“Fucking hell,” Michael muttered, running a hand over his face. “This shit is never going to end, is it?”
Madigan turned to me, her voice a barely audible plea. “Don’t you see, Rowen? There’s always going to be a keeper of secrets, another person ready to expose the truth and shatter lives. As long as those files exist, as long as the truth stays hidden, my family—and my son—will always be at risk, and I promised Salvatore I’d protect them, no matter the cost, but I can’t be the one to tell. That’s why I won’t go back home.” Her words hung between us, heavy with a promise forged in fear and love.
I closed my eyes and sighed. Maddie was right. It wasn’t her secret to tell. As long as the truth stayed hidden, there would always be someone else willing to step forward and exploit the situation. Knowing there was no other way, I searched Maddie’s face, my voice barely above a whisper, as my fingers squeezed hers gently. “It has to be me.”
Maddie’s eyes widened, her shoulders tense as she slowly shook her head. “You do this, Rowen, and there’s no going back.” Her voice trembled, but her gaze never wavered. “You’ll have a mark on your back until the day you die.”
I scoffed, leaning back with a crooked grin. “I already do, sweetheart.” Getting to my feet, I looked at the men staring atme, wondering what it was I knew, what I was about to do, and when my eyes landed on Michael, I watched him stiffen.
“Don’t you fucking say it, asshole,” Michael growled, taking a step closer to me as Sebastian moved behind him, ready to lock him down should he lose his temper.
“Explain to me how I can keep her secret and do nothing when I have the power to end this now?”
“She’s MINE!” Michael roared as Sebastian wrapped his arms around his club brother. “She’s happy, Rowen. You do this and she’ll be marked for life!”
“How is she any different from Madigan, Remi, or Grace for that matter? It’s up to us, the men in their lives, to protect them. Do you honestly believe Vladmir would do nothing if his daughter was in danger? Or what lengths Maxim would go to protect Illyria? Or King for Grace, or Reaper for Remi? The only way for this shit to end is to reveal the truth.”
No one moved, not even breathed, as they all stared at me when Sebastian’s eyes widened, shoving Michael to the floor before he shouted, “DUCK!” diving for me as chaos shattered the silence. Falling to the floor, I heard Maddie scream as men shouted, ducking for cover as bullets ricocheted all around us.
The cacophony of gunfire was a brutal interruption. I felt a searing pain in my arm as I scrambled to my feet, Vladmir already a blur of motion, drawing his weapon. Madigan was a small, terrified heap on the floor, shielded by Rurik, who’d thrown himself in front of her. Maxim was a statue of fury, his hand reaching for his own concealed firearm, his eyes narrowed on the unseen aggressors. Michael was a whirlwind of protective rage, pushing Sebastian back, his roar a primal sound of denial and threat.
“Maddie!” I yelled, my voice strained, but she was already being hauled to her feet by a grim-faced Rurik, his body a shield between her and the chaos as he deftly got her out of harm’s way.
Bullets whizzed past, chipping away at the walls and sending shards flying. I could hear the grunts and curses of those engaged. The desperate shouts of men trying to find who dared fired shots at the Bratva and the RussianPakhan.
I crawled across the cold floor, grit biting into my palms, heart pounding out a frantic rhythm in my chest. There was a sharp tang of gunpowder in the air, mixed with the coppery scent of blood—my blood, slick and hot running down my sleeve. The world had been reduced to flashes of muzzle fire and fleeting shadows.
Someone grunted nearby—Maxim maybe, or Sebastian—and the table beside me splintered as another bullet slammed into it. “Stay down!” someone shouted, but I couldn’t. My gaze darted, searching for Michael, for anyone still standing. The burst of violence had scattered us like leaves in a storm, but I knew I had to move, to get to him, no matter what the cost, for Melissa’s sake. I refused to let her lose one more person she loved.
My breath came in ragged bursts as I pressed my wound, searching desperately for any sign of Michael. The chaos was relentless—gunfire echoing against concrete, shouts overlapping into a roar of panic. Somewhere to my left, Sebastian called out orders, struggling to regain control while I crawled over broken glass, my face set in grim determination.
“Stay low!” Vladmir barked, as he fired a shot toward the opening in the far wall—an answer for every threat that dared to breach the Russian sanctuary. Each second stretched, agony and adrenaline fusing into a singular, blinding will to survive.
Then, as fast as it began, it ended.
Standing, I looked around the room and shook my head as Michael walked over to me and said, “You’re hit.”
“Nothing a couple of stitches won’t fix,” I dismissed, reaching into my coat and removing the file I brought with me as leverage before handing it to Michael. “He deserves to know the truth.They both do. Do the right thing, Michael. I’ll meet you back at the house. I need to talk to Melissa.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Rowen
The city was a blur of neon and shadow as I drove through Manhattan’s arteries, my hands gripping the wheel with more force than necessary. Blood had soaked through the makeshift bandage I’d wrapped around my arm, but the pain was distant—a dull throb compared to the weight pressing against my chest. Rain began to fall, light at first, then harder, drumming against the windshield in a rhythm that matched my pulse. The wipers swept back and forth, clearing the glass only for it to blur again. An endless cycle.
Like everything else in my life.
I should have gone straight back to Sinclair’s house. Should have let someone look at my wound properly. But I couldn’t. Not yet.
I needed time to think.
Time to figure out what the hell I was going to say to her.
The file I’d given Melissa’s brother contained more than just information—it contained pieces of a puzzle that, once assembled, would reveal the cold hard truth about the night of the Bloody Massacre back in Russia, and why Maxim and the few others were allowed to escape. A truth Sinclair had spent years trying to protect, that was nothing more than an illusion now, no longer containable.
Yet the illusion was just that—an impossible dream slipping further from reach with every mile I put between us. Guilt gnawed at me, sharper than the pain in my arm, and I wondered if there was still a way forward, or if I’d already doomed whatlittle hope remained. The city lights sparkled on the wet asphalt, blurred and bright, as I finally pulled to the curb and let the engine idle. The quiet was broken only by the rain and my own ragged breaths.
With my breath shallow and my heart pounding, I slumped forward, resting my forehead against the steering wheel. Closing my eyes, I could almost taste the urge to turn back, to destroy the file and the truth it carried. The temptation swept through me—burn it all, erase the past, pretend none of it ever happened. But I knew, deep down, that running would not save me this time. I couldn’t run from Melissa, and I couldn’t run from the truth any longer. My hands trembled as I reached for my phone, the weight of everything I was about to say pressing against my chest. For a moment, I hesitated, my finger hovering over her name, but finally, I dialed his number. The words I needed to say, words I’d buried for so long, formed at the back of my throat. Heavy, but finally ready to be spoken.
