King’s response was steady, full of conviction. “Are perfectly safe. No one is getting their hands on a single kid, Mellie. I’d die before I let that happen. You too, honey. I know you don’t likeus right now, but we’re still your family, and family protects each other. I really wish you’d come home. I miss you.”
A weak laugh escaped me as I swiped away tears. “Yeah, me and my snarky mouth.”
King chuckled warmly. “Wouldn’t be you unless you were ripping into someone.” His tone softened as he grew serious again. “Look, Mellie, I know you got the shit end of the stick and I’m so sorry for that, but Ghost only wanted to protect you and give you the life he thought you deserved. You know that, right?”
I nodded, though he couldn’t see me, my reply small but genuine. “I know.”
There was a heavy pause before King spoke again, voice thick with understanding. “Look, I know what it cost you to call me, Mellie. Thank you.”
I hesitated, drawing in a shaky breath. “Promise me something, King?”
His answer was immediate and unwavering. “Anything.”
My words shook with emotion as I pleaded, “Protect them. Promise me they will live happy lives.”
He didn’t hesitate. “With my dying breath, baby.”
The call ended, leaving a raw ache in my chest. I turned to Haizley, my voice breaking with the truth I hadn’t wanted to face. “I’m going to miss him.”
Haizley wrapped her arms tightly around me, holding me together as I finally let go of a life that was no longer mine to claim.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Melissa
I slipped my fingers into Sinclair’s hand as I stepped from the limousine, his grip steady and warm against my trembling palm. The warehouse loomed ahead, its façade rough and unwelcoming, but inside, bursts of laughter ricocheted off concrete walls and the sweet tang of spilled champagne mingled with the sharp bite of cologne. All around us, guests—men and women from every background—moved with easy confidence, oblivious to the darker truths beneath their revelry. That ignorance struck me; they’d never guess the owner cared for nothing but the money, or that the night’s festivities masked far more than just another underground fight.
It had been a few days ago when Sinclair asked me to be his date for the fight, and my heart stuttered with shock. The invitation was more than just a favor; it was a calculated move, a chance to circle closer to Sylvia St. James, the woman whose decisions had shattered so many lives. I learned that Sinclair’s history with Sylvia ran deep and he wanted to put an end to her reign fast.
“You know who you’re looking for, right?” Sinclair’s tone was low, but I heard the warning beneath his words.
I nodded, my jaw clenched. His face haunted my memories—his smile like a blade, his actions unforgivable. “Yes,” I replied, determination threading my voice, the old resentment simmering beneath my skin.
“Good,” Sinclair murmured, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze as he guided me through the throng. The warmth of histouch grounded me amid the swirl of noise and color, reminding me that tonight, I wasn’t alone—even as I prepared to confront the man who had reshaped my future.
I hesitated, my voice barely above a whisper as I glanced nervously at Sinclair. “How can we be sure he will be here?” My uncertainty gnawed at me, twisting my insides with anxiety.
Sinclair’s response was calm and matter-of-fact. “We can’t,” he said quietly, not missing a beat as he guided me further into the cavernous warehouse. The space itself was transformed to mimic the grandeur of a real fighting match at Caesar’s Palace. In the heart of the room stood a metal cage, stark and imposing, commanding everyone’s attention. Tables draped in crisp white linen surrounded the cage, while waiters in black vests weaved gracefully among the guests, offering flutes of champagne. My senses reeled at the spectacle before me—powerful political figures, celebrities from Hollywood, and renowned entrepreneurs mingled effortlessly, appearing completely at ease. They carried on as though it was just another exclusive gathering, oblivious to the grim reality: they were about to witness an underground fight, where people would battle brutally for sheer entertainment.
“Where is Rowen?” I asked, waving off a server who offered me a glass of champagne.
“In the back, getting ready,” Sinclair quickly replied as a very familiar, tall, and handsome young man in a black tuxedo walked over with a beautiful woman on his arm. I gasped, wondering what the hell they were doing here.
“Mr. Sinclair,” the man groaned, extending his hand.
Taking it, Sinclair simply replied, “Mr. Peterson, or is it Lansing now?”
Mimic growled.
Ignoring Mimic, Sinclair greeted his date. “And how lovely to meet you, Ms. Porter. I’m so glad you made it. Melissa, I believe no introduction is needed.”
I smiled warmly as I hugged Indie tightly. “What are you doing here?”
“We’re the backup.” Indie laughed as Mimic grimaced at Sinclair, who paid him no mind.
My gaze snapped to Mimic, his jaw tight, his eyes locked onto Sinclair with a simmering rage that mirrored my own.
“Backup for what, Indie?” I pressed, the unspoken questions hanging heavy between us. The implication of “backup” felt ominous, especially given the treacherous currents I suspected ran beneath the surface of this opulent gathering. Sinclair’s strategic dance with Sylvia St. James, his desire to dismantle her empire, and the fact that I was his unlikely escort into this den of vipers, all coalesced into a knot of unease.
