Chapter Thirty-One
Melissa
Suitcases lined the entryway as Rowen and I stepped inside, while Sinclair, immaculate and severe as ever, barked orders at his staff. His gaze cut across the room, fixing on us like a spotlight. “Where the hell have you two been?” he demanded, voice clipped, all authority and ice.
I shot him a look, eyebrow arched, my tone sharper than usual. “Seriously? I know you’re not talking to me like that. Newsflash, asshole—I don’t work for you.”
Sinclair’s lips pressed into a thin line, formality stitched into every word. “No, you are a guest in my house.”
“A problem that can be easily fixed,” I snapped back. “Assuming you can find your own ass in that fancy suit.”
Rowen moved fast, his body shielding mine, voice tight. “What’s going on now?”
“We are leaving for Chicago in the morning,” Sinclair announced, precise and unyielding, as if logistics were weapons.
I squared my shoulders and strode into the living room, the confrontation simmering beneath my skin. “I’m not going anywhere with you,” I said, dropping into an armchair and letting my sarcasm do the heavy lifting. “Unless you plan on dragging me out kicking and screaming, you’re out of luck.”
Sinclair set his jaw, his tone steely, measured, as if every word was a verdict. “You are under my protection, whether you appreciate it or not, my dear.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Your protection is as worthless as your promises.”
“Your boyfriend didn’t think so,” Sinclair replied, his words loaded, too calm.
A raw silence crashed through me, the name hitting harder than a punch.
Rowen tried to stop me, but Sinclair had already drawn blood—mentioning Travis was a line in the sand.
I shoved Rowen aside, my hand flying before I could think.
The slap cracked through the room, and for a split second, everything stilled—air thick, time stretching between my anger and Sinclair’s stunned expression.
I’d spent too long holding it in, swallowing grief like glass shards, pretending Sinclair’s choices hadn’t hollowed out more than just me.
Leaning in until only inches separated us, my voice vibrated with fury.
“You ever mention his name again, I will kill you myself. He’s dead because of you!
You sent him back, knowing damn well he could die, and for what?
” My words trembled, cutting through the tension.
“To protect your son—a man who wants nothing to do with you. He was already set to leave, already wounded. And yet you sent Travis, anyway. Well, fuck you, Sinclair. I don’t owe you a damn thing! ”
Sinclair wiped the blood from his cheek, his glare cold and unyielding. “That’s where you’re wrong, Dr. Jefferson. You are alive because of me.” His words landed like a blow, his eyes never leaving mine.
I stared at him, confusion swirling inside me. “What?” The word escaped before I could stop it.
Rowen, at my side, narrowed his eyes, his suspicion matching my own. “What the hell are you talking about, Sinclair? Melissa has nothing to do with the biker war or anything else for that matter.”
Sinclair’s voice sliced through the tension, his tone as smug as ever. “Tell me, Rowen,” he drawled, eyes locked onto Rowen with a cold, calculating stare. “While you were trying to get into Dr. Jefferson’s pants, did you find Jasper Michaels?”
His accusation hung heavily in the room, and I gasped—shocked and mortified that Sinclair would dare speak so crudely.
Fury lit Rowen’s face, and his restraint snapped.
Without hesitation, he lunged forward, his fist connecting hard with Sinclair’s jaw.
The impact sent Sinclair sprawling to the floor, stunned and clutching his face in pain.
Rowen stood over Sinclair, his grip like iron on the cuff of Sinclair’s suit jacket. His voice was low, trembling with barely contained rage. “If I ever hear you say her name like that again, I will finish what I just started. Apologize. NOW.”
Sinclair groaned, shoving Rowen off him as he rolled onto his side with stubborn defiance still etched across his features.
Rowen stood over him, chest heaving, fists clenched and ready for another round.
For a heartbeat, no one moved—even the clock on the mantel dared not tick.
The memory of Travis, still raw, and now the violence, all hung thick around me, crowding out reason.
Sinclair spat blood onto the carpet, his lip split, but his eyes never left mine. “He was trying to protect you too.” His voice was ragged, pain seeping into every syllable. “You think you know everything, but you don’t know the whole story, Melissa.”
