Chapter Nine
Rowen
Sinclair slipped into the house late, his entrance quiet but the air around him charged.
The way he moved—shoulders tense, jaw set—suggested something had shifted.
I’d learned not to press him when he returned like this, not until he was ready to let me in.
Instead, I watched from across the room, studying the tight grip he kept on his glass of whiskey, the deliberate way he drank.
For a moment, I wondered if he even saw me between sips, or if he was somewhere else entirely, lost in battles I couldn’t fight for him.
Finally, Sinclair spoke, his voice flat, the words barely more than a formality. “How have things been here?” It was the kind of question he asked out of habit, not concern, but I answered anyway, sensing his mind was elsewhere.
“About as well as you’d expect when the group’s a collection of wild cards,” I said, trying for levity. Deep down, though, I felt the tension swirling between us—a reminder that things could unravel any second.
Sinclair’s next question cut through the awkwardness: “My granddaughter?”
“She’s having the time of her life,” I replied, hoping that some good news might soften the edge in his posture. It didn’t—if anything, it only made him focus harder, his gaze sharpening on me.
He shifted, straightening in his chair. “Good.” The word lingered, and then, almost as if it cost him something, he added, “I have a daughter.”
His words hung in the air, heavy and unexpected.
I paused, searching his face. Sinclair had never mentioned another child before. My thoughts raced—how would this change everything between us, between the families, even between the clubs?
His anger boiled over, voice rising with each syllable. “That bitch gave birth to twins and then handed my daughter to Jane. She was at the Trick Pony!” The words spat out, venomous. “That bitch only wanted Theodore.”
I steadied myself, trying to piece together the history that had just erupted into the room. “Who is she?” I asked, needing more than rage to go on.
Sinclair’s voice softened, a rare tremor of affection threading through. “Her name is Miranda. She’s beautiful, Rowen. Smart, innocent, just perfect.” For a split second, he looked more vulnerable than I’d ever seen him—the father who never got to be one until now.
My mind spun. “So what’s the problem then?” I asked, voice softer, the question nearly rhetorical. I could already sense the answer.
He didn’t hesitate. “The problem is, she’s married to a Vitale.”
The revelation felt like a live wire, connecting old wounds to new threats. Sinclair, who’d built walls around himself for decades, now had a daughter caught in the crosshairs of everything he hated—a daughter married into the Vitale family, the very family at the center of his grudges and fears.
My breath caught. Of all the names Sinclair could say, that one carried the kind of weight that could crush a family.
“Which one?” I asked, dread pooling in my chest.
Sinclair’s jaw clenched, his voice dropping to a growl. “Massimo—and he fucked up. Which is why I’ve reopened the Chicago residence. As soon as I know my son is safe, we’re going there.”
The magnitude of the situation hit me. Sinclair’s daughter—his blood—bound by marriage to the very family that could destroy him if they ever learned the truth. And now, Massimo, of all people, had made a mistake powerful enough to force Sinclair’s hand.
I asked carefully, “Does Tank know he has a sister?” My mind flickered to Theodore, his stubborn pride, the way Sinclair always bristled at his nickname. Family meant more to Sinclair than power or money, but it was never simple—it was built with secrets and broken by betrayals.
Sinclair’s glare could have cut glass. “His name is Theodore, not that drivel he goes by, and no—he doesn’t know. I will be the one to tell him.”
I couldn’t help but smirk, trying to inject a little humor into the tension.
“You might want to get used to that drivel, Sinclair. Bikers are funny with their names.” But the truth was, I’d never seen Sinclair so rattled; his fury was more than just about names—it was about family, betrayal, and wounds that never healed.
Sinclair’s voice hardened, almost trembling. “My son won’t be a biker for much longer.”
I raised an eyebrow, pushing gently. “And how are you going to manage that? Correct me if I’m wrong, but Tank loves being a Silver Shadow. It’s what he knows.” I couldn’t imagine Theodore giving up that life, not even for Sinclair.
Sinclair slammed his hand on the desk, frustration splintering the moment. “His name is Theodore!” The sound echoed, and I realized this was all tearing at him—father, kingpin, strategist, all at war inside one man.
I sat down, letting the silence settle between us. There was more here than orders or family drama—this was about war and old enemies, about lines drawn in blood. “What is really going on, Sinclair? Because this isn’t like you. What happened?” I asked, wanting to see past the anger.
He didn’t hesitate. “I got word there was a summit to discuss this war. From my understanding, it didn’t go well. The clubs are gathering, gearing up for the inevitable, so I need Ghost to head back to Nebraska.”
I searched his face, trying to gauge the cost of what he was about to ask. “Why?”
“I want him to protect my son, and in exchange, I will protect his woman.”
I reminded Sinclair quietly, “Melissa is pregnant, Sinclair.”
Sinclair shot me a cold look, voice like steel. “I don’t give a damn. I want my son protected, and who better to do that than one of his so-called club brothers?”
Sinclair’s priorities had always been clear, but tonight his desperation felt sharper, cutting through any pretense. In that moment, I realized this wasn’t just about war or club politics. It was about holding together the fragments of a family Sinclair had only just begun to reclaim.
Melissa’s voice sliced through the thick haze of the room, sharp and fierce. “No!” she snapped, her glare fiery as she faced Sinclair. The air, mixing with the heavy scent of leather and stale coffee. “Absolutely not!” she declared, her words reverberating against the walls.
Sinclair, unmoved by Melissa’s outrage, turned his gaze—cold and calculating—toward Ghost. The chill of their standoff permeated the room, raising goosebumps along my arms, knowing the young woman was about to see the real Crispin Sinclair.
