Page 22 of Damian
“Warehouse district,” he murmured. “Not Hub 9. New site.”
“Bloody hell,” River breathed. “How many of these places does Luthor have?”
“As many as it takes,” I said. My jaw clenched. “Mark it. We’ll circle back once we know what we’re walking into.”
Cyclone logged the coordinates, calm as stone. I forced my hands steady on the wheel, but inside, a storm churned.
Every road, every name, every false charity led back to one truth: Luthor’s reach was deeper than I’d thought. And Morgan — with her sharp eyes and unyielding loyalty — had stepped straight into the heart of it.
I glanced at the mirror, catching the faint reflection of my own eyes — hard, gray, burning.
If Hemsley thought she was just another pawn, he had no idea what kind of war he’d just started.
Because I wasn’t letting Morgan Tate break.
Not for Luthor. Not for anyone.
24
Morgan
The farmhouse clock ticked too loud in the silence.
I tried to focus on the paperwork, but my eyes kept drifting to the door, waiting for the sound of boots on the porch, the low rumble of Damian’s voice telling me they were back. Each minute without him stretched tight as a wire.
I told myself it was Ruby I was worried for — that was true, always true. But another truth whispered at the edges. I was worried for him, too.
I closed my eyes, and there he was in my mind: broad shoulders bent over the map, jaw tight when he barked orders, the way his eyes softened for half a heartbeat when he crouched in front of me and told me I hadn’t failed Ruby. That flicker had lodged itself in me, steady as my own pulse.
I shook my head. “Not now, Mo,” I whispered. “You can’t afford this.”
But my cheeks still burned, and the warmth in my chest didn’t fade.
So I buried myself in the files.
Bright Shores Foundation. Caldwell Logistics. Hemsley’sname circled so many times the ink bled through the page. I flipped deeper, cross-checking donations with shipments. Most were small, forgettable, but then one name hit me like a punch.
Holloway Trust.
I’d seen it before — in research for my last book. A financial group with too-clean books, rumored to funnel money offshore. I remembered whispering into my recorder about it weeks ago, half-convinced it was just a shadow my imagination had stitched together.
But here it was again, tied directly to Bright Shores, funding a shipment rerouted through Hub 9.
My stomach dropped.
I pressed the recorder to my lips, whispering fast, sharp: “Holloway Trust. Not just logistics, but finance. They bankroll the movement. If Caldwell hides the bodies, Holloway hides the money.”
The words steadied me, but fear slid cold beneath my skin. This wasn’t just about Ruby. It wasn’t even just about Raine and Carter. This was bigger, wider. A web stretching farther than I could see.
The floor creaked, and I jumped, clutching the recorder tight. But it was only the old farmhouse settling. My laugh came out thin and shaky.
I set the files into neat piles, forcing order on chaos. If Damian came back tonight, I wanted to hand him something useful, something that proved I wasn’t just sitting here waiting.
Because Ruby was still out there. And so was Luthor.
And if my messy, mumbling brain could find one more thread in his web, maybe it would be enough to pull her free.
25