My hands trembled—anger, fear, and sorrow warring inside me. Rowen turned, his eyes softer now, searching my face for a cue. The urge to scream pressed at my throat, but I bit it back. “What the hell are you talking about, Sinclair? I have nothing to hide. My life is an open book!”
Sinclair’s jaw worked, his bravado flickering.
For the first time, I thought I saw something resembling regret in his eyes.
He eased himself up, wincing, and sat on the edge of the overturned coffee table.
“You may have nothing to hide, but others do,” he rasped.
“And I will explain if you both come to Chicago with me.”
Determined not to be manipulated, I met Sinclair’s gaze with unwavering resolve. “Tell me now,” I demanded, refusing to be drawn into whatever scheme he was plotting. My voice was firm, leaving no room for negotiation. “If this has anything to do with Rowen being Travis’ brother, I already know.”
Sinclair’s expression hardened, his eyes narrowing as he glanced at Rowen, now standing protectively beside me. “It’s part of it,” he replied, his voice clipped and direct. “But what you really need to know—”
Not willing to let him skirt around the truth, I cut him off by raising my hand. “No. You are going to tell me everything or I’m going to let Rowen beat it out of you,” I said, my patience stretched to breaking point.
Sinclair fixed his gaze on mine, his tone clipped and authoritative. “He works for me, Dr. Jefferson.” The words were measured, every syllable laced with an edge of ownership—a clear reminder of who held control in this tangled situation.
But I didn’t flinch.
Instead, I met Sinclair’s challenge with a calm certainty, refusing to let him dictate the dynamic. “Yeah, but he’s in love with me, so I’m thinking I have more sway.”
My words hung in the air—a subtle defiance, an assertion that emotional ties could shift the balance of power just as effectively as any contract.
Rowen’s ears flushed pink, but he didn’t back away.
Even battered, Sinclair still dominated the room just by breathing, his gaze flicking between the two of us as he weighed his next move.
A silent storm passed between us, thick with secrets and the threat of more to come.
Sinclair broke the moment, his voice quieter but no less dangerous as he looked at Rowen. “Love makes people reckless. Sometimes it saves them. Sometimes it destroys them.”
His words felt like a warning and a confession all at once.
For the first time, I felt a flicker of uncertainty threaten my composure.
Still, I refused to let Sinclair see any sign of weakness or intimidation.
Straightening my posture, I fixed him with a steady glare.
“Get to the point quickly before I leave,” I demanded, keeping my tone cool and unwavering.
Sinclair’s gaze hardened as he tried to regain control of the situation. “We should discuss this in my office,” he insisted, his voice attempting to reassert authority.
Unbothered, I responded with a smirk, making my way over to the loveseat and settling in.
I made a point of appearing as comfortable as possible, signaling I wasn’t about to give in to his demands.
“And let you control the narrative? I don’t think so,” I retorted sharply. “Here is just fine with me.”
Sinclair let out a low, irritated grumble, clearly displeased with my refusal to follow his lead. His eyes flicked to Rowen as if searching for an ally, but Rowen’s response was unambiguous—he simply shrugged and settled beside me, making his allegiance perfectly clear.
“I’m waiting,” I pressed, my patience nearly exhausted. The tension in the room was palpable, but I was resolute—I would hear the truth, and I would hear it on my own terms.
Sinclair straightened his suit jacket, regaining his composure before speaking. “Does the name Adriano Milano mean anything to you, Dr. Jefferson?” he asked, his voice measured and direct.
“Should it?” I challenged, my gaze steady.
Rowen stiffened next to me, his posture tense as he answered, “Adriano Milano is nothing more than a low-level thug who dabbles as a dirty talent agent from Chicago.”
I turned to Rowen, pressing for more. “For what?”
“Mainly he represents and promotes underground fighters who are desperate to make it in the boxing world. He dangles the promise of the Golden Belt but keeps them hooked on whatever vice they crave—be it men, women, drugs, you name it. He’s nothing but a bastard.”
Still unsatisfied, I turned back to Sinclair. “What does he have to do with me?”
Sinclair began to recount the story with a grave expression.
