Cesar took a deep breath and then lowered the boom. “Crispin Sinclair is not an easy man. Once he decides someone belongs to him—family, business, whatever—he’ll protect you, but he’ll also control you. It’s his version of love, twisted and possessive. My brothers and I tried to shield you from him for as long as we could, but now...” Cesar glanced away, shame and worry etched across his face. “Now, Sinclair will make sure you never leave his orbit. You’re not just his daughter. You’re his legacy.”
A loud thump snapped both our heads toward the door. Cesar shifted to stand, but I was faster, flinging back the sheets and springing out of bed. I shot him a glare, jabbing a finger in his direction. “You stay put.” But Cesar’s stubbornness wouldn’tlet him stay away, no matter how much he needed rest. I stormed to the door and flung it wide open, catching Silas and Guilio struggling to separate Massimo and Sinclair—who were rolling on the floor, fists raised and faces twisted with fury.
Frustration coiled in my chest, my hands trembling as I seized an expensive vase from the side table. With a desperate cry for order, I raised it high and smashed it against the floor, shards exploding in all directions—a sharp punctuation to the chaos.
Massimo and Sinclair froze, fists still clutching at collars. The crash echoed down the hallway; for a suspended moment, we all stared at the destruction, tension crackling in the air.
“That was a Ming Dynasty vase, Miranda,” Sinclair groaned as he got to his feet and adjusted his ripped suit.
“Now it’s garbage,” I snapped, refusing to be dismissed as I strode toward them. I leveled a pointed glare at Sinclair, refusing to let him off the hook. “You are too old to be fighting,” I declared, my frustration boiling over as his eyes widened. Then, turning my attention to Massimo, I jabbed my finger into his chest, my anger sharp and unyielding. “And you are still on my shit list! Just what in the hell are you doing here?”
Scowling, Massimo took hold of his broken nose, wincing as he snapped it back into place before glaring at Sinclair. The tension in the hall hung thick as fog before Massimo finally spoke, his tone edged with tension. “We need to talk.”
I bristled, folding my arms tightly across my chest. “I have nothing to say to you.” My words came out sharper than intended, the weight of recent revelations making it impossible to hide my pain.
Massimo’s jaw clenched, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. “You are mywife,” he sneered angrily. “Or have you forgotten?” His words lingered, a bitter reminder of everything that bound—and divided—us.
“How can I forget? You won’t let me. Everywhere I go, you turn up!”
Guilio, usually so quick to act, hesitated now, uncertainty etched across his face as he hung back—unsure if stepping in again would help or make things worse. My own heart thundered in my chest, muscles wound tight, braced for another outburst that didn’t come. Then, with a shuddering breath, I stepped back, my resolve dissolving. Shaking my head, I found strength enough to speak, my voice low and brittle. “I can’t do this. Just leave.”
“Enough,” Massimo growled. His voice was raw as he stepped forward, his tone sharpening every syllable as he reached for my hand, his grip tight, urgent. “You are coming home now.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
Massimo
“Take a seat, gentlemen,” Sinclair commanded, his voice slicing through the tense air as he stood rigid behind his desk. The lamp’s glow cast jagged shadows across the room, highlighting the exhaustion in his features. With a sharp tug, he stripped off his tie—its scent of expensive cologne mingling with the faint tang of whiskey—and tossed aside his torn suit jacket. He unfastened the top buttons of his white shirt, exposing the red marks along his throat, and finally dropped into his chair with a heavy exhale. For a moment, he looked nothing like the reserved, meticulous man I once knew—he was untethered, almost desperate, something raw flickering in his eyes.
Yet the Devil still haunted his face—only now, chaos seeped through the cracks.
I stood my ground near the doorway, unwilling to give in to his demands. The distance between us wasn’t simply physical—it was the only thing that kept me from finishing what I’d started upstairs. Had my wife not intervened, I would have happily killed the son of a bitch; the only thing that kept him breathing was her interruption, and the complicated truth that the Devil himself was her father. Now, she was currently locked away in her room, secured by two guards stationed at her door, ensuring she would not run again until the matter of business was settled.
