Chapter One
Rowen
As soon as Sinclair’s private plane was cruising above the clouds, I switched the control to autopilot and went searching for answers.
I knew better than to expect any direct explanation from Sinclair; he thrived on deception and mind games, always seeming to enjoy the power of knowing more than anyone else.
This time, I was done playing along with his manipulations and resolved not to let him have the upper hand.
After everything Sinclair had put Dante and Sypher through, I was finished being his scapegoat, his go-to enforcer when he needed someone brought under his control. I refused to be the pawn he summoned at his convenience—a line had finally been drawn.
I found Sinclair seated comfortably, reading The Times as if there were nothing amiss.
He seemed utterly unaffected by the tension radiating from me, maintaining the carefully practiced facade he had perfected over years.
That same mask was designed to breed uncertainty and hesitation in others, but I was determined not to let it work on me any longer.
I sat directly across from him, refusing to be cowed.
Sinclair barely looked up from his paper as he commented, “You know I don’t enjoy flying by autopilot.” His tone was nonchalant, punctuated by the casual flipping of a newspaper page.
“Too damn bad,” I retorted, leaning in. “If you don’t like how I fly this plane, then get your own license. Why are we going to Wyoming?” My patience for his evasiveness was gone; I wanted answers, not excuses.
Sinclair replied matter-of-factly, “Because I want to see my granddaughter.”
I narrowed my eyes, refusing to let him deflect. “She’s in Lincoln, Nebraska, not Wyoming. Why are we going to Wyoming?”
Sinclair sighed, lowering the paper as he fixed me with a glare. “When I’m ready to tell you, I will. Now go back to your seat and pilot this plane.”
“No,” I said, smirking and settling back in my seat.
Sinclair was nothing if not dangerous, cunning, and pathologically narcissistic.
He was a master at getting inside people’s heads, a blackmail artist who relished controlling everything around him.
Yet, beneath all that bravado, very few knew about his deep-rooted fear of dying in a plane crash—a secret vulnerability that spoke volumes about the man behind the mask.
Sinclair’s gaze sharpened, the casual indifference giving way to a distinct, almost unnerving intensity. He closed the newspaper with a deliberate thump; the sound echoed in the cabin, underscoring the gravity of the moment.
“Wyoming,” he repeated, his voice stripped of its earlier lightness. “It’s where the past is clawing its way back, Rowen. Something that was buried but not forgotten.”
The air in the cabin seemed to grow colder—not from the climate control, but from a chill that crept through me. I recognized the shift in Sinclair’s tone, the subtle warning that genuine danger was looming, the kind neither of us could ignore or deflect.
I halted, a prickling unease crawling up my spine. The engines’ hum no longer offered comfort; instead, they sounded like the strained breath of a beast about to awaken. “What the hell does that even mean, Sinclair?” I demanded, turning back to him as my smirk faded into apprehension.
He leaned back, a wry smile on his lips, though his eyes betrayed the shadows lurking beneath. “It means, Rowen, that a certain door I thought locked tight has cracked open.”
I stared at him, Sinclair’s words hovering in the recycled air.
A locked door forced open. His metaphors always unsettled me, especially when they dripped with cynicism and foreboding.
Sinclair thrived in secrecy and hidden truths; his cryptic pronouncements were never idle threats.
He was the architect of chaos, and I, somehow, was always drawn into his games—whether I liked it or not.
The battle within me, fueled by recent triumphs and lingering adrenaline, clashed with a growing sense of foreboding.
Wyoming evoked images of vast emptiness, a landscape perfect for swallowing up secrets or revealing them in brutal fashion.
“A door,” I repeated, the words tasting bitter, like dust. “And this door is in Wyoming. Is this another one of your elaborate illusions, Sinclair? Some carefully orchestrated distraction? Because honestly, my lecture on postmodernism is more captivating than this game.” My gaze bore into him, searching for any trace of honesty, any crack in his impenetrable veneer.
Sinclair met my stare, lips curving into a slow, dangerous smile.
“Oh, it’s very real, Rowen. And it involves more than just words. This is about legacies. About what’s owed. The past has a long memory, and it seems yours has finally caught up to you.”
My mind raced, scrambling to connect Sinclair’s threat to the shadows of my fragmented history. Was this about my childhood, a buried incident finally resurfacing? Or did it relate to the clandestine world I’d inhabited—a consequence of a debt settled or a line crossed beyond redemption?
The finality in Sinclair’s tone struck like a cold splash of reality.
This wasn’t a simple mission or a routine cover-up.
It was deeper, something even Sinclair acknowledged was beyond his usual machinations.
Whatever I believed I knew, one thing was certain: Sinclair’s ability to resurrect the buried past was both legendary and utterly terrifying.
After we touched down in Albin, Wyoming, Sinclair wasted no time asserting control. He instructed me to remain with the plane and ensure it was prepped for our eventual return flight. His command was curt, leaving little room for discussion or protest.
