Chapter Forty-Two
Rowen
It was late as I navigated the city’s dusky streets, the flickering glow of traffic lights dappling across the windshield.
The hum of the engine seemed to amplify the tension in the car.
Michael sat beside me, arms fiercely crossed, his jaw set so tight I could almost hear the grind of his teeth.
He shifted restlessly, feet tapping out an anxious beat against the floor mat.
His gaze was locked on the passing city, but every so often, he flicked a glance my way—sharp, searching, bruised with suspicion.
The silence between us stretched thin, weighted by everything unspoken: my own guilt, his simmering anger, the secrets that lingered in the air.
After what felt like miles of strained quiet, Michael finally broke.
His voice was low, almost hoarse, with an impatience that barely disguised the rage beneath.
“Why the fuck are we going to see some bigwig business dude?” His words lingered, but I caught the faint quiver—a subtle vulnerability that reminded me of how deeply he cared for Melissa, and how every perceived threat to her safety cut him down to the bone.
I kept my grip loose on the wheel, forcing my voice into measured calm, but inside, guilt twisted sharp as barbed wire.
“Because, like Sinclair, he knows everyone.” I paused longer than I meant to, searching for the right words.
“He also has a vested interest in making sure the Italian Council and Irish Mob don’t end up at war.
” My words felt heavy, echoing the precarious balance we were both trying to maintain.
Michael let out a groan, his exasperation evident.
The sound was sharp but not cruel, as if he needed the anger to mask something softer underneath.
“So what you’re saying is, this guy does business with them too.
” He shook his head, fingers drumming on his knee, a restless energy that seemed to vibrate through his entire frame.
For a moment, he turned, searching my face for any trace of reassurance, but I couldn’t give him what he wanted.
“Yes.” I kept my answer short, almost clipped, hoping to spare us both another argument. But my heart thudded with guilt; I could feel the tension in my shoulders, the regret for all the things I should have said, for everything I’d kept from him.
Michael’s scowl deepened, the muscles in his jaw flexing as he leaned forward, voice sharp but quieter now.
“Then why the fuck didn’t you just say that?
” His sarcasm had an edge, but beneath it, I saw a flash of vulnerability—a brother’s raw protectiveness, honed by years of watching over Melissa in a world that had never been kind to either of them.
I risked a glance in his direction, my voice quieter, softer.
“I did.” The words sounded hollow to my own ears, more a plea than a defense.
For all my practiced calm, I couldn’t ignore the burn of guilt in my chest. He’d always been the one to fight for her, to patch her up when the world left bruises.
Distrust was his armor, and right now, I couldn’t blame him for keeping it close.
Michael broke the silence again, voice rough yet uncertain, “So who the fuck is this guy?” His tone was laced with skepticism and something else—a faint tremor of distrust, maybe.
I could see it in the way he hunched his shoulders, his protective instinct bristling, memories of past betrayals lingering just beneath the surface.
For a moment, the tension eased, replaced by an uneasy truce, and I realized that beneath all our sparring, we were both just trying to protect the people we loved, in our own flawed ways.
I kept my tone even, my words slipping out beneath the steady drone of the engine and the city’s distant sirens.
“His name is Matthias Black. CEO—he owns Black Incorporated. The man’s reach is everywhere; he doesn’t care who you are, only what you have to offer.
Money, leverage, secrets. He’s got his claws in Wall Street, Hollywood, real estate, you name it.
” My voice dropped as we pulled to the curb, the car idling in front of a skyscraper that rose into the clouds, steel and glass gleaming in the pallid city light.
“But most of all, he’s a collector. Obsessive. Ruthless.”
We stepped out into the lobby, the hush swallowing us whole.
Each footstep sent a crisp echo across the marble floor, mingling with the low thrum of distant elevators and the faint click of polished shoes.
The air was cold and sharp, the kind of chill that prickled against the back of my neck and left my palms clammy.
Overhead, light glinted off towering columns and polished brass, each detail a testament to Black’s appetite for control.
I leaned in, my voice a quiet warning, edged with something Michael would recognize—caution, maybe fear.
“He’s shrewd, Michael. And unpredictable.
Don’t make the mistake of thinking you can outplay him.
You won’t.” My gaze slid over to him, catching the flicker of defiance in his eyes, but underneath it, I saw the same uncertainty twisting in my gut.
Michael’s lips curled, skepticism thick in every word. “So he’s going to help us out of the kindness of his heart?”
“No,” I said flatly, letting the word hang between us.
He snorted, a harsh sound that echoed off marble and glass. “Right. Then why the hell would he lift a finger for us?”
I met his stare, steady and unblinking. “Because I have something he’s always coveted.”
The elevator’s doors slid open with a soft sigh.
Inside, the cold intensified, the hum of hidden machinery underscoring the silence.
As we rose, the city unfurled beneath us—streets dissolving into a wild sea of lights, the skyline fractured by distant thunderheads.
I caught my reflection in the polished steel, eyes dark with exhaustion, but beneath it, a current of purpose.
“The Codex Leicester,” I murmured, so only Michael could hear.
“The what?” he asked, confusion knitting his brow as the elevator chimed past the fortieth floor.
“Leonardo da Vinci’s Codex Leicester,” I said, every syllable weighted.
