Chapter Twenty
Rowen
Breakfast with Sinclair was always a study in restraint—a ritual of quiet precision.
The faint clink of silverware reverberated through the stately dining room, mingling with the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee that hovered above the gleaming surface of polished mahogany.
Sinclair occupied the head of the table, his eyes cold and unwavering, posture so flawless it seemed he was sculpted from marble.
Every morning felt like a test in etiquette and composure, his expectation for upright backs and measured conversation a silent boundary none dared cross.
Only Danika, perched in her highchair between Sinclair and Dante, seemed impervious to the formality.
She giggled as she scooped up another bite of pancake, a trail of syrup glistening down her chin, drawing a brief, softened smile from Dante.
“Dante, I’ve taken the liberty of having your penthouse aired out and cleaned,” Sinclair announced, his tone leaving no room for argument as he set his cup down with practiced deliberation. “Since we’re back in the city for now, I assumed you’d want to show Danika the place where she’ll grow up.”
Dante shifted in his seat, the tension visible in the tightness of his shoulders.
He glanced at Sinclair, then at me, searching for some reassurance.
Clearing his throat, he replied, “Um, Sypher and I have already decided where we’ll raise Danika.
” Dante’s hand lingered protectively near Danika’s highchair.
“We started building a house in Diamond Creek before everything happened. The penthouse isn’t mine—it’s Danny’s. He owns it.”
Sinclair’s glare was icy as his lips pressed into a thin line. “So you’re telling me I should be looking at land in Nebraska?” he asked, voice clipped and heavy with sarcasm. The chill in his gaze made the warm light seem almost brittle, and I felt a familiar discomfort settle in the room.
Dante blanched, his face draining of color as anxiety flickered in his eyes.
He shook his head quickly, desperate to stave off Sinclair’s wrath.
“Nope! The penthouse is perfect,” Dante said, forcing cheer into his voice.
He turned to his mother-in-law, voice trembling with forced excitement.
“Hey, Roxy, want to check out the building Danny owns after breakfast? The view of Central Park is incredible.”
Dr. Franks, who had been silently observing the tense exchange from her seat near the window, abruptly stood.
Her movements were sharp, betraying the impatience she’d suppressed throughout the meal.
“Thought you’d never ask,” she retorted, tossing her linen napkin onto her plate with a flourish.
“I’ve had my fill of Sinclair’s hospitality to last me a lifetime.
” Without another glance, she strode out of the dining room.
Dante, seizing his chance to escape, deftly lifted Danika from her highchair and hurried after her, relief evident in his hurried steps.
Leaning back, I felt my heart thud against my ribs—a dull warning of trouble.
The weight of Sinclair’s gaze settled over me, cold and suffocating, prickling my skin with an old, familiar dread.
I shouldn’t have spoken, but the frustration burned too hot.
“You’re an asshole,” I muttered, voice low enough to almost hide the tremor.
Instantly, regret tangled with the surge of defiance, but I clenched my fists, refusing to back down.
Sinclair calmly dabbed at his mouth, dismissing my outburst as if it were a passing nuisance. He didn’t flinch. Instead, he pinned me with that flat, unreadable stare. “Now that we’re alone,” he said, voice even and unyielding, “we need to talk.” His composure felt like a test I’d already failed.
My spine stiffened, a reflex as I braced for whatever power play Sinclair was about to pull.
Memories flickered, reminders of the last time I had underestimated him.
I forced my tone just as flat and replied, “Unless you’re finally going to tell me what game you’re playing, we have nothing to say.
” The air between us felt charged, stretching every second, taut and dangerous.
“This biker war is already causing ripples in the underworld.” His words landed heavily.
I knew the war—every lowlife in the city did.
Blood feuds between rival motorcycle clubs had left enough carnage to unsettle even the hardened.
Sinclair’s voice was measured, but his eyes tracked every twitch of mine.
“The table has agreed to steer clear as they wait for the outcome—” The table.
