned going down, sharp and hot, the way I needed it. Felt good for a second, at least. Leon sank deeper into the chair, swirling his glass slow, ice clinking lazily. “They are money bastards,” he said with a low chuckle that didn’t sound all that funny. “That’s all they give a shit about. Every billionaire in the country—they want their cut. Doesn’t matter how dirty the hands get.”