“Rowen Shay!” A warm, lilting voice cut through the haze. Illyria Valentinetti Fedorov glided toward me, radiant in a creamy ivory silk dress that caught the light and commanded the room as surely as her presence. Her arms wrapped swiftly around me—a greeting that lingered one heartbeat beyond politeness—before she pressed her lips to each cheek. The crowd shifted, eyes flicking to her with something like caution, and a man attempting to cut between us halted at her imperceptible raise of a perfectly manicured brow; she didn’t miss a beat, her attention folding immediately back to me.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your being in my sanctuary tonight?” she asked, her tone playful yet edged, every word measured. She steered us toward a private alcove without waiting for an answer, her hand light but insistent on my arm. A nod to a nearby bartender sent a drink sliding our way—no orderneeded. The club’s patrons watched her with wary respect; after all, everyone knew the story, whispered beneath the chandeliers: blood daughter of Valentino Valentinetti, and the wife of Maxim Federov, whose name alone could silence a room. Her legacy was woven into every gesture, but she wore it like silk, not armor.
I leaned closer, dropping my voice to match the hush of the club. “I’m looking for Rurik. Is he around?”
Illyria’s gaze cut to me, her features perfectly composed—too perfect. My heart pounded, the memory of Sinclair’s evasions knotting my gut. “And why are you looking for Rurik?” she asked, her voice smooth as velvet, but I caught the edge beneath the softness.
I hesitated, checking the surrounding shadows before answering, pulse thumping in my ears. “I need his help.” The words felt heavier than I expected, weighted with all the things I couldn’t say aloud. Desperation prickled at the back of my neck—if this didn’t work, I didn’t know what I’d do next.
Illyria smirked knowingly, settling into her seat and motioning for me to join her. Every part of her radiated control, the kind that made people nervous whether they realized it or not. “Intriguing,” she said, her tone lilting but sly. “I would have thought if you needed anything you would go to Sinclair.”
I shook my head, voice dropping to a hoarse whisper. “I can’t this time. I need answers he’s withholding.” My fingers curled around the edge of the table, knuckles pale. Sinclair had been keeping shit from me for years, and I was done playing catch-up. I no longer wanted to be a pawn in whatever game he was playing. I needed to know what he knew about me before I lost another sibling. If Illyria noticed the tremor in my hand, she didn’t say; but something in her eyes sharpened, cataloguing every flicker of doubt.
She offered a faint, almost demure nod, but I knew better—Illyria Valentinetti’s brand of gentleness was a well-honed deception. Beneath that porcelain surface, she was as sharp as broken glass. Maybe even sharper than Sinclair himself. Part of me wondered if she already knew why I was here, and why I had nowhere left to turn.
Illyria’s eyes narrowed, a spark of calculation flickering in their depths. She studied me for a long moment, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the rim of her glass. “You’re playing a dangerous game going against Sinclair, Rowen,” she murmured, her words barely above a breath. “Whatever truths you’re chasing, be sure you’re ready to live with them when you find them because I fear Sinclair will use the truth against you.” The weight in her gaze pressed against my resolve, but I met it, unwilling to flinch, determined to see this through—no matter the cost.
I drew a slow breath, steadying myself before voicing the question that had haunted me since Sinclair’s evasions began. “Do you know what he has on me?” My words hung between us, fragile and edged with anxiety.
Illyria’s expression softened, the sharpness of her features yielding to something gentler, more human. “I’ve heard rumors,” she admitted, her voice dropping with sincerity. “And my condolences regarding the loss of your brother. I know what that feels like. I wouldn’t wish that pain on anyone.” With that, a rare vulnerability flickered across her face, bridging the distance between adversary and confidante.
“Thank you,” I replied quietly, the weight of grief momentarily eclipsing the tension in the room.
Illyria’s composure returned as she regarded me with a knowing look. “As for Rurik, he’s off causing trouble. So, I fear you will have to do this on your own.” Her words settled over me, final and unyielding, the promise of help receding beforethe reality of solitude. “A word of warning, Rowen,” she quickly added. “Be careful. Crispin Sinclair isn’t a man to cross. But if you are determined to go down this road, I know of someone who might help, but it won’t be easy.”