I watched as Sinclair’s sleek, dark sedan pulled away from the small, dusty airfield, the hired driver navigating the unpaved road with practiced ease. The silence that settled was vast, broken only by the whisper of the wind through sparse sagebrush and the distant bleating of unseen livestock.
Albin, Wyoming. A speck on the map, a place so insignificant it barely registered in my mental atlas of the world.
Yet, Sinclair, with his uncanny knack for uncovering buried secrets, had chosen it as the stage for whatever drama was about to unfold.
He’d left me with the plane, a silent testament to his wealth and influence, and the unspoken command to wait.
Waiting was never my strong suit, especially when Sinclair was involved.
I walked back toward the gleaming jet, the Wyoming sun beating down with an intensity I wasn’t accustomed to in the gritty embrace of Manhattan. The air, though dry, held a freshness that was alien, untainted by exhaust fumes and the city’s perpetual hum.
As I completed the pre-flight checklist, my mind churned.
Legacies, he’d said.
Owed debts.
My past clawed its way back.
He was so maddeningly vague, so perfectly Sinclair.
He thrived on ambiguity, on dangling threads of information just out of reach, forcing me to chase them down like a hound.
But this felt different. There was a gravity in his tone, a genuine unease that even he couldn’t entirely mask.
It spoke of something far removed from his usual clandestine dealings, something rooted in history, in something that refused to stay buried.
Hours later, a faint plume of dust in the distance caught my eye.
Not just Sinclair’s car but several, along with a motorcycle, were making their way toward the airfield. My senses, honed by years of navigating dangerous situations, perked up.
This wasn’t a welcome party.
It was an arrival. And in Wyoming, where the landscape itself seemed to hold its breath, an unexpected visitor often signaled the beginning of something much larger than a simple misunderstanding.
The carefully constructed peace of the airfield was about to be shattered, and I had a chilling premonition that the answers I sought, and the trouble I’d surely find, were closer than I realized.
A familiar knot of apprehension tightened in my gut as I watched the lead car stop, and Sinclair emerged from the sleek black vehicle, his impeccably tailored suit a stark contrast to the dusty surroundings.
His gaze, as it met mine, was devoid of warmth, and his cold, assessing smirk, the one that spoke of secrets unearthed and debts to be collected, had my pulse racing.
The car behind him stopped, and I watched as he greeted whoever was hidden behind the dark tinted windows.
The door swung open as I stood near the stairs, holding my breath in anticipation. Suddenly, a shrill, joyous squeal shattered the tense quiet, nearly making me cover my ears. A small, spirited girl barreled toward me, her voice ringing out, “Unka Row!”
She launched herself into my arms without hesitation, and I caught her, holding her close.
The joy of our reunion was apparent in the way I squeezed her tightly.
Her father followed on her heels, a wide grin lighting up his face.
“Bet you didn’t expect to see us,” he said, amusement dancing in his eyes.
“It’s always a joyous surprise when I get to see my niece. You, I can do without,” I replied with a wry smile, unable to hide the affection in my tone despite the playful jab.
Dante’s eyes narrowed, his sneer almost theatrical. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re an asshole?” he shot back, though his tone couldn’t entirely conceal his amusement.
“Not today,” I murmured, my words barely more than a raspy whisper. Tension coiled inside me as I turned my attention to the storm unfolding nearby—a young woman tearing into Sinclair with a fiery intensity I had only ever imagined.
She was breathtaking, a force of nature burning bright against the tension hanging in the air.
In that moment, she was like a wildfire—untamed, radiating life, making the very atmosphere spark with electricity.
Never in all my years had I witnessed someone quite like her.
Her dark hair tumbled in wild waves over her shoulders; her skin was impossibly smooth and luminous, like honey spun into silk.
She was a vision of beauty and defiance, both exquisite and fierce, a masterpiece of rebellion brought to life.
Dante’s quiet chuckle beside me cut through the tension. “Oh, that’s just Mellie,” he said, his tone light. “She doesn’t like Sinclair.”
I nodded, my gaze sharpening as I watched the scene unfold. Her anger was palpable, and when a biker approached from behind, wrapping his arms protectively around her, I couldn’t help but ask, “Who the hell is that?”
“Ghost,” Dante replied as if that single word explained everything. He shifted Danika from my arms into his own. “He’s just making sure she doesn’t kill him.”
Nearby, an older, albeit beautiful woman, watched the confrontation with a touch of humor playing across her mouth. “Are you sure he shouldn’t let her?” she asked, her chuckle lightening the atmosphere.
Dante responded with a reassuring tone, “Mellie can handle herself, Roxy. Let’s get on board before Danika witnesses her mother commit murder.”
That word caught me off guard. “Mother?”
Dante stopped and flashed a broad grin. “Oh, I thought Sinclair would have told you. Melissa is Danika’s unofficial mom. We all share custody.”
“Since when?” I asked, still trying to process this new revelation.
“Since I protected my daughter when they didn’t,” the feisty woman snapped, pushing past me as she stormed up the stairs into the plane. The biker—Ghost—followed silently, a low chuckle escaping him as he trailed after her.