The council of crime bosses. Their rare unanimous decisions meant bad news; it meant everyone was bracing for fallout.
“But I’ve just learned the Italian Council has already started making moves to ensure its dominance.
” That meant old alliances shifting, new threats coiling in the dark.
“That shit has nothing to do with me.” My words came out harsher than I intended, armor against the weight of a world I’d never truly escaped.
Sinclair drew a slow breath through his nose, steadying himself, or maybe just buying time.
“While Silas was in Chicago doing what he does best, I visited Don Vitale at his home after his unfortunate accident.” His words were deceptively casual, though the threat beneath them was unmistakable.
“He told me there are two types of secrets in the world. The kind you keep and the kind you never speak about.”
“Your point?” I asked, pulse drumming in my throat, trying to sound bored but feeling every implication dig under my skin.
“My point is, Don Vitale is hiding something, and I want to know what it is.”
“Then get Silas to figure it out. He’s good at that shit. I’m the muscle. You want someone taken care of, then ask, but I don’t do secrets.” The bitterness in my voice was real—part plea, part shield. In this world, knowing too much got you killed.
Sinclair exhaled, with the barest hint of pity—or was it a challenge? Softening his features. “Oh, Rowen, you still don’t get it. You are the secret no one speaks about.”
I fought the urge to glare, jaw tense and fingers drumming restlessly against my thigh.
“If you’ve got something to say, spit it out.
I’m not in the mood for your riddles, Sinclair.
I need to check on Melissa.” The words came out rougher than I intended, impatience simmering just beneath my skin—a warning I hoped he’d heed.
Unfazed, Sinclair leaned back, fingers steepled under his chin, eyes narrowing with calculated detachment. He studied me, slowly and deliberately, like he was measuring my fault lines. “Tell me, Rowen—what do you make of Dr. Jefferson?”
The abrupt shift in his focus sent a ripple of wariness through me.
My brow creased. Was this another trap? Melissa was still raw, fragile, and if Sinclair thought he could use her, he’d find out just how wrong he was.
My voice stayed even, but a protective edge bled in as I challenged, “What are you getting at? I know what you’ve told me, what she’s confided—she’s a therapist, specializes in childhood trauma, graduated with honors from Oklahoma University.
Had her own practice before she stepped back for Danika.
Her brother’s Michael—Gunner—the Silver Shadows’ sergeant at arms.” As I recited the facts, my mind worked overtime, searching for where he was steering me.
Sinclair’s gaze didn’t waver. “And her parents?”
A knot tightened in my stomach—I’d never heard her talk about them before. My grip on the chair’s armrest tightened. “Only that her childhood wasn’t something she liked to revisit. From what I gathered, her parents weren’t the nurturing type.”
Something about the way Melissa spoke of her past always felt incomplete, as if there was a missing piece she never talked about—a locked door she refused to open.
Sinclair’s lips curled, a shark’s smile, as he leaned forward just enough to shadow his next words. “Does the name Michelle Milano mean anything to you?”
The name dropped between us, heavy and unfamiliar, but it brushed the edges of something uneasy—like another clue I would have to decipher. I tried to keep my face blank, but I could feel the uncertainty flicker in my eyes.
My pulse stuttered. “No,” I said, carefully and slow. “Should it?”
Instead of answering me, Sinclair stood and left the dining room, leaving me wondering what in the hell just happened.
His exit was abrupt, deliberate—a final punctuation to a conversation filled with riddles and revelations.
The room, once tense with confrontation, now felt strangely hollow.
I sat in the lingering silence, the echo of Sinclair’s last words circling in my mind.
Was his silence meant to provoke, or was it an admission of something deeper he refused to say aloud?
Uncertainty gnawed at me, mixing with frustration and the uneasy questions he’d left behind.
For a moment, I found myself staring at the doorway, half expecting him to return and finish the conversation, but all that remained was the weight of everything unsaid.