Chapter Forty-Seven
Rowen
Sinclair’s office was suffocatingly quiet.
The air pressed in at the edges of the spotless room.
I sat in a leather chair by the window, watching Sinclair as he paced.
He moved with restless energy, his shoulders hunched under the weight of exhaustion.
Lines of fatigue etched deep into his face.
Every step seemed heavier, grief trailing him like a shadow.
The loss of Gideon haunted his every gesture.
Responsibility settled over Sinclair like a shroud, making him look fragile—almost breakable.
For the first time since we’d crossed paths at the Trick Pony, I saw the true cost of Sinclair’s protection.
Every choice wore him down, carving away pieces of his spirit.
The burdens he carried left marks invisible to anyone unwilling to look.
The silence lingered, heavy with unspoken fears.
In that hush, respect bloomed within me—for Sinclair’s sacrifice and the quiet bravery it took to keep going.
Thunder grumbled quietly outside, as if the storm mourned with us.
I cleared my throat, the sound barely breaking the silence.
“We need to tell Silas and Dante,” I said, my voice soft but steady.
The words weighed heavy. They marked the first step toward healing, a necessary move to reclaim what was left.
Sinclair stopped pacing. He finally met my gaze. Exhaustion clouded his eyes, but a flicker of resolve sparked there—a hint of the man he had been before everything began to unravel.
Melissa sat beside me, her hands folded tight in her lap.
She stared at the floor for a moment, then spoke quietly, her voice raw and personal.
“Gideon’s gone, but he’s not going anywhere.
Not really. Let the living have a little peace tonight.
We can face the truth in daylight. That’s when it hurts less.
” Her words carried the ache of loss, colored by her need for gentleness amid grief.
Sinclair and I both turned to Melissa, silent in agreement.
Sinclair sank into his chair behind the desk.
He rubbed his face with worn hands, sighing.
“You’re right,” he finally said, his voice shaky but determined.
“I’ll call them tomorrow. Tonight, let’s figure out our next move.
” The room remained hushed, but something softer lingered—shared grief and the promise of moving forward together.
“There is nothing to decide.”
Sinclair and I both turned our attention to Melissa, waiting in silence for her to elaborate.
She hesitated only a moment before continuing, her tone direct but earnest, “I’m new to this lifestyle, so forgive me if I don’t always stick to the rules, but it seems clear to me that, no matter what either of you choose, the truth is already out there. ”
Melissa’s gaze moved between us, her conviction unwavering.
“In my opinion, the best thing to do is let it spread and do nothing. Just live your lives as if none of this matters. Sinclair, you should keep doing whatever it is you do, and Rowen, you can continue being a professor and help Sinclair when it’s necessary. ”
She drew a quiet breath, her voice softer but no less certain.
“This life you both lead—the one I’ve been pulled into—it’s never going to change.
I understand that now. There will always be another person with a grudge, someone seeking more power.
No matter how hard you try, you can’t stop them all.
But you can refuse to give them the attention and importance they crave. ”
Melissa offered a small, resolute nod. “So, my advice is to do nothing.”
Sinclair considered Melissa’s words, the muscles in his jaw tensing as he weighed their truth.
He seemed to want to argue, to insist there was more they could do, but fatigue and the echo of loss drained his fight.
I watched him exhale slowly, surrendering to the idea that sometimes, letting go is the only way forward.
“Maybe you’re right,” he murmured, eyes distant but thoughtful. “I’ve spent so much time trying to control the uncontrollable. Perhaps it’s time to let the chips fall where they may and focus on what we can change.”
Melissa offered a soft smile, the first hint of hope flickering in the dim room. I felt the weight shift, as if the storm outside had finally begun to pass. For a moment, we simply sat together, united by the bonds forged in grief and resilience, silently promising to carry on—each in our own way.
“What about Madigan?” I asked. “You and I both gave our word to Salvatore that we would protect her.”
“And I always keep my word.” Sinclair sighed heavily. “I will take care of her personally. How goes the hunt for Mr. Michaels?”
Groaning, I hung my head. “It doesn’t. The man has vanished. Gone underground.”
“Wait a minute,” Melissa interrupted. Sitting up straighter, she looked at me. “You said he and his brother were trained fighters, right before things went to shit for them. Is it possible he went back to what he knows? Could he be underground fighting again?”
Sinclair slowly sat up, looking at me. “It’s possible.”
Shaking my head, I groaned and nodded. “If he’s hiding in the underworld arena, he won’t be easy to find. There are several spots alone in this city, and I don’t have the luxury to enter unless I’m fighting.”
“But Sinclair and I can, right?” Melissa asked.
Looking over at her, I narrowed my eyes. “I don’t want you anywhere near those places. It’s dangerous, Melissa. Anything can happen down there, and it generally does. There is no law, only death.”
Sinclair leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper. “Braesal O’Malley called me for a favor,” he said, his tone grave. “He informed me that Sylvia St. James is alive and was working with Tyran Fitzpatrick.”
I frowned, picking up on the subtle emphasis. “Was?”
Sinclair nodded. “Mr. Fitzpatrick is dead. However, Mrs. St. James got away.”
Shaking my head, I let out a frustrated groan. “Sylvia St. James is smart, Sinclair. Smarter than you. If she’s resurfaced, she wants something or someone. What did O’Malley ask?”
Sinclair’s gaze was unwavering. “To find the woman and eliminate her.”
I couldn’t help but let out a humorless laugh. “I hope you told him no, because I know I’m good, but I’m not that good.”