Sinclair’s voice was steady as he addressed Cesar. “Cesar, what have you learned?” The question hung in the air as Silas entered and handed Sinclair a single sheet of paper.
Cesar replied, his tone grave, “The attack happened three hours ago. Information is sketchy, but from what I’ve learned, many are wounded or dead. As for the numbers, I’ll know more in a few hours. I’ve sent Emanuelle to Nebraska so I can have eyes on the ground.” My brother’s words underscored the uncertainty and chaos following the attack in the biker world.
Sinclair nodded in response, adding, “I’ve got Rowen close by. He’s en route now.” He glanced at the paper Silas had given him and let out a weary sigh. “I can, however, confirm Reaper and King are alive.”
The confirmation provided a small measure of relief in the midst of the crisis. This war was going to be bloody and long. And who survived would be anyone’s guess.
Cesar shifted in his seat, his voice betraying his exhaustion. “Well, that’s something,” he groaned. “I’ll get with the Italian Council and see if there is any more news when I get home. In the meantime, we need to discuss Miranda.” The shift in topic brought a new tension to the room.
Sinclair bristled at the suggestion, his posture rigid. “There is nothing to discuss,” he replied curtly. “My daughter is staying here.”
His words were final, brooking no argument.
“Over my fucking dead body,” I snapped, but Cesar quickly lifted his hand, signaling for calm and halting any further outburst.
My brother leaned forward, his eyes steady but shadowed by fatigue. “Sinclair, let me be clear,” he began, his voice low yet unyielding. “This isn’t a request, and it isn’t about permissions. Miranda Williams—your daughter—legally bears the Vitale name, and under the laws of the Italian Council, she belongs to my family.” Cesar squared his shoulders, forcing resolve into his tone as he continued, “You know as well as I do, Sinclair, that the Council decides these matters, not fathers.You relinquished your say when you refused to accept your place in our world and its rules. Unless you wish to challenge me for my seat at the Council—the very council that still remembers your family’s betrayals—Miranda will return home with her husband.” My brother paused, letting the weight of history settle between them. “And let me remind you, should you choose to defy my order and step into your birthright, you will take on the burden of every consequence of your bloodline—past, present, and future. The Council does not forget.”
Sinclair’s jaw clenched, his knuckles whitening on the chair’s arm as the truth of his family’s betrayal burned behind his eyes—the same secrets that cast a shadow over every move he made. He narrowed his gaze at Cesar. “My daughter is not a bargaining chip,” he rasped, his voice thick with emotion. “Her safety is not for the Council to debate.”
Cesar’s lips twitched in a brittle attempt at a smile as he rose, fighting the tremor of something dangerously close to regret. Yet, duty and pride steeled his features. “In our world, the rules are different,” he replied, his words deliberate and heavy with consequence. “Currently, you’re untouchable, Sinclair—an outsider, free of Council chains. But if you choose to claim your birthright and rejoin us, you’ll be subject to the Council’s justice and alliances.” He let his gaze linger on Sinclair, voice hardening just enough to relay the cost of that choice. “I am the head of the Council now. It’s my responsibility to enforce its will. Think carefully before you test me, Sinclair. Old wounds don’t heal easily, and many—including my family—remember what happened when loyalties were broken.”
“Don’t threaten me, Don Vitale,” Sinclair spat, the ice in his voice belying the storm in his chest. He leaned forward, eyes unwavering. “I’ve defeated many worse than you. Push me, and you’ll see how far my reach really is.”
Cesar’s smile returned, colder now, as he buttoned his coat—a ritual to disguise the moment his mask nearly slipped. “I’ll take my chances, Sinclair.” He didn’t look back as he turned his gaze toward me. “Go. Fetch your wife, brother. It’s time we returned home.”
