Reno Sinclair Novels & Stories

I nodded. “Thank you for that. Have you found out anything yet?” He shook his head. “No, Felix and Cornelius have been working on it.” I looked at him confused. “Why are they working on it?” He looked over at Lynn and she nodded at him. “Jensen, Cornelius is the Don of the Roman mafia. He is the reason why we were able to save you.”

I paced around her front door, nearly losing my mind, finding no way to contact Rachel. Shit... I punched the wall closest to me, thinking of finding some comfort from my anxiety but nothing helps, it only hurts me this time physically too. I scanned my knuckle that was now bruised, throbbing badly, but at least it helped distract me even for a bit. 'Rachel,' I sighed her name, playing with the bracelet on my wrist. It was a gift from Rachel, and in many ways, it was just a replica of her personality, sweet and quirky and yet mysterious in some way. And for now, this is the only thing close to me that reminds me of her other than the memories I created with her. I touched the bracelet once m

It's been such a long time and I'm done leaving him to enjoy his peace. "I repeat! Who are you?" He asked feeling a bit of uneasiness. I haven't even began. "Let me start with a little introduction. My name is Mia. Mia Alexandra Carson. Does that last name ring a bell or not?" "Carson?" He was deliberating "I used a fake face, entered school and your bullshit son thought he could make me fall in love and walk away. Well he succeeded. I'm the girl whom you and your precious daughter tried to capture at the school forest the other time. I've been the obstruction in your games. I'm Raven" I said all of this to him and earned a look of shock from him.

Melissa mumbled. “How would I know? Not as if I'm the one who brought her here," Sin replied. “I wasn't talking to you, d!ck head," Melissa snapped, rolling her eyes. Melissa, you can call her a badass b!tch, a crazy psycho, your choice. She's very good at archery and has some pretty interesting skills. She and Sin are always on each other's neck. Sinclair, but he prefers to be called Sin. Free-spirited, a playboy who chases anything under a skirt. However, don't take advantage of his kindness; he's second in command after Aurelio, closest to Aurelio himself, let's say a cheerful devil.

Brian Sinclair, the renowned guitarist. Brian “Master” Sinclair, guitar hero, rock god, perfect specimen of a man, was passed out in her hotel room! He’d kissed her. God, how he’d kissed her. If she didn’t have rules about when she allowed herself to have sex with a new acquaintance, he’d probably be making love to her right now. She seriously needed to amend her rules. Her body ached with wanting him. The man was too sexy for his own good.

Sinclair’s Next Move That night, Claire’s phone buzzed. She didn’t recognize the number. But the text sent ice through her veins. You should have taken the deal. Now, you’ll lose everything. Claire’s grip tightened around the phone. She knew exactly who it was from. Sinclair. Adrian was sitting across from her, scrolling through reports. He noticed her expression immediately. “What is it?” She turned the screen toward him. Adrian’s expression darkened. “He’s getting bolder.” Claire clenched her jaw. “He won’t stop.”

"Her immune system is weakening. The Siren's Affliction will progress faster. You must be more vigilant. Remove all hard surfaces from your home." Liam's eyes grew wet. "I understand." The doctor's words only solidified his decision. The moment the door closed, he called his assistant. "Get Isla enrolled at the Institut Alpin in Switzerland. Money is no object. Handle her transfer and enrollment immediately." He turned to a dazed Elara and pulled her into a gentle hug. "It's alright, my little siren. She'll be gone. You'll never have to see her again." Elara looked up, a strange emptiness in her gaze. "Good."

Vincent Sinclair commanded the stage the way gravity commanded planets. Every gaze in the grand hall — from politicians to CEOs — orbited toward him. He stood beneath the cascading gold lights, the dark fabric of his suit framing the clean lines of his body. The microphone caught the low resonance of his voice — smooth, rich, like a cello tuned for control. “Cross-continental cooperation,” he said, his tone neither rushed nor forced, “isn’t built on ambition alone. It demands trust and consistency. Two things Sinclair International stands for.”