Funny thing about trauma: you can fight, you can try to forget, but some memories just carve themselves too deep, surfacing when you least expect it.
I tried to erase every piece of the Trick Pony from my mind, but sometimes, in the quiet, I realized those scars weren’t goinganywhere. They were a part of me, branded into my bones, and cultivated me into the man I was today.
Some nights, I’d wake up cold and breathless, haunted by snatches of voices and distant laughter, reminders that survival had its own price. The world outside the Trick Pony promised freedom, but it carried shadows with it—shadows that never entirely faded, no matter how bright the morning sun was. It was impossible to escape the feeling that, somehow, freedom was just another test, another trap set to catch those who dared to dream of something better.
Chapter Three
Rowen
Sinclair’s office always felt like a fortress—rich with the scent of polished mahogany and faint traces of his sandalwood cologne lingering in the air. The walls, lined with shelves of heavy leather-bound books, seemed to absorb every sound. As Sinclair stuffed documents into his sleek, black briefcase, his crisp movements echoed against the desk’s glossy surface—the same desk he’d once insisted I drag across half of Germany. Danika, oblivious to the gravity of his preparations, sat perched in his oversized wingback chair, her small feet dangling, coloring in broad, eager strokes. The colored pencils made soft whispering sounds over the paper, a sharp contrast to the tense energy swirling around us.
“While I’m gone, Rowen, I need you to ensure our guests have everything they need,” Sinclair said, his voice steady but clipped, never looking up from his task. The scent of his cologne sharpened as he moved past me, and I felt my hackles rise, the distance between us measured not in steps but in old resentments.
I pressed my back to the paneled wall, the cool wood grounding me as I replied, my tone stiff, almost brittle, “Your guests. Not mine. I didn’t ask to be here.” My words hung in the air, brittle and defiant, while a pulse of annoyance flickered in my chest.
Sinclair bent toward Danika, his crisp suit brushing against the arm of the chair. With a gentleness that softened the hard set of his jaw, he slid a fresh sheet of paper toward her. “On thepaper, sweetheart,” he murmured, the command tempered by a rare warmth. Danika’s shoulders, tense from the focus of her coloring, visibly relaxed as she looked up at him, her lips curving into an unabashed smile.
“Okay, Pop-Pop!” she chirped, clutching the pencil with renewed enthusiasm. “I draw you a picture.” Her voice was clear and sincere, and I couldn’t help noticing how the tension in her small frame melted in the wake of his approval.
Sinclair’s stern façade cracked for a fleeting moment, his lips tugging into a genuine smile. “I would love that very much,” he said, voice low and gentle, before Dante, perched on the edge of a chair in front of the desk with restless energy, spoke up.
“I can keep an eye on them,” he offered, shrugging. “Not like I’ve got anything better to do while Danny’s off running errands for King, Reaper, and Montana.” His tone was casual, but his gaze remained sharp as he looked at Sinclair.
Dante differed from the rest of us, who escaped the confines of the Trick Pony. Unlike the rest, he was spared the trauma we endured as children. From infancy, Dante was sheltered from those horrors, and it was because of the efforts of Sinclair, Silas, and me that he grew up in a somewhat loving—if unconventional—environment. Dante was given every opportunity, the kind of chances that were denied to the rest of us. While Silas and I came to regard Dante as a little brother, it was Sinclair who truly filled the role of a father figure in his life. And though Sinclair would never admit it aloud, I knew he loved Dante as if he were his own son.
Sinclair fixed Dante with a hard stare, the steel in his gray eyes unmistakable. “Your job is to watch my granddaughter,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. At that, Dante straightened, the careless edge to his posture replaced by reluctant resolve, and I felt a twisted knot of sympathy—if only for a second—tighten somewhere deep in my chest.
Sinclair snapped his briefcase shut with a decisive click. Without hesitation, he gripped the handle and strode toward the door, pausing for only a moment to issue his command: “Rowen, follow.”
I rolled my eyes, falling into line behind him with the air of someone resigned to their role—obedient, just as he had always shaped me to be. Sinclair moved with unwavering focus, ignoring everyone else in the house as he made his way to the front entrance and stepped outside. The sleek black sedan waited for him, polished and expectant. Sinclair placed his briefcase in the backseat before turning to address me.
“Keep Dante and my granddaughter safe,” he instructed, his tone firm and unmistakably serious.
“What about the others?” I asked, searching his face for any sign of concern beyond those he’d named.
Sinclair’s answer was unwavering. “They are not my concern.” His voice was unyielding. “I will be in Chicago for a few days. Something has come up.”
Frustration bubbled up inside me. “Sinclair, I’m not a fucking babysitter. Dante is more than capable of handling this. Why the hell am I really here?”
A sly smirk curled Sinclair’s lips as he slid into the backseat and reached for the door. Before he could pull it closed, I blocked him, forcing him to look up at me. He spoke with a hint of cryptic amusement. “I told you on the plane. It’s about legacies.” With that, Sinclair slammed the door shut, and the car sped away, leaving me standing outside, bewildered and no closer to understanding what he meant.
“Legacies?” I muttered, then shouted at the departing car, my voice echoing down the empty drive, “Whose fucking legacy!”
“Is he always a dick?”
I spun around momentarily startled, my thoughts scattering. Dr. Melissa Jefferson was leaning against the front door, arms folded, her eyes sharp and assessing as they bored into me. There was no mistaking the irritation etched across her face; she was clearly waiting for a response, not about to let the question go unanswered.
I took a slow, steadying breath, deciding that honesty was the only way forward. “Yes,” I admitted, my voice even and unembellished, offering her the simple, unvarnished truth. “The man is singular and deadly. My advice: just do what he says and pray he doesn’t ask for more.”
The woman huffed before spinning on her heels, striding back into the house, head held high. The second she was gone, I turned my thoughts back to Sinclair’s vague explanation.Legacy.Whose legacy? I know he couldn’t be insinuating that I had one.
Because I didn’t have one.
I was an orphan.
Wasn’t I?
I found Dante in Danika’s bedroom, rocking her gently as he read fromThe Secret Garden. Leaning against the doorjamb, I let myself get lost in the scene—a soft pool of lamplight, Dante’s quiet voice, Danika’s eyelids drooping with each word. Watching him like this, so patient and tender, sent a wave of nostalgia through me. I remembered when I used to hold Dante the same way, reading to him when the world felt big and uncertain and all we had was each other.
