Sinclair grumbled in response, “I wasn’t doing that.”
Melissa refused to back down. “Yes, you are. You just blamed him for his failure to kill Jasper Michaels, while insinuating that whoever his birth parents are would send ripples to several organizations, creating a butterfly effect. I’m not sure what that all means, but I know one thing: I’m tired of all the secrets, back-alley deals, and the threat of danger around the corner. You want this to end. Then end it with the truth. The truth isn’t a choice. It’s a right. Rowen deserves to know the truth and choose what he wants to do.” Her eyes held firm, resolute, and I finally turned to face her, guilt and gratitude warring inside me.
“I couldn’t have said it better myself.” My lips curled into a smirk as I returned to my seat beside Melissa, making it clear whose side I was on. Sinclair’s frustration was obvious, but I was resolute. I sat firmly next to Melissa, refusing to back down. I was finished with the endless games and evasions. I wanted the unvarnished truth—nothing less. Without it, I wasn’t willing to do anything he asked.
Recognizing my determination, Sinclair let out a heavy sigh. “So be it,” he said. “You carry the burden for all of us, but this cross will not be yours to bear alone. Whatever you decide, we move forward together as a family, or not at all.” His words settled over us, a reminder that the consequences of this truth would ripple through everyone in the room.
Silence filled the room as I grappled with my regrets and unspoken questions. Yet, in that quiet, the burden I had carried alone felt slightly less overwhelming. Then Sinclair delivered the final revelation, his words shattering what little calm remained.
“Rowen, you are the son of Brian Buchannon and Nicoletta Valentinetti.”
I heard the soft click of my bedroom door opening behind me. I didn’t have to turn around—I knew it was Melissa. I expected she would come after me. The weight of Sinclair’s confession pressed heavily on my chest: the names of my birth parents, Brian Buchannon and Nicoletta Valentinetti, and thetangled web of circumstances that surrounded my existence. After revealing the mitigating circumstances regarding my birth—how I was the secret child born from a forbidden love affair between two people from rival organizations, how my very existence was hidden to prevent a war, and how the truth held the power to destabilize alliances and ignite old vendettas—I felt like the ground was slipping out from under me. Sinclair made it clear that if anyone discovered who I truly was, it would ripple through criminal circles, shatter the fragile peace, and put everyone I cared about at risk. The knowledge left me raw, stripped of certainty, with every choice weighted by consequences far beyond myself.
I was damned if I did and damned if I didn’t. Each path seemed to lead only to chaos, no matter what I chose.
All because years ago two young people had been reckless enough to fall in love, never knowing the storm they’d set in motion.
How was any of this my fault? My fists clenched at my sides, knuckles whitening as I tried to make sense of the injustice. There wouldn’t be a winner if the truth got out—only more secrets, more lives upended, and a tide of questions with no answers. What was certain was that my truth would send shockwaves through the underworld, threatening not just me and those close to me, but countless others with ties to the web of power and betrayal. The landscape of everything—loyalties, peace, even identities—would change forever.
I stood at my window, staring into the night. The city’s distant lights blurred into streaks as I tried to predict every outcome, every possibility, but in every vision, I ended up destroyed.
I was screwed. Completely and utterly lost.
“Rowen.” Melissa’s voice came soft and trembling, barely above a whisper. Her arms wrapped around me from behind,grounding me in the present. Her cheek pressed against my back as she pleaded, “Talk to me. Let me help you.” Her embrace was gentle but unyielding, and I felt the warmth of her sincerity seep into my frozen resolve.
I tried to steady my breath, guilt clawing at my insides. “You should hate me,” I muttered, my voice thick and uneven, refusing to meet her eyes. My hands gripped the windowsill as if I could hold myself together through force alone.
Melissa shook her head slowly, her lips brushing softly against my shoulder. Her words came out tender, resolute. “But I don’t.”
Her forgiveness was a lifeline I didn’t believe I deserved. A raw ache rose in my chest. Did she really understand the full weight of what I’d done? I was the reason her world had shattered. Shame burned in my throat, making it hard to speak. My eyes closed, trying and failing to hold back the tide of regret. I wanted to tell her how sorry I was, how I replayed my mistakes every night. But the words wouldn’t come.
My voice broke as I finally forced out, “Because of me, my brother—Travis, the father of your child, the man you loved—is dead.” I swallowed hard, turning slightly to see her eyes glistening with tears, pain and compassion warring in her expression.
Melissa stepped around to face me, her hands reaching for mine. She squeezed my fingers tightly, her gaze unwavering and her voice steady but thick with emotion as she said, “No, Rowen. Travis is dead because he chose to fight. He knew the risks, and he went anyway. That was his choice, not yours.” She blinked rapidly, tears threatening to spill but never falling.
I shook my head, my guilt an anchor dragging me down. “If I had killed Jasper when I had the chance, Travis would still be here,” I whispered, my voice cracking under the weight of regret.
Melissa reached up, cupping my face in her hands, forcing me to meet her fierce, unwavering gaze. “You don’t know that. None of us do. But knowing Travis, he still would have found a way to stand with his brothers. That was who he was.” She let her hands slide down my arms, her touch a silent promise that she wasn’t leaving—not now, not ever. I felt something shift inside me, the tiniest flicker of hope breaking through my self-loathing.
“I don’t know what to do.”
Melissa studied my face, her eyes soft but searching. “What do you want to do?” she asked, voice threaded with concern.
I hesitated, words heavy on my tongue. “Go back an hour and tell Sinclair I don’t care,” I admitted quietly. “I never really did. It wasn’t something that drove me. I wasn’t like the others here. I really didn’t care who my parents were. They had no bearing on my life.”
As soon as the words left me, a strange mixture of relief and guilt settled in my chest. For years, I’d watched everyone around me chase their family histories as if the truth would set them free. I never understood that hunger—and now, admitting it, I felt almost liberated. But beneath the surface, confusion twisted through me. Was I broken for not caring? Or had I just learned to shield myself from disappointment? My thoughts spun, cycling between shame for my indifference and the weightlessness of finally being honest, even if it made me feel more alone.
Melissa didn’t look away. “Then why does it matter now?”
I shrugged, shoulders sinking. “I guess it doesn’t, but now that I know, I realize all the mistakes I’ve made. Knowing has shed light on everything Sinclair has done to protect me over the years. I thought he was just being an ass.”
Melissa’s lips quirked. “Sinclair is an ass, Rowen.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “Yes, but now I know why.” There was a small comfort in understanding Sinclair’s motives—even if that didn’t erase the pain.
Melissa pulled her knees up onto my bed, eyes searching mine. “See, that’s what I don’t get. I get you, I get Travis, hell... I even get your birth parents, but what the hell does who you are mean in the grand scheme of things?”
I took a deep breath and sank down beside her. “My birth father, Brian Buchannon, is the head of the Irish Republican Army. To this day, the man has never married and has no legitimate heirs.” The truth stung as I said it aloud, imagining a legacy built on violence and secrets, and how little I wanted any part of it.
