Leaning toward Massimo, I murmured a reminder under my breath, “Behave,” before removing my coat. The man nearest to me stepped forward and accepted it with a courteous nod, his demeanor eager to please.
Sinclair walked over, greeting me with a warm embrace and a gentle kiss on my cheek. He took a moment to look me over, a genuine smile touching his eyes as he said, “You look radiant.”
I couldn’t help but grin in response. “Thank you,” I replied, then added with a touch of apology, “Sorry I’m late.”
He waved off my apology instantly. “Oh, don’t worry about that,” he said, his tone dismissive of any concern. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.” Turning his attention to Massimo, his expression hardened, eyes narrowing as he greeted him curtly, “Vitale.”
Massimo’s response was terse, each word ground out as if he were barely containing his irritation. “Sinclair,” he said, his jaw clenched tightly, teeth nearly grinding together.
Sinclair’s voice was icy and dismissive as he addressed the room. “You may leave,” he announced, making it clear he did not want Massimo to stay. “As you can see, I am perfectly capable of protecting my daughter.” The statement was less an invitation and more a command, his authority filling the space and leaving little room for argument.
Massimo’s response was immediate and resolute, his tone brooking no compromise. “Mywifeisn’t leaving my sight.” The declaration hung in the air, his stance protective and unyielding, making clear he had no intention of backing down or ceding control of the situation. The tension between Sinclair and Massimo was palpable, each man refusing to give ground.
Sensing the escalating standoff, I interjected in a deliberately light tone, hoping to steer the conversation away from confrontation. “I’m hungry,” I announced brightly, pasting on a cheerful smile. “Who wants steak?” My words cut through the charged atmosphere, offering a reprieve from the tension and hinting at a desire for normalcy amid the underlying conflict.
For a brief moment, an uncertain silence lingered as the three of us exchanged wary looks. The waitstaff hovered at the periphery, unsure whether to approach, their eyes flicking between Sinclair and Massimo as if searching for permission or a cue. Finally, my father signaled for menus, and the spell was broken—albeit only on the surface. Beneath the polite words and attentive service, the tension remained razor sharp, humming just beneath the clink of glassware and the choreographed movements of the dining room.
Sinclair leaned in, his tone gentle as he addressed me. “How are you feeling, my dear?” he asked just as the waiter approached, gracefully pouring a stream of red wine into hisglass. The waiter then turned to fill my glass, but before he could, both Sinclair and Massimo spoke up in unison, their voices gruff and commanding: “Juice!”
The waiter paused mid-motion, his expression flickering with confusion as he blinked several times in quick succession. Recovering quickly, he offered a small nod and retreated, eager to escape the sudden tension between the two men.
With a sigh, I fixed both men with a pointed look. “You know, boys, scaring the waitstaff isn’t helping matters. I thought we were going to have a nice family dinner?” My words were a gentle rebuke aimed at restoring some semblance of civility to the evening.
Sinclair was the first to break the silence, his voice softening as he addressed me. “My apologies, my dear,” he offered sincerely.
I glanced over at Massimo, who merely shrugged with characteristic stubbornness and replied, “Not apologizing for protecting you or my baby.” His words were resolute, underscoring his unwavering determination to keep me safe, regardless of anyone else’s opinion.
I let out a quiet sigh and attempted to inject a sense of reason into the tense moment. “He’s a waiter just doing his job. How was he supposed to know I’m pregnant and can’t drink wine? And just for your information, I’m allowed one glass of red wine, if I choose.” My tone was measured, reminding both men that their protectiveness, while well-intentioned, was a bit overbearing—and that I was perfectly capable of making my own choices.
Massimo remained unmoved, his expression firm. “In nine months, you can drink all you want. Till then, it’s juice or water.” His words were delivered with finality, drawing a clear boundary he expected me to respect.
Frustration flared within me, and I leveled a glare at him, my patience wearing thin. “You are pissing me off, Massimo,” I seethed, my voice low and steely. “Knock it off. Now.” The command in my tone left no room for argument, making it clear I would tolerate no further interference.
Sinclair interjected, his tone gentle yet firm. “Forgive him, my dear. A first-time father is often overbearing and incapable of reasoning.” He offered a small, understanding smile, attempting to diffuse the tension that lingered over the table.
Massimo let out a low growl, his frustration evident, but before he could voice his response, I reached under the table and placed my hand over his. The simple gesture was enough to stop him. Turning my attention to Sinclair, curiosity overtook my irritation. “Speaking of first-time fathers, when did you learn you were going to be a father?” I asked, my voice softening.
Sinclair visibly stiffened at my question. He began to fidget with the fork in front of him, clearly unsettled by the memory. “I didn’t learn I was a father until the day I escaped the Trick Pony,” he admitted quietly.
The revelation took my breath away. I knew of the Trick Pony and the atrocities committed there. The news had been filled with stories months ago, recounting the horrors uncovered when the FBI and several other agencies raided the place. The reports that followed were disturbing and hard to comprehend. Lowering my voice to a whisper, I said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
Sinclair shook his head gently, offering reassurance. “Don’t worry about it,” he replied, inhaling deeply as if to steady himself. “Besides, it’s in the past. Ask me anything, and I will gladly tell you.”
I hesitated, then pressed on with the question that had been weighing on my mind. “The boy you were looking for. I have a brother?”
Sinclair’s expression softened as he smiled at me. “Yes. Theodore Morgan. He also goes by the name Tank and is a member of the Silver Shadows MC in Diamond Creek, Nebraska.”
I drew in a shaky breath. “And my mother?” I whispered, barely able to get the words out.
Sinclair shook his head, regret in his eyes. “You will need to ask your brother for that information. I know nothing about her. Only that she came to the Trick Pony and paid handsomely for my services.”
A wave of emotion crashed over me, and tears welled up in my eyes. I shook my head in disbelief. Pushing my plate away, I leaned forward, burying my face in my hands. “God, this is so messed up. How old were you when it happened?”
Sinclair’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I was sixteen, I believe.”
Stunned, I stared at him. “So my mother is a pedophile, then.” My words bubbled out, laden with pain and disbelief. “How did I end up back at the Trick Pony and my brother didn’t?”
“Baby,” Massimo leaned close, concern etched in his eyes. “Maybe now isn’t the best time to hear this. It can wait.”
