He was always here, always at the center of things, always pulling strings from the shadows, always three steps ahead of everyone else in the room. It was maddening. It was also probably the only reason I was still alive.
Our eyes met across the room, and I saw the question there, unspoken but clear as day:Are you ready for this?
I didn’t know. God help me, I honestly didn’t know.
When the idea was first presented, it was reckless, desperate, probably insane, but there was only one person who could help make sense of it. The only person I trusted with my life. The only person who knew all my secrets and hadn’t run screaming. For months we talked and planned every move. We considered every contingency, every possible action and reaction, every way this could go sideways and get us both killed. But what we didn’t factor in, what we couldn’t have anticipated, was Melissa and subsequently, me changing my mind at the eleventh hour. In the end, scrambling to adapt, we came up with a new plan. Ahastily constructed, full-of-holes plan, but it was all we had, and I prayed to whatever gods might be listening that it was enough.
I stepped into the room, feeling the weight of every gaze on me. This was a test. Everything was always a test in this world. And the stakes had never been higher.
Because somewhere in New York, Melissa was waiting.
Waiting for me to keep my promise.
Waiting for me to find a way back to her.
And tonight, right here, right now, standing on the threshold of my father’s study with the most dangerous men in the country watching my every move, I would either earn that chance or lose her forever.
The door closed behind me with a soft click.
There was no turning back now.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Rowen
The leather chair was cold beneath me as I sat, the kind of expensive furniture that was meant to impress rather than comfort. My hands rested on the armrests, fingers splayed, appearing relaxed even as every muscle in my body coiled tight with tension.
“Gentlemen,” I said, my voice steady despite the chaos churning in my chest. “Thank you for coming.”
The words hung in the air, formal, almost absurdly polite given the circumstances. But that was the game, wasn’t it? Civility was armor. Courtesy a weapon.
Cesar Vitale inclined his head slightly, his expression unreadable. Morpheus remained perfectly still, his scarred hands folded on the table before him, eyes tracking my every movement like a predator assessing prey. And Braesal O’Malley leaned back in his chair with the kind of casual confidence that came from decades of power, his silver hair catching the firelight.
“An interesting choice of words,” Braesal said, his Boston accent softening the edges of what might have been a challenge. “As if I had a choice in the matter.” His eyes fixed on Sinclair with an intensity that made my skin prickle. There was curiosity there, yes, but also calculation. He was trying to read him, to understand what game he was playing.
“Why are we here, Rowen?”
The question was simple. Direct. The kind of question that demanded an equally direct answer. But I didn’t respondimmediately. Instead, I let my gaze drift across the table, taking in the faces of the men who survived and lived to see another day. Men who’d built empires on blood and fear. Men who’d survived wars, betrayals, and the kind of violence that would break most people.
And then my eyes found Sinclair.
He was still leaning against the bookshelf, one hand in his pocket, the picture of casual elegance. But I knew him well enough to see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw was set just a fraction too tight. He was waiting. Watching.
Our eyes met.
For a moment, the room seemed to fade away. It was just the two of us: mentor and student, manipulator and pawn, father figure and son, in all the ways that mattered and none that were legal. He’d brought me to this moment. Every lesson, every manipulation, every carefully orchestrated move had been leading here. And now, standing on the precipice of everything we’d planned, I saw something in his eyes I’d never seen before.
Uncertainty.
He didn’t know if I was going to go through with it.
Neither did I.
But then I thought of Melissa. Of the way she’d looked at me that night six months ago, her body saying everything her voice couldn’t. Of the promise I’d made, to myself, to her, to whatever future we might still have.
I will come back to you. I will find a way.
Sinclair straightened.
