Sinclair groaned, shoving Rowen off him as he rolled onto his side with stubborn defiance still etched across his features. Rowen stood over him, chest heaving, fists clenched and ready for another round. For a heartbeat, no one moved—even the clock on the mantel dared not tick. The memory of Travis, still raw, and now the violence, all hung thick around me, crowding out reason.
Sinclair spat blood onto the carpet, his lip split, but his eyes never left mine. “He was trying to protect you too.” His voice was ragged, pain seeping into every syllable. “You think you know everything, but you don’t know the whole story, Melissa.”
My hands trembled—anger, fear, and sorrow warring inside me. Rowen turned, his eyes softer now, searching my face for a cue. The urge to scream pressed at my throat, but I bit it back. “What the hell are you talking about, Sinclair? I have nothing to hide. My life is an open book!”
Sinclair’s jaw worked, his bravado flickering. For the first time, I thought I saw something resembling regret in his eyes. He eased himself up, wincing, and sat on the edge of the overturned coffee table. “You may have nothing to hide, but others do,” he rasped. “And I will explain if you both come to Chicago with me.”
Determined not to be manipulated, I met Sinclair’s gaze with unwavering resolve. “Tell me now,” I demanded, refusing to be drawn into whatever scheme he was plotting. My voice was firm, leaving no room for negotiation. “If this has anything to do with Rowen being Travis’ brother, I already know.”
Sinclair’s expression hardened, his eyes narrowing as he glanced at Rowen, now standing protectively beside me. “It’s part of it,” he replied, his voice clipped and direct. “But what you really need to know—”
Not willing to let him skirt around the truth, I cut him off by raising my hand. “No. You are going to tell me everything or I’m going to let Rowen beat it out of you,” I said, my patience stretched to breaking point.
Sinclair fixed his gaze on mine, his tone clipped and authoritative. “He works for me, Dr. Jefferson.” The words were measured, every syllable laced with an edge of ownership—a clear reminder of who held control in this tangled situation.
But I didn’t flinch.
Instead, I met Sinclair’s challenge with a calm certainty, refusing to let him dictate the dynamic. “Yeah, but he’s in love with me, so I’m thinking I have more sway.”
My words hung in the air—a subtle defiance, an assertion that emotional ties could shift the balance of power just as effectively as any contract. Rowen’s ears flushed pink, but he didn’t back away. Even battered, Sinclair still dominated the room just by breathing, his gaze flicking between the two of us as he weighed his next move. A silent storm passed between us, thick with secrets and the threat of more to come.
Sinclair broke the moment, his voice quieter but no less dangerous as he looked at Rowen. “Love makes people reckless. Sometimes it saves them. Sometimes it destroys them.”
His words felt like a warning and a confession all at once.
For the first time, I felt a flicker of uncertainty threaten my composure. Still, I refused to let Sinclair see any sign of weakness or intimidation. Straightening my posture, I fixed him with a steady glare. “Get to the point quickly before I leave,” I demanded, keeping my tone cool and unwavering.
Sinclair’s gaze hardened as he tried to regain control of the situation. “We should discuss this in my office,” he insisted, his voice attempting to reassert authority.
Unbothered, I responded with a smirk, making my way over to the loveseat and settling in. I made a point of appearing as comfortable as possible, signaling I wasn’t about to give in to his demands. “And let you control the narrative? I don’t think so,” I retorted sharply. “Here is just fine with me.”
Sinclair let out a low, irritated grumble, clearly displeased with my refusal to follow his lead. His eyes flicked to Rowen as if searching for an ally, but Rowen’s response was unambiguous—he simply shrugged and settled beside me, making his allegiance perfectly clear.
“I’m waiting,” I pressed, my patience nearly exhausted. The tension in the room was palpable, but I was resolute—I would hear the truth, and I would hear it on my own terms.
Sinclair straightened his suit jacket, regaining his composure before speaking. “Does the name Adriano Milano mean anything to you, Dr. Jefferson?” he asked, his voice measured and direct.
“Should it?” I challenged, my gaze steady.
Rowen stiffened next to me, his posture tense as he answered, “Adriano Milano is nothing more than a low-level thug who dabbles as a dirty talent agent from Chicago.”
I turned to Rowen, pressing for more. “For what?”
“Mainly he represents and promotes underground fighters who are desperate to make it in the boxing world. He dangles the promise of the Golden Belt but keeps them hooked on whatevervice they crave—be it men, women, drugs, you name it. He’s nothing but a bastard.”
Still unsatisfied, I turned back to Sinclair. “What does he have to do with me?”
Sinclair began to recount the story with a grave expression. “Several years ago, Adriano Milano thought he had struck gold when he discovered the Mikhaylov brothers, Timofey and Jascha. They possessed all the qualities Milano sought in fighters—skill, presence, and a hunger for success. But just like many of Milano’s other clients, Timofey was plagued by destructive habits. His vices were cocaine and women, and these ultimately led him down a dark path.”
Sinclair paused briefly before continuing, “The night before Jascha’s big fight, he was attacked. After that, both brothers vanished without a trace. Milano searched relentlessly, and eventually, he managed to track down Timofey. But it was too late—Milano found Timofey’s body in the morgue of a hospital in Little Rock, Arkansas. As for Jascha, he was nowhere to be found.”
I met Sinclair’s gaze, my patience wearing thin. “I’m still waiting to hear how this pertains to me,” I said, pressing him for the connection.
Sinclair looked down at his hands, hesitating for a moment before he revealed the truth. “Timofey was the man your brother killed.”
I remained motionless, barely daring to blink, as I fixed my eyes on Sinclair. Memories I had desperately tried to suppress surged back with relentless force. The terror, the anguish, the emotional wounds I had struggled for years in therapy to overcome crashed over me like an unstoppable tide. I could see his face as clearly as if he were in the room; the stench of his breath seemed to fill the air, and the sensation of his hands on my body haunted me, igniting the silent screamsI had once begged my mother to hear. But my cries always went unanswered. Then Gunner intervened—and after that it stopped.
The nightmares ended, at least for a while.
