Chapter Three
Rowen
Sinclair’s office always felt like a fortress—rich with the scent of polished mahogany and faint traces of his sandalwood cologne lingering in the air.
The walls, lined with shelves of heavy leather-bound books, seemed to absorb every sound.
As Sinclair stuffed documents into his sleek, black briefcase, his crisp movements echoed against the desk’s glossy surface—the same desk he’d once insisted I drag across half of Germany.
Danika, oblivious to the gravity of his preparations, sat perched in his oversized wingback chair, her small feet dangling, coloring in broad, eager strokes.
The colored pencils made soft whispering sounds over the paper, a sharp contrast to the tense energy swirling around us.
“While I’m gone, Rowen, I need you to ensure our guests have everything they need,” Sinclair said, his voice steady but clipped, never looking up from his task.
The scent of his cologne sharpened as he moved past me, and I felt my hackles rise, the distance between us measured not in steps but in old resentments.
I pressed my back to the paneled wall, the cool wood grounding me as I replied, my tone stiff, almost brittle, “Your guests. Not mine. I didn’t ask to be here.” My words hung in the air, brittle and defiant, while a pulse of annoyance flickered in my chest.
Sinclair bent toward Danika, his crisp suit brushing against the arm of the chair.
With a gentleness that softened the hard set of his jaw, he slid a fresh sheet of paper toward her.
“On the paper, sweetheart,” he murmured, the command tempered by a rare warmth.
Danika’s shoulders, tense from the focus of her coloring, visibly relaxed as she looked up at him, her lips curving into an unabashed smile.
“Okay, Pop-Pop!” she chirped, clutching the pencil with renewed enthusiasm. “I draw you a picture.” Her voice was clear and sincere, and I couldn’t help noticing how the tension in her small frame melted in the wake of his approval.
Sinclair’s stern facade cracked for a fleeting moment, his lips tugging into a genuine smile. “I would love that very much,” he said, voice low and gentle, before Dante, perched on the edge of a chair in front of the desk with restless energy, spoke up.
“I can keep an eye on them,” he offered, shrugging. “Not like I’ve got anything better to do while Danny’s off running errands for King, Reaper, and Montana.” His tone was casual, but his gaze remained sharp as he looked at Sinclair.
Dante differed from the rest of us, who escaped the confines of the Trick Pony.
Unlike the rest, he was spared the trauma we endured as children.
From infancy, Dante was sheltered from those horrors, and it was because of the efforts of Sinclair, Silas, and me that he grew up in a somewhat loving—if unconventional—environment.
Dante was given every opportunity, the kind of chances that were denied to the rest of us.
While Silas and I came to regard Dante as a little brother, it was Sinclair who truly filled the role of a father figure in his life.
And though Sinclair would never admit it aloud, I knew he loved Dante as if he were his own son.
Sinclair fixed Dante with a hard stare, the steel in his gray eyes unmistakable.
“Your job is to watch my granddaughter,” he said, his tone brooking no argument.
At that, Dante straightened, the careless edge to his posture replaced by reluctant resolve, and I felt a twisted knot of sympathy—if only for a second—tighten somewhere deep in my chest.
Sinclair snapped his briefcase shut with a decisive click. Without hesitation, he gripped the handle and strode toward the door, pausing for only a moment to issue his command: “Rowen, follow.”
I rolled my eyes, falling into line behind him with the air of someone resigned to their role—obedient, just as he had always shaped me to be.
Sinclair moved with unwavering focus, ignoring everyone else in the house as he made his way to the front entrance and stepped outside.
The sleek black sedan waited for him, polished and expectant.
Sinclair placed his briefcase in the backseat before turning to address me.
“Keep Dante and my granddaughter safe,” he instructed, his tone firm and unmistakably serious.
“What about the others?” I asked, searching his face for any sign of concern beyond those he’d named.
Sinclair’s answer was unwavering. “They are not my concern.” His voice was unyielding. “I will be in Chicago for a few days. Something has come up.”
Frustration bubbled up inside me. “Sinclair, I’m not a fucking babysitter. Dante is more than capable of handling this. Why the hell am I really here?”
A sly smirk curled Sinclair’s lips as he slid into the backseat and reached for the door.
Before he could pull it closed, I blocked him, forcing him to look up at me.
He spoke with a hint of cryptic amusement.
“I told you on the plane. It’s about legacies.
” With that, Sinclair slammed the door shut, and the car sped away, leaving me standing outside, bewildered and no closer to understanding what he meant.
“Legacies?” I muttered, then shouted at the departing car, my voice echoing down the empty drive, “Whose fucking legacy!”
“Is he always a dick?”
I spun around momentarily startled, my thoughts scattering.
Dr. Melissa Jefferson was leaning against the front door, arms folded, her eyes sharp and assessing as they bored into me.
There was no mistaking the irritation etched across her face; she was clearly waiting for a response, not about to let the question go unanswered.
I took a slow, steadying breath, deciding that honesty was the only way forward. “Yes,” I admitted, my voice even and unembellished, offering her the simple, unvarnished truth. “The man is singular and deadly. My advice: just do what he says and pray he doesn’t ask for more.”
