Chapter Thirty-One
Massimo
I tried to control the burning rage boiling deep as I sped through the icy city streets of Chicago.
The windshield wipers scraped rhythmically against the glass, barely clearing the curtain of sleet that blurred neon signs and blinding headlights.
Cesar, next to me, gripped his phone in silence, while Luca sat in the back seat, his fingers drumming an impatient, staccato beat on the leather console.
Each thud echoed the restless pulse pounding behind my temples, my jaw clenching so tightly it ached.
The unforgiving cold seeped through my coat, but all I could focus on was the wild, anxious energy surging in my chest as we barreled toward whatever waited for us in the shadows of the city.
Cesar received the call early this morning from Crispin Sinclair, his voice cold and taunting, telling us that he had my runaway bride and if I wanted her back, I would need to come claim her myself.
The words replayed in my head, each syllable a spark igniting the fury I tried—and failed—to contain.
My palms were slick against the steering wheel, my breaths shallow and sharp, blending with the muffled hum of the city that seemed to sense the storm raging inside me.
The tension in the car was nearly suffocating as Luca finally voiced the question that haunted all of us. His words, quiet but heavy, cut through the air. “Do you think he knows?” We exchanged uneasy glances, each of us well aware of the consequences should our worst fears come true.
Cesar broke the silence, his tone rough and laced with dread.
“For our sakes, let’s hope he’s still in the dark, because if he’s learned the truth, he’s an adversary we won’t beat.
The only thing in our favor is that we only learned the truth a few days ago.
So, there is hope.” He paused, his brow furrowing deeper.
“I’m more interested in how she ended up at his place. ”
Frustration surged inside me, and I tightened my grip on the steering wheel until my knuckles whitened.
“It had to be Oliver,” I growled, anger flaring in my voice.
“When I get my hands on that little shit, I’m going to wring his damn neck.
” My mind raced, connecting the dots. “His father occasionally does business with Sinclair.”
Luca’s voice was tentative as he said, “Maybe he thought Sinclair would help?”
My anger simmered just beneath the surface, the words coming out sharper than I intended. “Too bad for him; our deal with Sinclair trumps everything else,” I seethed. There was no room for sentiment or misplaced trust now—business was business, and our allegiance was clear.
The car jerked as the tires lost traction for a moment, and Cesar’s grip tightened on the door. His tone was stern, cutting through the escalating tension. “Massimo, you need to slow down,” he ordered. “Killing us will not help matters.”
Realizing the danger, I reluctantly eased my foot off the accelerator, drawing in a long, steadying breath before letting it out in a sigh. The urgency remained, but I forced myself to focus.
Sensing my agitation, Luca leaned forward from the back seat, his hand gripping my shoulder in an attempt to anchor me. “Relax, brother,” he said, his tone reassuring. “She’s safe. Sinclair would never hurt a woman.”
I glanced at him, skepticism and worry etched into my face. “You sure about that?”
He hesitated for a moment before answering honestly, “No, but Miranda isn’t Jane Craven.”
The name hung in the air, heavy with implication. Everyone knew Sinclair’s vendetta against Jane Craven—after what she’d done to him and countless others at the Trick Pony, her days were numbered. If Sinclair had his way, there’d be no mercy; he would make sure he was the one to end her.
The tension thickened, a heavy silence settling between us as headlights from an oncoming car flashed across our faces.
Each of us was lost in our own thoughts, weighing the risks, the fragile alliances, and the secrets that threatened to unravel everything.
The city’s lights flickered in the distance—a promise of answers or perhaps more trouble waiting ahead.
An hour later, I eased the SUV’s speed as we approached the iron gates. They swung open in response, granting us entry to the estate. Guards stood watch, heavily armed and alert, their eyes following our every move as we drove up the winding drive toward the imposing house.
Luca’s gaze wandered over the grounds, curiosity evident as the SUV rolled to a stop near the front entrance. “Did you know Sinclair had a place in the city?” he asked, his tone reflecting surprise at the sight of the grand home and its fortified security.
Shaking my head, I replied as I turned off the engine, “No. I knew he had homes in Greece, Turkey, and the Maldives, but not in Chicago.”
Before I could say more, Cesar asserted himself.
“Let me do the talking,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.
He opened the vehicle door and stepped out into the crisp, biting cold.
The rest of us quickly followed, falling into step behind him as we made our way up the path toward the front door.
As we approached, the door swung open, and Sinclair himself appeared, waiting for us. He stood tall in the entryway, his presence commanding.
Sinclair greeted us with a composed nod as we stepped into the grand entryway. “Welcome, gentlemen.” His voice held a calm authority, the kind that made it clear we were guests here, not equals.
Cesar took the lead, moving forward confidently and extending his hand in greeting. “Sinclair,” he acknowledged, his tone formal but not unfriendly.
Sinclair’s lips curved into a small, enigmatic smile. “Don Vitale. Please come in,” he said, gesturing smoothly for us to enter farther into the house. His welcome was polite, but measured, every word carefully chosen.
As soon as the heavy door closed behind us, I couldn’t hold back any longer. My voice was sharp with urgency as I demanded, “Where is my wife?”
Cesar’s tone was quick and admonishing. “Massimo,” he chided, reminding me with a single word to keep my composure, even as anxiety throbbed beneath my skin.