“Seventy-two pages. Hundreds of sketches, notes, and theories DaVinci wrote in Florence and Milan. It’s irreplaceable—one of the world’s rarest manuscripts.
” I paused, heart pounding as the walls seemed to press in.
“Black’s tried to get his hands on it for years.
It’s never been for sale.” The words stung—I thought of the years I’d spent tracking its location, of the risks, the betrayals, the cost if I lost it now.
If Black refused to help... I didn’t know what I would do.
The Codex had always been more than a prize.
It was proof—of what I’d sacrificed, and of what I stood to lose.
Michael’s skepticism faded into suspicion; his voice was barely more than a whisper. “You actually have it?”
A faint, bitter smile tugged at my mouth.
“Not here. But I know where it is. And more importantly, I know what it’s worth.
That’s why Black will listen.” The elevator shuddered to a halt.
I nodded toward the corridor ahead, feeling Michael inch closer, the air between us charged with something uneasy—a fragile trust, not quite hope.
The hallway stretched ahead, silent except for the soft hush of ventilation and our footsteps echoing off glass and marble. At the reception desk, a striking woman looked up, her gaze poised yet welcoming. “Professor Shay. Mr. Black is expecting you.”
I nodded my thanks, knuckles tightening as we approached the grand oak doors.
With one last glance at Michael—suspicion and curiosity still vying in his expression—I rapped on the polished wood and stepped inside.
Matthias Black was waiting, hidden behind an empire of paperwork, his presence as cold and commanding as the city far below.
Without looking up, he said in a low, gruff tone, “I don’t see it, Rowen.”
I raised an eyebrow, masking the rush of adrenaline that always followed walking into one of Black’s offices unarmed. “You really expected me to walk around the city with a priceless artifact?”
Black’s frown deepened, and he fixed his gaze on me. “What do you want?”
I took a seat across from his desk, determined to appear collected even as the magnitude of my next words pressed against my composure. “Where is Madigan Kelley?” I asked plainly, getting straight to the point.
At that, Matthias Black finally looked directly at me, his dark sapphire eyes sharp and assessing. Leaning back, he tapped his finger thoughtfully on the desk. “And why would I tell you that?”
“Because I need to speak with her,” I replied, my tone steady, though my mind flickered to the Codex—a centuries-old notebook of Da Vinci’s, its secrets powerful enough to shift allegiances and draw blood. It wasn’t just a bargaining chip; it was the only leverage standing between me and disaster.
He pressed further. “Why?”
I shook my head with a slight, knowing smile, my fingers balling into a fist beneath the desk. “That’s not how this works, Matthias. If you tell me where to find her, I’ll have the Codex delivered by armed courier. Otherwise, I walk—and you never see the Codex again.”
Matthias paused, choosing his words carefully. “It’s not that easy, Rowen. I owe her husband a debt.”
“Her husband is dead,” I breathed, my words scraping raw as guilt tightened in my chest. For a split second, a flash of memory—Jasper Michael’s escape, the chaos, my split-second hesitation—seared behind my eyes. I swallowed it down, forcing myself to hold the present.
Matthias nodded, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “And whose fault is that?”
His question landed like a blow to the gut.
A prickle of unease crawled up my spine, and for an instant, I almost let the weight of it show—Jasper Michael’s trail of violence, the innocent lives lost since that night, all a direct consequence of my failure to contain him.
But I stiffened, refusing to let my guilt or Matthias’ accusation unravel me.
The room felt smaller, the air electric with unspoken blame as Matthias leaned forward.
“Tell me, Rowen, how many people has Jasper Michaels killed since you let him slip through your fingers?”
I refused to take the bait. For a moment, silence pulsed between us; I steadied my breathing and forced myself to meet his gaze, letting the pause stretch until it threatened to snap.
Finally, I spoke—my voice low but steady.
“You know as well as I do that blame doesn’t matter.
What matters is what’s left, and what comes next. ”
Matthias’ jaw tightened, but the edge softened in his eyes. He hesitated, weighing whatever secrets he guarded against the offer I’d laid on the table. At last, he sighed—a sound full of old regrets. “She’s not safe, Rowen,” he murmured.
I leaned forward, urgency threading through my words. “All the more reason for you to trust me. Where is she?”
He considered me for a moment longer, then scribbled an address on a scrap of paper and slid it across the desk. “Don’t make me regret this,” he said quietly.
I took the slip, tucking it carefully into my jacket. “You won’t,” I promised, the full significance of what I was risking echoing in my chest. Then, without another word, I stood and left, the weight of the Codex and everything it meant pressing on my shoulders as I stepped into the night.
As soon as we climbed into my car, I pulled out the slip of paper Matthias had given me and unfolded it with trembling fingers. My eyes scanned the address scribbled there, and a knot formed in my stomach. I let out a low, frustrated curse. “Fuck.”
Michael glanced over, concern flickering across his face as I jammed the key into the ignition. “What is it?” he asked, his voice tense.
I forced out a breath, gathering myself before answering. “We have to go to Pier 87,” I said, my voice laced with both urgency and dread. “We need to talk to Maxim Fedorov.”
Michael’s eyes went wide, disbelief written plainly on his face. “The Bloodletter? That Maxim Fedorov?”
I let out a groan, feeling the weight of what lay ahead settle over me. “The one and only,” I muttered, bracing myself for what was to come.