Page 46 of Ruthless God

Cursing under my breath, I throw the pen onto the tray table with a sharp clatter and pull out my phone. Maybe focusing on anything else will help.

A few text messages wait for me.

Santos. Wants me to check in when I land. I won’t.

Henderson. Sending me some article he thinks might help track down the man pretending to be my brother. It doesn’t.

And then there’s Blanc.

His message is short, to the point. He only wants to know if his mistress is safe. She is.

But something about the message—about him, really—rubs me the wrong way.

Because that’s all he asks. Not a single damn question about his illegitimate daughter whose life is now tangled up in this mess just because he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants.

My jaw tightens as I stare at the screen.

I shouldn’t care. It’s not my problem.

But for some reason, the fact that he doesn’t ask about her… that he doesn’t even acknowledge her existence…annoys the hell out of me.

With a sharp exhale, I shut off the screen and shove my phone back into my pocket. I need to get my head on straight. Because Cecely isn’t my concern. No matter how much my mind keeps telling me otherwise.

I turn my attention back to my laptop, forcing myself to focus.

The chat for the trafficking auction scrolls in front of me, a dark and twisted marketplace that operates in the shadows of the world. Familiar names pop up, exchanging coded messages, negotiating prices like they’re discussing cars instead of human lives. Cecely’s name still hasn’t been directly mentioned, but I’m sure the host is biding his time.

I exhale slowly, resisting the urge to put my fist through the screen. This is the kind of thing that certain people would want to know about. Like the Devil’s Regents Motorcycle Club.

The boys in that particular club have made it their mission to hunt down traffickers, which is exactly how we crossed paths years ago. And by crossed paths, I mean I was damn near killed the first time we met. I thought their President, Saint, was going to rip me apart with his bare hands. Hell, I wouldn’t have blamed him. Men like him don’t take kindly to people who deal in the same circles as the scum they’re erasing.

But instead of killing me, we came to an arrangement.

I slip him information that’s useful, precise, and the kind that leads his club straight to the monsters they want to put in the ground. And in return? He lets me live. Not exactly friendship. Not even trust. But mutual understanding.

And I’m smart enough to know where I stand. I can take on one man, even a deadly one. But an entire motorcycle club? One with chapters spread across the world, men who would burn entire cities just to make a point? I’m not stupid.

I type a quick message, attaching the relevant details. A gift for Saint. I even tell him he can charge his rooms to my tab.

My gaze flicks from the laptop toward the locked door where Cecely sleeps. She’s a complication wrapped in too many unknowns, and I don’t like unknowns. I need to get to the bottom of who she met—the man pretending to be Gabriel. Someone out there has gone to extremes to take over my twin’s life, embedding himself so well that even she believed it.

And that?

That pisses me off.

Gabriel was no saint, but he sure as hell didn’t leave unfinished business like this. If someone’s walking around with his face, using his name, there’s only one explanation. They want something. And until I figure out what, Cecely is the closest link I have.

I crack my neck, pushing aside the tension crawling up my spine, and open a new email.

There’s one person who might be able to track this imposter down. Someone who owes me and knows better than to leave a debt unpaid.

I type out a simple message, direct and to the point, attaching the few details I have. Find him. Fast.

Seconds later, a reply pops up.

Already working on it. My men will have information for you soon.

Good. Because the longer this goes unanswered, the more dangerous it becomes. And I have a feeling this isn’t just about Gabriel. This is about something bigger.

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