“What do you mean?”
Illyria smirked. “Let’s just pray that the luck of the Irish is on your side.”
Returning home, Mr. Conway, Sinclair’s Manhattan butler extraordinaire, greeted me as I walked in the front door. Taking my coat, he began, “Your guests have retired to their rooms for the evening, Mr. Shay. Is there anything I can get you?”
“No, thank you.” I sighed, looking around the mausoleum Sinclair called home. The cold marble floors echoed with memories, each shadow a silent witness to our years with Dante. The air was tinged with polish and the faintest trace of old cologne—a fragrance that lingered long after laughter had faded. “How was Dr. Jefferson tonight?”
The butler sighed, his face betraying a flicker of concern beneath his practiced composure. “The same, I’m afraid. She is still refusing to eat.” He adjusted a cufflink, eyes discreetly studying me for signs of exhaustion.
“Conway, can you rustle me up some broth, something packed with vitamins and whatever else she might need?”
“Yes, sir.” He hesitated for a moment, then quietly added, “If you require anything else—perhaps a nightcap or a warm towel—just ring. I’ll see to it.” His words were gentle, offering comfort without intrusion.
Nodding, I headed for the stairs when Conway added, “And Mr. Sinclair called. He will be returning in the morning and has requested you join him for breakfast.”
I lingered in the foyer, watching as Conway disappeared down the hall. The house felt impossibly large, the silence pressing in on me from all sides. Despite the warmth of the lights, a chill had settled in my bones—a familiar companion I couldn’t quite shake. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath and headed upstairs, needing a moment to myself before I checked on Melissa.
Closing my bedroom door behind me, I reached into my coat and removed the small piece of paper Illyria gave me before I left the Gentlemen’s Club. Sitting on my bed, I stared at the name glaring back at me—Madigan Kelley, the niece of Braesal O’Malley, head of the Irish Mob in Boston, Massachusetts.
Chapter Twenty
Rowen
Breakfast with Sinclair was always a study in restraint—a ritual of quiet precision. The faint clink of silverware reverberated through the stately dining room, mingling with the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee that hovered above the gleaming surface of polished mahogany. Sinclair occupied the head of the table, his eyes cold and unwavering, posture so flawless it seemed he was sculpted from marble. Every morning felt like a test in etiquette and composure, his expectation for upright backs and measured conversation a silent boundary none dared cross. Only Danika, perched in her highchair between Sinclair and Dante, seemed impervious to the formality. She giggled as she scooped up another bite of pancake, a trail of syrup glistening down her chin, drawing a brief, softened smile from Dante.
“Dante, I’ve taken the liberty of having your penthouse aired out and cleaned,” Sinclair announced, his tone leaving no room for argument as he set his cup down with practiced deliberation. “Since we’re back in the city for now, I assumed you’d want to show Danika the place where she’ll grow up.”
Dante shifted in his seat, the tension visible in the tightness of his shoulders. He glanced at Sinclair, then at me, searching for some reassurance. Clearing his throat, he replied, “Um, Sypher and I have already decided where we’ll raise Danika.” Dante’s hand lingered protectively near Danika’s highchair. “We started building a house in Diamond Creek before everything happened. The penthouse isn’t mine—it’s Danny’s. He owns it.”
Sinclair’s glare was icy as his lips pressed into a thin line. “So you’re telling me I should be looking at land in Nebraska?” he asked, voice clipped and heavy with sarcasm. The chill in his gaze made the warm light seem almost brittle, and I felt a familiar discomfort settle in the room.
Dante blanched, his face draining of color as anxiety flickered in his eyes. He shook his head quickly, desperate to stave off Sinclair’s wrath. “Nope! The penthouse is perfect,” Dante said, forcing cheer into his voice. He turned to his mother-in-law, voice trembling with forced excitement. “Hey, Roxy, want to check out the building Danny owns after breakfast? The view of Central Park is incredible.”