Dead silence filled the room, broken only by the echo of Sinclair’s last words. Melissa’s eyes darted between us, uncertain whether to speak. A sense of dread settled over me; the request wasn’t just risky—it was a death sentence for anyone foolish enough to accept.
“You’re not seriously considering it, are you?
” My voice barely registered above the pounding in my chest, each word trembling as if afraid to be spoken.
Sinclair’s jaw worked furiously, his silence stretching, thick with uncertainty.
Melissa reached over, her hand quivering as she placed it atop mine—a small gesture, but it anchored me, kept me from unraveling.
“We have to,” Sinclair replied, almost a whisper, yet it felt like a thunderclap.
“If she’s resurfaced, she’s already two steps ahead.
She’s Madigan’s grandmother—our debt to Salvatore doesn’t end here.
And she’s still a threat.” He paused, his eyes darkening.
“I don’t need to spell out what happens to Madigan if Sylvia gets her hands on her. ”
The air seemed to thicken, pressing against my ribs. My breath came shallow, tightening at the thought of Sylvia St. James—no ordinary nemesis. We both felt it; the room was heavy with dread, its silence buzzing in our ears.
“Wait... Who is Sylvia St. James, really?” Melissa’s voice was small, but it cut through the haze. She pulled her hand away, tucking it nervously into her lap.
I tried to swallow the knot in my throat.
Sinclair’s eyes met mine, haunted. “She’s a monster dressed in designer clothes,” he said, the words clipped and cold.
“Mrs. St. James ran the Division—a branch of the Society, led by Jane Craven, before Craven died. Division was supposed to gather the best minds, scientists and doctors. But that’s not all. ”
Melissa’s brow furrowed. “Division? What did they do?”
Sinclair shifted, his fists clenched. “They handled everything—breakthroughs in medicine, scientific discoveries. In the early 1990s, Sylvia started a charity, Sunshine Child, to help orphans. But she used a sub-charity, Sunshine Kids, for something else.”
“What was different about Sunshine Kids?” Melissa pressed, her knuckles white.
I drew a shaky breath, the memory searing.
“Sunshine Kids was linked to hospitals and adoption agencies. Its real purpose was to find exceptional children—those with high IQs. They’d pull kids from anywhere, even places like the Trick Pony, or snatch them off the street.
The gifted ones went to Sunshine Kids; the rest..
. went back to places like the Trick Pony. ”
Melissa’s face drained of color, her breathing shallow. “That’s... that’s horrible.”
Sinclair nodded, his voice rough. “Poseidon Innovation was part of Division, too. One side worked with the military, specializing in urban warfare. The other side was pharmaceutical. They even helped create the pandemic vaccine five years ago. The company’s worth trillions, but none of it matters—not compared to what Sylvia did. ”
My hands trembled, cold sweat prickling my skin. All I could see was the shadow Sylvia St. James cast—her cruelty masked by elegance. The urgency burned in me. We weren’t just hunting a criminal. We were racing to stop a monster who’d built her empire on stolen lives.
Melissa pressed her palm to her stomach, looking pale and unsteady, as if the world had tilted beneath her feet. “I think... I think I’m going to be sick,” she whispered.
The air in the room felt thick, almost suffocating, with the faint scent of leather and old coffee lingering.
Sinclair leaned forward, voice low. “I reached out to Mr. Ryabkin—he got back to me fast. He took Madigan and vanished again, but before slipping away, Ryabkin told me Mrs. St. James had lined up another scapegoat for her scheme.”
I turned to Sinclair, whose expression was as unreadable as an ancient statue. “Who?”
Sinclair’s words were clipped, almost mocking. “Jasper Michaels.”
My fists clenched, heat rising in my cheeks. I shot upright, voice echoing off the faded wallpaper. “Are you kidding me?”
Sinclair continued coolly, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond me.
“Mrs. St. James is nothing if not meticulous. From my investigation, she’s collaborating with Arizona and Dakota Stone to preserve the Society’s legacy.
With Jasper Michaels tangled in her web, she’s targeting several children to guarantee her success. ”
As realization hit, my breath caught. “So that’s what the Death Dogs war was about!” Sinclair nodded, a sardonic smile flickering on his lips, confirming my suspicion.
Melissa tossed her head, brow furrowed, her sneakers scuffing the worn floorboards. “Wait, wait—what does this biker war have to do with that lady? I mean, seriously, I’m not seeing it.”
Sinclair straightened, adjusting his cufflinks with practiced precision.
His voice carried a hint of dry amusement.
“Picture the underworld as a very well-run corporation. The Table is the executive committee; its members act as board directors, each overseeing a division, like finance or operations. The Biker Federation is the security team—the muscle. If someone misbehaves, the Table dispatches the Biker Federation to restore order, ensuring business continues smoothly. But when the Biker Federation is busy fighting itself—thanks to this engineered biker war—the Table gains free rein to conduct their affairs without interference.”
I leaned into the conversation, glancing at each of them. “So basically, St. James started the biker war to distract the muscle, letting the Table pull strings without anyone stopping them—and she’s manipulating all the pieces so the Society survives, no matter how many lives get torn apart.”
“And,” Sinclair added, “with the biker war gearing up, no one will stop her from acquiring the particular children she’s singled out.”
Melissa’s eyes widened as she curled her arms around her stomach protectively and asked, her voice shallow, “Which children?”
“Children of the Biker Federation.”