Page 47 of Ruthless God

And Cecely?

She’s right in the middle of it.

We finally land in Rome around three in the morning Dallas time, which means it’s ten in the morning local time. The time difference weighs on me, but I ignore it. Sleep can wait.

Cecely emerges from the bedroom looking refreshed, like she just had the best rest of her life while I spent the flight thinking, planning, and sending messages I shouldn’t have had to send.

She glances out the window, and her eyebrows lift.

“We’re in Italy?”

“Yes.” I unbuckle my seatbelt, stretching slightly. “You’ve been before?”

She nods, a small smile curving her lips. “Once, with Harvey. We only went to Venice. I wanted to come to Rome so bad.”

There’s something wistful in her voice, something unguarded. Rare.

“Well,” I say, “don’t get your hopes up too much. This is just a stop in our trip.”

Her smile fades slightly. “Where are we going?”

I meet her gaze, watching her reaction as I say, “Isola Ombrafiore.”

She blinks. “That sounds made up. I’ve never heard of it before.”

“I’m sure you haven’t,” I agree smoothly. “It’s my private island.”

Her lips part slightly, processing. “You own an entire ass island?”

“Three, actually.”

She stares at me, mouth opening, then closing like she’s trying to find words. Finally, she exhales a sharp laugh, shaking her head. “Of course, you do.”

I don’t respond. There’s no need.

Because in a few hours, she’ll see for herself. And something tells me she won’t be smiling then.

Isola Ombrafiore is anything but paradise. It’s hell, really. A place built for secrecy, for control, for keeping things—and people—exactly where I want them. And Cecely has no idea what awaits her.

I push the thought aside and stand, straightening my cuffs. “Come,” I say, my tone leaving no room for argument. “The helicopter is waiting for us.”

She hesitates. Just for a second.

“We’re getting in a helicopter?”

Her voice pitches slightly, and I catch the flicker of unease in her expression before she quickly schools it away.

I smirk, tilting my head. There it is.

“What’s the matter?” I ask, feigning curiosity. “You afraid of helicopters, too?”

“No,” she says too quickly. Then, clearing her throat, she adds, “I just wasn’t expecting to be tossed into the air again so soon.”

I chuckle. “Get used to the unexpected, Cecely.”

I lead the way off the jet, stepping onto the sun-warmed tarmac. The Italian heat is already pressing down, the scent of jet fuel thick in the air.

A small blacked-out vehicle waits for us, engine idling, the driver giving me a respectful nod as we slide inside. The ride across the tarmac is short, the hum of engines and distant radio chatter filling the silence.

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