“Several years ago, Adriano Milano thought he had struck gold when he discovered the Mikhaylov brothers, Timofey and Jascha. They possessed all the qualities Milano sought in fighters—skill, presence, and a hunger for success. But just like many of Milano’s other clients, Timofey was plagued by destructive habits.
His vices were cocaine and women, and these ultimately led him down a dark path. ”
Sinclair paused briefly before continuing, “The night before Jascha’s big fight, he was attacked.
After that, both brothers vanished without a trace.
Milano searched relentlessly, and eventually, he managed to track down Timofey.
But it was too late—Milano found Timofey’s body in the morgue of a hospital in Little Rock, Arkansas.
As for Jascha, he was nowhere to be found. ”
I met Sinclair’s gaze, my patience wearing thin. “I’m still waiting to hear how this pertains to me,” I said, pressing him for the connection.
Sinclair looked down at his hands, hesitating for a moment before he revealed the truth. “Timofey was the man your brother killed.”
I remained motionless, barely daring to blink, as I fixed my eyes on Sinclair.
Memories I had desperately tried to suppress surged back with relentless force.
The terror, the anguish, the emotional wounds I had struggled for years in therapy to overcome crashed over me like an unstoppable tide.
I could see his face as clearly as if he were in the room; the stench of his breath seemed to fill the air, and the sensation of his hands on my body haunted me, igniting the silent screams I had once begged my mother to hear.
But my cries always went unanswered. Then Gunner intervened—and after that it stopped.
The nightmares ended, at least for a while.
Gunner believed he had saved me from harm, but in truth, the threat had not truly disappeared.
Sinclair’s voice echoed softly, “He only ever wanted to protect you, Melissa. He understood that Timofey had a brother—someone who would not hesitate to seek vengeance. And he was right.”
Rowen, noticing the tremor in my hand, reached out and took it in his own. “Who was it?” he asked quietly.
Sinclair’s expression hardened, and a trace of bitterness colored his words.
“The one you failed to kill,” he replied sharply.
“I warned you, Rowen, that the ghosts of our pasts would return. The man you allowed to escape with his life was Jascha Mikhaylov—a trusted enforcer for Boris Petrovitch, better known in the biker world as Jasper ‘Hawk’ Michaels.”
“Son of a bitch!” Rowen shouted, jumping to his feet.
Sinclair’s jaw tightened as he continued, his voice low and urgent, “Petrovitch couldn’t get into Chicago without alerting the Valentinettis.
So he sent the Mikhaylov Brothers. While both brothers managed to make a name for themselves in the underground arena, Jascha was given an additional task—he was to keep watch over the Valentinetti family and pass along information to Petrovitch.
Over the years, Jascha uncovered many secrets.
But when he discovered the truth about Salvatore Valentinetti, something changed.
Instead of reporting back to Petrovitch, Jascha feared for his own safety.
He worried he might not survive long enough to deliver the information.
That was when he decided to reach out to Nolan Kelley, a contact he’d made in New York City during one of his brother’s fights. ”
Confused, I interrupted, “Wait a minute. You said Travis knew. How? I never told him the man’s name.”
Sinclair’s eyes met mine, unwavering. “Ask your brother.”
My breath caught. “Gunner?” I gasped, shaking my head in disbelief. “Gunner told him?”
Sinclair’s tone softened as he addressed me. “Your brother only wanted to protect you, my dear. So did Mr. Foley, for that matter. When Mr. Foley learned that Jasper Michaels was alive and working with the Death Dogs, he came to me asking to go back.”
I slowly sat up, my eyes narrowing as I stared at Sinclair, the pounding in my chest growing heavier. I shook my head, my voice barely above a whisper. “No. I was there when you told him he had to go.”
Sinclair’s expression was apologetic. “That was for your benefit. He didn’t want to break his promise to you, so I offered to be the fall guy.
I’m sorry, Melissa. I offered to take care of the matter myself, given your current state, but Mr. Foley insisted.
He said it was his responsibility to protect you, and he even went so far as to offer to protect my son. ”
Anger and anguish welled up inside me, and my voice rose to a scream. “Tank was injured! He knew King would make him leave!”
Sinclair nodded in understanding. “Yes, he did, but nothing I said would change your man’s mind. He wanted to be the one to kill Jasper Michaels himself.”