The woman huffed before spinning on her heels, striding back into the house, head held high. The second she was gone, I turned my thoughts back to Sinclair’s vague explanation. Legacy. Whose legacy? I know he couldn’t be insinuating that I had one.
Because I didn’t have one.
I was an orphan.
Wasn’t I?
I found Dante in Danika’s bedroom, rocking her gently as he read from The Secret Garden.
Leaning against the doorjamb, I let myself get lost in the scene—a soft pool of lamplight, Dante’s quiet voice, Danika’s eyelids drooping with each word.
Watching him like this, so patient and tender, sent a wave of nostalgia through me.
I remembered when I used to hold Dante the same way, reading to him when the world felt big and uncertain and all we had was each other.
Pride swelled in my chest—how had the years slipped past so quickly?
Seeing the man and father he’d become filled me with a fierce, aching joy, but also surprise at how much I longed for the simplicity of those old days, when love meant a bedtime story and a kiss goodnight.
I wondered if he ever thought about those nights, too, or if he even remembered them.
When Danika finally drifted to sleep, I watched as Dante closed the book, placing it quietly on the nightstand.
He eased himself up, careful not to wake her, then tucked his daughter in and brushed a kiss across her forehead.
He lingered just a moment to check the nightlight before walking to the door, pausing to crack it just enough.
As he stepped into the hallway, the gentle hush of bedtime lingered between us, making my next words feel almost out of place.
“I need a favor.”
Dante looked genuinely surprised, eyebrows lifting as he asked, “Me? You want a favor from me?”
I groaned. “Don’t act so surprised—you’re not off the hook just because you’ve gifted Sinclair with a granddaughter.”
He chuckled, shaking his head with a familiar spark in his eyes. “Alright, lay it on me.”
“I want you to break into Sinclair’s personal server at the New York residence.”
Dante stared at me as if I had instantly grown three heads.
His eyes widened, and for a long moment, the silence stretched between us.
I could see him processing my request, struggling to wrap his mind around what I’d just asked.
He blinked a few times, caught somewhere between disbelief and confusion, and I watched as his mouth opened, searching for words, then closed again when none came.
Finally, he glanced past me, as though expecting someone to jump out and reveal that this was all part of a joke—a punch line waiting in the wings.
When nothing happened, he whispered, “Excuse me?”
“Shall I repeat myself in Latin?”
Dante’s reaction was immediate and unmistakable.
“No,” he said, his voice quick and emphatic as he shook his head furiously.
Without hesitation, he grabbed my arm and dragged me across the hall into his room.
Any other person would have earned a broken arm for such a move, but considering I had just dropped a shocking request on the kid, I let it slide.
Once inside, Dante closed the door quietly behind us, but the calm ended there.
He spun around to face me, eyes wide and posture tense, and shouted, “ARE YOU NUTS?!”
“Not that I’m aware of,” I shot back, my voice dry as dust. If Dante wanted reassurance, he’d come to the wrong person.
He started pacing, hands shoved in his pockets like he was holding onto a lifeline.
“Rowen, this isn’t funny,” he hissed. “You know Sinclair—he’s infamous for tearing people apart if they cross him.
You know that, right? If he finds out I even thought about looking at his personal server, he’ll make me disappear. Literally.”
“I’m well-versed in the concept of death threats, Dante. So, can you do it or not?” I tried to sound detached, casual even, but my chest tightened at the thought of what he might find—or what I might never know.
Dante’s brows knitted. “I mean, I-I guess I can try,” he stammered, barely meeting my gaze. “I’m not in the league of Sypher or Nav. Sypher’s a code prodigy; Nav’s the stealth wizard—me, I’m just a guy who dabbles. But... what are you hoping to dig up?”
“Information about my past. Sinclair mentioned legacy.” My words came out sharper than I intended, echoing in the small room.
I knew the word legacy derived from the Latin word Legatus, which meant ambassador, referring to a person who was appointed.
And knowing Sinclair enjoyed keeping valuable items and people close, especially if those people had specific ties to help further his greed, then it only made sense that Sinclair kept me around for a specific reason.
I never cared before, because whatever he did didn’t bother me.
Now, I was bothered.
Dante slumped onto his bed with a shaky sigh. “Oh, man. You scared me for a second. That stuff’s in his filing cabinets in his office. It’s where he keeps all the personal files about us. I thought you wanted something crazier.”
“Already saw my file there. It’s just a bunch of notes from when I was at the Trick Pony. What I want is buried deeper—on Sinclair’s private server.”
He swallowed. “Like what, exactly?”
I hesitated, then let the mask slip for just a second. “Who I really am. Who my parents are. Where I come from. All the information Sinclair gathered over the years since our escape. Shit I refused to acknowledge because I didn’t care to know.”
He blinked. “Then why not ask him for the information now?”
I stared at Dante as if he’d sprouted a third eye. Sometimes I wondered if he’d been dropped on his head as a baby, because it didn’t take a genius to know Sinclair wasn’t the confiding type—especially when the secrets he kept allowed him control over everyone around him.
He groaned, rubbing his forehead. “Sorry. Forgot for a second who we’re dealing with.”
“Are you going to help me or not?”
Dante looked up at me and groaned. “Fine. But if Sin learns the truth, I’m throwing you under the bus.”