Finally, Sinclair spoke, his voice flat, the words barely more than a formality. “How have things been here?” It was the kind of question he asked out of habit, not concern, but I answered anyway, sensing his mind was elsewhere.
“About as well as you’d expect when the group’s a collection of wild cards,” I said, trying for levity. Deep down, though, I felt the tension swirling between us—a reminder that things could unravel any second.
Sinclair’s next question cut through the awkwardness: “My granddaughter?”
“She’s having the time of her life,” I replied, hoping that some good news might soften the edge in his posture. It didn’t—if anything, it only made him focus harder, his gaze sharpening on me.
He shifted, straightening in his chair. “Good.” The word lingered, and then, almost as if it cost him something, he added, “I have a daughter.”
His words hung in the air, heavy and unexpected.
I paused, searching his face. Sinclair had never mentioned another child before. My thoughts raced—how would this change everything between us, between the families, even between the clubs?
His anger boiled over, voice rising with each syllable. “That bitch gave birth to twins and then handed my daughter to Jane. She was at the Trick Pony!” The words spat out, venomous. “That bitch only wanted Theodore.”
I steadied myself, trying to piece together the history that had just erupted into the room. “Who is she?” I asked, needing more than rage to go on.
Sinclair’s voice softened, a rare tremor of affection threading through. “Her name is Miranda. She’s beautiful, Rowen. Smart, innocent, just perfect.” For a split second, he looked more vulnerable than I’d ever seen him—the father who never got to be one until now.
My mind spun. “So what’s the problem then?” I asked, voice softer, the question nearly rhetorical. I could already sense the answer.
He didn’t hesitate. “The problem is, she’s married to a Vitale.”
The revelation felt like a live wire, connecting old wounds to new threats. Sinclair, who’d built walls around himself for decades, now had a daughter caught in the crosshairs of everything he hated—a daughter married into the Vitale family, the very family at the center of his grudges and fears.
My breath caught. Of all the names Sinclair could say, that one carried the kind of weight that could crush a family.
“Which one?” I asked, dread pooling in my chest.
Sinclair’s jaw clenched, his voice dropping to a growl. “Massimo—and he fucked up. Which is why I’ve reopened theChicago residence. As soon as I know my son is safe, we’re going there.”
The magnitude of the situation hit me. Sinclair’s daughter—his blood—bound by marriage to the very family that could destroy him if they ever learned the truth. And now, Massimo, of all people, had made a mistake powerful enough to force Sinclair’s hand.
I asked carefully, “Does Tank know he has a sister?” My mind flickered to Theodore, his stubborn pride, the way Sinclair always bristled at his nickname. Family meant more to Sinclair than power or money, but it was never simple—it was built with secrets and broken by betrayals.
Sinclair’s glare could have cut glass. “His name is Theodore, not that drivel he goes by, and no—he doesn’t know. I will be the one to tell him.”
I couldn’t help but smirk, trying to inject a little humor into the tension. “You might want to get used to that drivel, Sinclair. Bikers are funny with their names.” But the truth was, I’d never seen Sinclair so rattled; his fury was more than just about names—it was about family, betrayal, and wounds that never healed.
Sinclair’s voice hardened, almost trembling. “My son won’t be a biker for much longer.”
I raised an eyebrow, pushing gently. “And how are you going to manage that? Correct me if I’m wrong, but Tank loves being a Silver Shadow. It’s what he knows.” I couldn’t imagine Theodore giving up that life, not even for Sinclair.
Sinclair slammed his hand on the desk, frustration splintering the moment. “His name is Theodore!” The sound echoed, and I realized this was all tearing at him—father, kingpin, strategist, all at war inside one man.
I sat down, letting the silence settle between us. There was more here than orders or family drama—this was about war and old enemies, about lines drawn in blood. “What is really goingon, Sinclair? Because this isn’t like you. What happened?” I asked, wanting to see past the anger.
He didn’t hesitate. “I got word there was a summit to discuss this war. From my understanding, it didn’t go well. The clubs are gathering, gearing up for the inevitable, so I need Ghost to head back to Nebraska.”
I searched his face, trying to gauge the cost of what he was about to ask. “Why?”
“I want him to protect my son, and in exchange, I will protect his woman.”
I reminded Sinclair quietly, “Melissa is pregnant, Sinclair.”
Sinclair shot me a cold look, voice like steel. “I don’t give a damn. I want my son protected, and who better to do that than one of his so-called club brothers?”
Sinclair’s priorities had always been clear, but tonight his desperation felt sharper, cutting through any pretense. In that moment, I realized this wasn’t just about war or club politics. It was about holding together the fragments of a family Sinclair had only just begun to reclaim.
