I’d gone to her that night six months ago because I couldn’t stay away. Because the weight of leadership, the burden of the crown I’d never wanted, had become too much to bear alone. I’d needed to feel something real, something that wasn’t tainted by violence and manipulation and the endless chess game of criminal politics.
And she’d given me that.
For a few hours, wrapped in her arms, I’d remembered who I was beneath all the layers of armor I’d built. I’d remembered what it felt like to be wanted for myself, not for what I could do or who I could become.
That night had given me strength.
It had reminded me why I was fighting and what I was fighting for.
It had also shown me just how far I’d fallen, how much I’d sacrificed, how much I’d lost. Because when dawn came and I’d slipped out of her bed, leaving her alone, I’d felt something break inside me.
I couldn’t keep living like this.
I couldn’t keep being the man Sinclair wanted me to be while pretending I could still be the man Melissa needed.
Something had to give.
So I’d made my choice.
I’d started putting pieces in motion. Careful, calculated moves that would either free me from this life or trap me in it forever. I’d reached out to Sinclair, not as a supplicant but as an equal. I’d negotiated with the Italians, with the bikers, with every faction that had a stake in the war that had been tearing the underworld apart.
The biker war was winding down now. Alliances that had seemed unbreakable had shattered. New ones had emerged from the rubble, forged in blood and necessity. Morpheus had consolidated power within the Biker Federation and ran it with an iron fist, his most trusted friends at his side. The Italians had their own house in order. The Russian Bratva and the Mexican Cartel made moves but paid dearly for them, and, through it all, Sinclair came out on top as the kingmaker, the one man who could tip the balance in any direction should he so choose.
Which meant tonight mattered.
Tonight would determine whether I could walk away from this life or whether I’d be trapped in it forever.
Tonight would determine whether I could keep the promise I’d made to Melissa. The one I promised in the darkness but never said aloud.
Eric reached the door first, his knock echoing in the quiet street. Three sharp raps, a pause, then two more. A code, a signal, a way of announcing that this wasn’t a social call.
The door opened.
A man I didn’t recognize stood in the doorway. Tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of face that had seen too much violence to ever look truly at peace. His eyes swept over me, assessing, calculating, before he stepped aside.
“They are expecting you.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice. My throat felt tight, my chest constricted. This was it. The moment I’d been building toward for six months. The moment that would either set me free or seal my fate.
I stepped across the threshold, Finn and Seamus following close behind. The interior of the house was exactly what I’d expected. Old-money elegance mixed with subtle menace. Dark wood paneling, Persian rugs, oil paintings of stern-faced ancestors who’d probably killed more men than I could count.
This was a house built on blood.
Just like the life I was trying to escape.
The man led us down a hallway, past rooms filled with antique furniture and the ghosts of generations past. I could hear voices ahead, low, serious, the kind of conversation that happened when powerful men gathered to decide the fate of others.
We reached a set of double doors. Mahogany, ornately carved, the kind of doors that were meant to impress and intimidate in equal measure.
The man knocked once, then pushed them open.
The room beyond was a study, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a massive desk, leather chairs arranged around a fireplace where flames crackled and danced. And seated in those chairs were some of the men who controlled the underworld.
Braesal O’Malley sat at a wide mahogany table set off to the side of the room, his silver hair catching the flickering firelight from the stone hearth behind him, his eyes sharp and assessing as they landed on me. Those eyes had seen decades of power plays, betrayals, and blood feuds. They missed nothing. Next to him was Cesar Vitale, representing the Italian Council. His expensive suit was immaculate despite the late hour, his fingers steepled in front of him as he watched me with the calculating gaze of a predator sizing up prey. Across the table was Morpheus, the head of the Biker Federation, all leather and barely contained violence.
And in the corner, leaning against the bookshelf with studied casualness, watching with that infuriating half-smile that made me want to punch him and kiss him in equal measure, was Sinclair.
Of course he was here.