Sinclair’s expression remained remarkably neutral, though a faint glimmer of amusement flickered in his eyes at the outburst. “That’s right,” he replied, his voice even and unhurried.
He cast a brief glance at Cesar before returning his attention to me, choosing his next words with deliberate care.
“Please accept my belated congratulations on your wedding.”
Before I could respond, Cesar intervened, his voice strong and protective. “My brother thanks you. You must forgive him. Marriage is new to him, and he doesn’t know how to behave.” There was a firmness in his tone, a signal to let him handle the conversation from here.
I recognized that warning note in Cesar’s voice all too well.
He was making it clear: I was to keep my damn mouth shut.
Sinclair’s grin widened as he glanced over at Cesar. “Newlyweds,” he remarked, a hint of amusement in his tone. “All those newly revealed emotions. It must be hard to keep them in check.”
Cesar let out a groan, exasperation clear in his voice. “You have no idea.”
Sinclair’s eyes sparkled knowingly. “Trust me, Don Vitale. I know.” He snapped his fingers, and from the shadows, a butler emerged, standing at attention and awaiting instructions. “If you all would follow me, my cook has prepared a wedding breakfast for the newlyweds.”
I bristled at the comment, my fists clenching as I prepared to respond, but before I could, Cesar spoke up smoothly. “We thank you for the invitation, Sinclair. We would love to join you.”
Sinclair clapped his hands together, his smile broadening. “Perfect. The bride should be with us shortly. In the meantime, I thought we could talk, Don Vitale. Business before pleasure, if you will.”
“Absolutely,” Cesar replied, removing his coat and gloves and handing them to the waiting butler. Reluctantly, I mimicked Cesar’s actions and shrugged off my own coat, following his lead.
Sinclair settled into his seat at the head of the table, his demeanor calm but focused. “I heard about the incident outside Renaldi’s Place,” he began, his gaze shifting around the group. “I trust that the perpetrators have been found?”
Cesar nodded in acknowledgment, his movements measured as he placed a pristine white linen napkin in his lap. “Yes,” he replied simply.
“Good,” Sinclair responded, giving a brief nod before signaling to the butler, who then exited the room without a sound. Sinclair’s tone grew more somber. “It’s a sad day when decent, upstanding citizens can’t enjoy a decent meal without interruption.”
“Agreed,” came the consensus, the weight of recent events hanging in the air.
With a composed gesture, Sinclair reached for his wineglass and took a measured sip before lowering his voice just enough to focus the conversation. “Tell me, Don Vitale, does Massimo’s bride know the truth?”
The question hung in the air. I tensed immediately, feeling Luca’s warning glance as he discreetly kicked my shin under the table, clearly signaling me to stay silent. Cesar, unruffled, replied with practiced ease, “That would depend on what truth you are talking about, Sinclair.”
Sinclair tilted his head slightly, lowering his glass and considering Cesar’s words. “There is more than one secret?” he asked, probing further.
Cesar’s lips curled into a slight, knowing smile. “Isn’t there always?” he retorted, the hint of amusement in his voice belying the tension in the room.
Sinclair offered a sly smirk. “Touché.” His tone shifted, becoming more pointed. “But I am talking about her current problems. Does she know that her husband is responsible for her academic difficulties?”
Cesar’s expression did not falter. “No,” he replied, his voice flat. “And those problems will go away now that they are married.”
Sinclair nodded, a conspiratorial gleam in his eye as he pressed his point. “I’m glad to hear that,” he said, his voice carrying an edge of authority. “I’ve had time to speak to her, and she was very forthcoming. Her intelligence should be revered, not subjugated.”
The silence that followed Sinclair’s declaration was as heavy as a storm about to break.
My heart pounded in my chest, and I saw Luca’s jaw tense, knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of the table.
No one dared to contradict Sinclair, not here and not now, and the implicit threat in his words left all of us acutely aware of the stakes.
It wasn’t a suggestion.
Sinclair’s intentions were clear, and antagonizing him was a risk none of us were willing to take—not even me.
He was the unpredictable element at the table.
While he conducted business with various organizations, his true loyalty was only to himself.
His reputation for being feared was well-earned, and even the Italian Council preferred to remain on his good side.
Cesar cleared his throat, breaking the tense silence that lingered at the table. “If I may,” he began, his voice measured and diplomatic. “What is the word from the biker world?”
Sinclair let out a weary sigh, his expression betraying the weight of the news he carried. “The same,” he replied, his tone flat. “War is on the horizon. I fear it’s only a matter of time.” The heaviness of his words seemed to settle over everyone present, underscoring the gravity of the situation.
Cesar pressed on, his voice quieter but no less intent. “And the Russians?”
“Maxim has made his intentions clear,” Sinclair responded without hesitation. “The Bratva will have no hand in what’s to come.” His words were resolute, leaving little room for interpretation.
Cesar considered this, then remarked, “That has to be hard for Vladmir, considering who his daughter is married to.” The observation hung in the air, a reminder of the personal stakes woven into the larger conflict.
Sinclair’s lips curled into a smirk, a flicker of dark humor in his eyes. “Trust me, Don Vitale. Of all the deaths to come, she is the only one who I am sure will emerge unscathed.”