“Dr. Jefferson,” Sinclair drawled, his voice smooth as steel. “I didn’t ask for your opinion. I’m speaking to your man—unless he’s lost his voice?”
Ghost, jaw set and eyes blazing, stepped forward defiantly. The floorboards creaked beneath Ghost’s boots as he moved, his presence radiating heat and tension. “Yeah, I can speak for myself,” he growled, his voice gravelly, simmering with challenge. “But you owe me an explanation. Why the hell me?”
Sinclair leaned back, the leather chair groaning under his weight, lips curling into a sly, unwavering grin. “Because,” he replied, voice low and deadly, “if you protect my son, I’ll make damn sure your woman remains untouched. That’s the deal I’m offering.”
Melissa’s frustration snapped, her voice trembling with passion as she tried to cut through the tension. “I can take care of myself—” she started, but Ghost—his eyes now cold, voice like thunder—interrupted, “Melissa, stop. Just stop.” His shout echoed over the creaking boards, commanding silence.
The air grew taut with uncertainty as Ghost’s boots hit the floor in heavy, deliberate steps.
Sinclair’s desk loomed between them, a barrier as much as a focal point.
Melissa’s hands quivered, her knuckles white as she clung to the edge of her resolve, eyes darting between the two men.
The weight of expectation pressed on every chest, breaths shallow—would this moment break into violence or surrender?
Ghost’s voice rumbled, colder than steel.
“Don’t mistake me for someone you can bully, Sinclair.
Threaten my family again, and you’ll regret it. ”
Sinclair’s reply cut through the room like ice against flesh.
“It wasn’t a threat, Mr. Foley,” he said, voice tinged with a weariness that came from years spent clawing his way to the top.
“When you’ve built everything from nothing, when you’ve seen people you trusted gut you over scraps, you learn to state truths plainly. ”
He leaned forward, the leather of his chair creaking beneath him, eyes narrowing with the certainty of a man who’d weathered too many betrayals.
In the stale, coffee-laced air, his words felt less like a negotiation and more like fate grinding forward, unstoppable.
The fluorescent overheads flickered, casting sharp shadows across Sinclair’s face—a reminder of the hard edges he’d earned in backroom deals and blood-soaked alleys.
The way his gaze pinned each of us left no doubt: he was a man who had never stopped fighting for control, whose every word was calculated to remind us he held the chessboard.
His confidence settled over the room like a heavy shroud.
No one moved; even Melissa’s fingers, white-knuckled at her sides, trembled just enough to betray her fear.
The subtle scent of cologne and sweat mingled with the metallic tang of tension, every breath taut with the knowledge that Sinclair’s kind of power came at a cost.
The brutal truth was, he did hold all the cards—and he knew it.
I’d watched Sinclair’s ascent from nothing to kingmaker—a journey paved with threats, manipulation, and a ruthless pragmatism born from surviving a betrayal and the life that nearly destroyed him.
His ambition wasn’t just about control; it was about never being powerless again, about building something untouchable so he would never beg or break as he once had.
Everyone in the cramped, overheated office could sense it—the way his jaw clenched, the flicker of old wounds behind his calm exterior.
Sinclair didn’t need to threaten; his reputation, and the haunted look in his eyes, did the talking.
The silence that followed was brittle, stretching between us like glass—one wrong move and it would shatter. I wondered, not for the first time, if anyone here truly understood what it was to go to war with a man who’d already survived worse than any threat we could muster.
Neither man moved; their gazes remained locked—a silent battle where neither was willing to blink first. It was a clash of stubborn wills, and deep down I knew Sinclair would come out on top.
Melissa’s grip tightened on Ghost’s arm, her voice barely above a whisper, raw with emotion. “Travis, you don’t have to do what he wants. We could just leave, take Dante and Dani, and disappear.” Her eyes pleaded for any sign of agreement.
Sinclair’s tone was flat, uncompromising. “My son and granddaughter stay here. That’s not up for discussion.”
Melissa’s voice shook as she shot back, “She’s my daughter, Sinclair!”
Sinclair’s reply was cold, his words slicing through the room. “No, she’s not, Dr. Jefferson. Danika is my son’s biological daughter. You haven’t adopted her—not legally. You have no claim here. If you keep pushing, you’ll only make things worse for yourself.”
Melissa spun around, desperate, searching Dante’s face for backup. He sat on the edge of the sofa, hands pressed together, his gaze glued to the floor, shoulders hunched as if he were bracing for impact.
“Dante, please. Tell him he’s wrong,” Melissa begged, her voice cracking under the strain.
Dante finally looked up, his face devoid of color.
He hesitated, swallowing hard before answering.
“I wish I could, Mellie. But Sinclair deals in facts. The judge still hasn’t signed off on the adoption.
I know you love Danika. Sinclair is not questioning that, but we left before Judge Markham could meet with us,” he muttered, shaking his head.
“And because we live in Nebraska, the papers have to be filed there.”
Melissa’s desperation flared. “So you’re just going to let Sinclair tell us how to live?” She fought to keep her voice steady.
Dante gave a small, sad shrug, his eyes flickering between Melissa and Sinclair.
“It’s not that simple, Mellie. He’s my dad.
I told August the same thing after I found out he was my biological father.
Sinclair’s the one who raised me, taught me, kept me safe, even when I didn’t want him to.
I know he’s rough around the edges, but he’s only looking out for us—even if his version of ‘protecting’ sucks sometimes. ”
Sinclair cut in, businesslike. “We can play nice later. Right now, I need an answer, Mr. Foley. Are you going to protect my son or not?”