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“There is a way to save him without giving Morpheus what he wants.”

Looking at the conniving motherfucker, I barked, “What the hell are you talking about?”

Sinclair’s eyes gleamed with that signature mischief, the kind that always made me question whether he was playing devil’s advocate or simply the Devil himself. He took a slow sip, letting the silence grow heavy before setting the tumbler down. “The world is full of backdoors, Montana. You just have to know which one to knock on.”

I leaned in, my patience running thin. “So, what are you suggesting? That I gamble with August’s life on a hunch? I’m running out of time.”

Sinclair shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Not a hunch—a plan. Gabriella isn’t the only key. There are players still hiding in the shadows.”

My knuckles whitened as I gripped the edge of the seat. “Then tell me, Sinclair. Tell me what I don’t know.”

He stared at me for a long moment, the whiskey glinting amber in the lamplight. Then, in a low, measured voice, he said, “You have to decide if you’re willing to burn bridges that can never be rebuilt. Saving August may cost you more than you’re ready to pay.”

The cabin of the plane felt colder as the walls closed in. I thought about August, about everything he’d been denied and fought for. I thought about blood, loyalty, and the kind of choices that left scars no one could ever drink away.

I swallowed hard. “If it’s bridges I have to burn, Sinclair, point me toward the nearest fucking match.”

“Tell me,” he began, looking directly at me. “What do you know of a man named Brian Buchannon?”

Confused, I stared at the man and said, “He’s the head of the IRA. He’s also the brother-in-law to Daniella Valentinetti and uncle to Massacre and Player, brothers in the Golden Skulls.”

“Anything else?”

I shrugged and asked, “What more do I need to know?”

“What would you say if I were to tell you that Jane Craven wasn’t the biological mother of Jackson Williams, but he was the biological son of a woman named Gretchen Foster, also known as Darcy Murphy, the long-lost sister of Duncan Murphy, the right-hand man of Braesal O’Malley, head of the Irish Mob in Boston.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“And what would you say if I were to tell you that your recent best friend has information on the woman and knows exactly where she’s at?”

Astounded, I narrowed my eyes. “Wait a goddamned minute. What recent friend? Because if you are talking about who I think you are talking about, fucking forget about it.”

Sinclair simply grinned. “You two really should bury the hatchet.”

“FUCK!”

Sinclair’s words hit me like a punch to the gut. I knew exactly who he was talking about. That son of a bitch, conniving, aggravating, pissed-off good-for-nothing asshole with a chip a mile wide on his shoulder.

Oh, and just for shits and giggles, lately the motherfucker had taken to annoying me by calling me at least once a week just to chew the fat like he was some long-lost relative or something. He was getting on my nerves. The mere thought of asking that asshole for help had my gut churning and my blood boiling.

Every bad thing that’d happened had been because of him and his motherfucking club.

Okay, not everything, but he was running a close fucking second!

And now he was the key to finding Morpheus’ baby momma and saving August.

“Motherfucking Reaper,” I spat, his name leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. “I should have known he would know where to find Morpheus’ baby momma.”

Sinclair took another slow sip of his whiskey; his eyes, sparkling with mischief, never left mine. “He knows quite a bit, Mr. Stone. Maybe instead of fighting him every chance you get, you could learn something from him. The man is quite knowledgeable and extremely patient. If you want to save your brother, you’re going to have to put your differences aside and work with him again.”

I ran my hands through my hair, frustration and desperation warring within me. “This is a fucking nightmare. He’s the Devil, Sinclair. The last time we worked together, we damn near came to blows, and I was arrested.”

He leaned back, his expression unreadable. “Sometimes, Montana, we have to make deals with the Devil to get what we want. And if it means saving August, then isn’t it worth it?”

I thought of my best friend, his life hanging in the balance. “Fine,” I huffed through clenched teeth. “But if he tries to cross me, I’ll make sure he regrets it.”

Sinclair’s signature mischief returned, and he picked up his tumbler. “Just remember, Montana, sometimes burning bridges can set you free.”