Indie, ever the enigma, offered a small, knowing smile. “Just in case. Sinclair likes to be prepared for all eventualities. Especially when dealing with people who have a certain... penchant for chaos.” Her words were light, but the glint in her eye was sharp, a silent promise of something more. Mimic grumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a threat, but Sinclair, with a barely perceptible nod to Indie, steered me away from the nascent tension, back toward the pulsating heart of the event, toward the cage that now seemed to represent more than just a stage for brutal sport.
As we moved through the crowd, I caught sight of other familiar faces scattered amongst the glittering crowd, individuals I wouldn’t have expected to find at such an affair. Each encounter, each whispered greeting, added another layer to the intricate web Sinclair wove. The air crackled not just with anticipation for the fight, but with an undercurrent of unspoken alliances and veiled agendas, a silent testament to the dangerousgame being played out under the guise of champagne and spectacle.
“Sometimes, my dear,” Sinclair whispered close as he pulled out a chair for me to sit, “a little insurance policy is necessary.” He glanced at Mimic, who took the seat next to me and merely grunted, his jaw working.
The air crackled with unspoken tension, a narrative unfolding that I was only beginning to glimpse. It was clear this wasn’t just about Jasper Michaels or Sylvia St. James; there were layers to Sinclair’s plan, and the players involved were far more significant than I’d initially understood.
Sitting on the other side of me, Indie squeezed my hand, her touch a comforting anchor. “Don’t worry,” she murmured, her voice a soft counterpoint to the rising thrum of the crowd. “We’re here to make sure you get what you came for.” Her words, meant to reassure, only amplified my sense of unease.
The cage in the center of the room seemed to pulse with a dark energy, a promise of violence that felt increasingly inevitable. And as I looked around, at the faces of power and influence, I knew this night was destined to be far more than just an underground fight.
It was a reckoning.
The first clang of the bell sliced through the murmurs, silencing the throng as all eyes snapped to the cage. My heart drummed faster, matching the mounting anticipation. A spotlight swept across the faces pressed to the rails, each illuminated for a fleeting instant—hungry, restless, eager for a spectacle that would burn itself into memory.
In the hush that followed, a figure emerged from the shadows, stepping into the center of that steel arena. The air shifted; this was no mere brawl—it was a declaration, a warning, an invitation to chaos. I felt Indie’s grip tighten around myfingers, grounding me even as my gaze swept across the room, looking for Rowen.
Sinclair leaned in, his breath warm against my ear. “Excuse me, my dear. There is someone I need to speak to.” My pulse hammered with fear as Sinclair rose, disappearing into the throng, just as the exhilaration of the crowd roared, the first punch flying, and the true nature of the night revealed itself—brutal and beautiful in its relentless honesty.
“I don’t know if I can watch this,” I whispered mainly to myself. I hated everything about this. The violence of it all. Then I turned when someone pulled out the chair next to me and sat. Narrowing my eyes, I glared at Rowen’s birth father, Brian Buchannon. “What are you doing here?”
“Just here for the fight,” Brian said, his voice casual and rough as he slid an envelope toward me. “And to see you.” His gaze lingered, and for a moment I couldn’t tell if it was regret or resolve flickering there.
“Me? Why?” My words came out sharper than I meant, but the tension between us was old and familiar.
I hesitated, staring at the envelope, its edges worn and stained. Why now? Why me? I wondered if Brian had chosen me out of trust, desperation, or something else entirely. The envelope felt like a test I wasn’t sure I wanted to pass, its secrets pressing down on me. Brian’s gaze was steady, unreadable, as though he was waiting for me to make the next move. My fingers trembled as I took it, feeling the weight of whatever secrets it might contain settle in my lap.
“Go ahead, open it,” Brian said, his tone quieter and less guarded than usual. I glanced at Indie, searching her face for reassurance; she nodded, giving me silent permission. The noise of the fight surged behind us, but I was locked in this moment, feeling everything could shift in the next few seconds.
The envelope felt heavier than it should have, its secrets coiled tightly inside. I brushed my thumb across the paper, searching Brian’s face for clues or cracks in his armor. He simply watched, his expression unreadable, the silence between us stretching until the sounds of the fight faded into a distant echo. Reluctantly, I broke the seal and slid out the contents—a single sheet, folded twice.
My breath caught as I unfolded it, words scrawled in hurried ink. Brian’s voice dropped lower, almost apologetic. “My son is free to live the life he chooses.”
The letter trembled in my hands as I realized what he had given me. I felt a strange mix of relief and dread—what would the consequences be for Rowen, for all of us?
“Did you know I was never meant to lead the IRA?” Brian started, his words rougher now, less rehearsed. “My dad was just a soldier for Casper O’Malley. The title should’ve gone to Eamon, but when Eamon betrayed his father, O’Malley made my dad his heir, who then handed it down to me. People think I wanted this, but I don’t. I do it because I can’t trust anyone else to do the right thing. This world’s hard enough, Melissa, but not trusting your own makes it even harder. I’ve done plenty I’m not proud of, but being a father isn’t one of them. I never wanted this life for my kids. Hell, I didn’t want it for myself—but someone had to do it.”
“If you hate it so much, why not just leave?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, knowing the answer wouldn’t be simple.
He gave a crooked grin. “And leave my kids unprotected? No. As long as I’m alive, I’ll do what’s necessary to make sure they’re safe from the life I live.”
“And what happens when you’re gone? Who will protect them then?” I pressed, the worry threading through every word.
He sighed, the fight in him flickering for a moment. “I have hope.”
“Hope isn’t something you can hold on to, Brian.”
He met my eyes, more direct than before. “You’re wrong. Hope’s the strongest thing I have.” Leaning in, he kissed my cheek and said quietly, “Take care of my grandchild, Dr. Jefferson. I’ll do my part for as long as I can.”
And with that, Brian slipped away, vanishing into the crowd, leaving me with an envelope, a secret, and a new sense of responsibility pressed tight in my chest.
Chapter Fifty
Rowen
Sitting alone on a bench in the dimly lit locker room, I leaned forward, resting my forearms on my knees. The faint scent of sweat lingered in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of stale blood. The bench creaked beneath me as I shifted, and somewhere in the distance, a water pipe rattled. My head hung low, as if bowing it could somehow lighten the burden pressing on my shoulders. Each shallow breath was thick with regret, and the silence made the consequences of my actions echo louder in my mind.
There was no going back—what was done was done. I had made my choice: betraying her was the only way to keep her safe from the threat of my world. The weight of my decision settled deep in my chest, making it hard to breathe; every muscle felt tense, my thoughts swirling with remorse and finality, knowing the path I’d chosen was now set in stone.
