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The second I hang up with Sophie’s daddy, I storm outta the war room, rage rollin’ through me like goddamn thunder. I need answers. I need blood. And first? I need to look Becki in the eye and see if she knows who’s behind this. Because her daddy the Reverend had hands in it before.

She’s leanin’ against my bike out back, smoking a clove like we’re still teenagers sneakin’ smokes behind the chapel.

“You hear?” I growl.

“About the rich girl gone missin’?” she snaps, flickin’ ash without lookin’ at me. “Yeah. I heard.”

I step closer. “You know anything about it?”

Her head whips toward me, eyes blazing. “You really think I’d have her taken? You think I’m that twisted?”

“I don’t know what to think anymore,” I bite out. “But you’re the one who shows up where she ain’t wanted.”

She crosses her arms. “And you’re the one still stuck on a girl who don’t want nothin’ to do with this world. With you.”

“She called off the wedding,” I growl. “She was leavin’ him. And now she’s gone. So yeah, Becki, I’m gonna find her. Whether you like it or not.”

“You think she’s still yours?” Becki hisses. “You’re a damn fool. Sharpie’s not permanent on skin.”

I turn and walk away without another word. I ain’t got time for her shit. Not when Sophie’s out there. If she wasn’t my adopted sister, I swear, I would end her.

I head straight to Pearly Gates. The Reverend’s in his office, surrounded by gospel books and moonshine jars. One hell of a combination.

He’s lookin’ older these days, like all the lies are weighin’ on his spine.

“You better not be behind this,” I say, stormin’ in.

“Behind what?”

“Sophie,” I bark. “She’s gone. Taken. If I find out you or your flock had a hand in it….”

He raises both hands, calm as a goddamn monk. “Son, I swear on the Book of Life, I don’t know a thing. That girl… she’s caught between too many worlds. But I wouldn’t hurt her.”

My eyes narrow. I don’t trust him. But I believe him. For now.

Old Man Montgomery is my next stop. His hands shake like he’s signing with the devil.

“You bring her back,” he says. “I’ll pay whatever price.”

I meet his eyes. “Not takin’ a dime. Just makin’ things right.”

The sketchy bars in central Kentucky are their own brand of hell. Cigarette smoke thicker than fog, drinks flowin’ like creek water, and rumors buzzing louder than the jukebox.

I hit six bars in one night before I find who I’m lookin’ for. Knuckles.

He’s sittin’ in a corner booth at Rusty’s, lookin’ jumpy as a stray dog in a thunderstorm. Sinners leather vest, that greasy mullet and shifty eyes. The second he sees me, he tries to run.

But I’m faster.

I slam him into the alley wall behind the bar, pistol under his chin.

“You know where she is,” I snarl. “Start talkin’.”

“I don’t…” he starts.

I crack him in the ribs with my boot. Hard.

He coughs blood. “Legend, man, don’t. Shit, okay, okay!”

I grab him by the collar, slam him again. “Where is she?”

“The Sinners,” he gasps. “We got her. Took her from her house. Said you’d come runnin’.”

I press the barrel to his knee. “Why?”

“She’s leverage,” he chokes. “It’s war, man. They know what she means to you. Said if we hurt her, you’d bleed.”

I see red. Full-body fury. My fists twitch, but I holster the piece.

Instead, I lean in close. “You run and tell your brothers they just planned their own funeral.”

I leave Knuckles crumpled in the alley, coughin’ and cryin’ in his own blood.

And I ride.

Because now I know who has her.