After we touched down in Albin, Wyoming, Sinclair wasted no time asserting control. He instructed me to remain with the plane and ensure it was prepped for our eventual return flight. His command was curt, leaving little room for discussion or protest.
I watched as Sinclair’s sleek, dark sedan pulled away from the small, dusty airfield, the hired driver navigating the unpaved road with practiced ease. The silence that settled was vast, broken only by the whisper of the wind through sparse sagebrush and the distant bleating of unseen livestock.
Albin, Wyoming. A speck on the map, a place so insignificant it barely registered in my mental atlas of the world. Yet, Sinclair, with his uncanny knack for uncovering buried secrets, had chosen it as the stage for whatever drama was about to unfold. He’d left me with the plane, a silent testament to his wealth and influence, and the unspoken command to wait. Waiting was never my strong suit, especially when Sinclair was involved.
I walked back toward the gleaming jet, the Wyoming sun beating down with an intensity I wasn’t accustomed to in the gritty embrace of Manhattan. The air, though dry, held a freshness that was alien, untainted by exhaust fumes and the city’s perpetual hum.
As I completed the pre-flight checklist, my mind churned.
Legacies, he’d said.
Owed debts.
My past clawed its way back.
He was so maddeningly vague, so perfectly Sinclair. He thrived on ambiguity, on dangling threads of information just out of reach, forcing me to chase them down like a hound. But this felt different. There was a gravity in his tone, a genuine unease that even he couldn’t entirely mask. It spoke of something far removed from his usual clandestine dealings, something rooted in history, in something that refused to stay buried.
Hours later, a faint plume of dust in the distance caught my eye.
Not just Sinclair’s car but several, along with a motorcycle, were making their way toward the airfield. My senses, honed by years of navigating dangerous situations, perked up.
This wasn’t a welcome party.
It was an arrival. And in Wyoming, where the landscape itself seemed to hold its breath, an unexpected visitor often signaled the beginning of something much larger than a simple misunderstanding. The carefully constructed peace of the airfield was about to be shattered, and I had a chilling premonition that the answers I sought, and the trouble I’d surely find, were closer than I realized.
A familiar knot of apprehension tightened in my gut as I watched the lead car stop, and Sinclair emerged from the sleek black vehicle, his impeccably tailored suit a stark contrast to the dusty surroundings. His gaze, as it met mine, was devoid of warmth, and his cold, assessing smirk, the one that spoke of secrets unearthed and debts to be collected, had my pulse racing. The car behind him stopped, and I watched as he greeted whoever was hidden behind the dark tinted windows.
The door swung open as I stood near the stairs, holding my breath in anticipation. Suddenly, a shrill, joyous squealshattered the tense quiet, nearly making me cover my ears. A small, spirited girl barreled toward me, her voice ringing out, “Unka Row!”
She launched herself into my arms without hesitation, and I caught her, holding her close. The joy of our reunion was apparent in the way I squeezed her tightly. Her father followed on her heels, a wide grin lighting up his face. “Bet you didn’t expect to see us,” he said, amusement dancing in his eyes.
“It’s always a joyous surprise when I get to see my niece. You, I can do without,” I replied with a wry smile, unable to hide the affection in my tone despite the playful jab.
Dante’s eyes narrowed, his sneer almost theatrical. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re an asshole?” he shot back, though his tone couldn’t entirely conceal his amusement.
“Not today,” I murmured, my words barely more than a raspy whisper. Tension coiled inside me as I turned my attention to the storm unfolding nearby—a young woman tearing into Sinclair with a fiery intensity I had only ever imagined.
She was breathtaking, a force of nature burning bright against the tension hanging in the air. In that moment, she was like a wildfire—untamed, radiating life, making the very atmosphere spark with electricity. Never in all my years had I witnessed someone quite like her. Her dark hair tumbled in wild waves over her shoulders; her skin was impossibly smooth and luminous, like honey spun into silk. She was a vision of beauty and defiance, both exquisite and fierce, a masterpiece of rebellion brought to life.
Dante’s quiet chuckle beside me cut through the tension. “Oh, that’s just Mellie,” he said, his tone light. “She doesn’t like Sinclair.”
I nodded, my gaze sharpening as I watched the scene unfold. Her anger was palpable, and when a biker approached frombehind, wrapping his arms protectively around her, I couldn’t help but ask, “Who the hell is that?”
“Ghost,” Dante replied as if that single word explained everything. He shifted Danika from my arms into his own. “He’s just making sure she doesn’t kill him.”
Nearby, an older, albeit beautiful woman, watched the confrontation with a touch of humor playing across her mouth. “Are you sure he shouldn’t let her?” she asked, her chuckle lightening the atmosphere.
Dante responded with a reassuring tone, “Mellie can handle herself, Roxy. Let’s get on board before Danika witnesses her mother commit murder.”
That word caught me off guard. “Mother?”
Dante stopped and flashed a broad grin. “Oh, I thought Sinclair would have told you. Melissa is Danika’s unofficial mom. We all share custody.”
“Since when?” I asked, still trying to process this new revelation.
“Since I protectedmydaughter when they didn’t,” the feisty woman snapped, pushing past me as she stormed up the stairs into the plane. The biker—Ghost—followed silently, a low chuckle escaping him as he trailed after her.
Chapter Two
