Page 8 of Ruthless Bratva King

My lips tighten as I step into the girls’ shared bedroom. The contrast between the two sides is immediate.

One bursts with color—expensive shoes, designer bags, makeup spread across a vanity like a shrine.

The other is painfully sparse: a plain bedspread, a few worn books neatly stacked on a desk and a small collection of sketchpads tied with string.

“The youngest daughter was left behind,” I answer, letting my eyes linger on the sketchpads. “She might know something.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.” The word comes without hesitation. “I’ve made contact.”

“And?”

“I gave her my card.” My fingers trail over a quilt on the plain bed, the fabric soft and frayed at the edges. It feels old and well-used. There’s a hint of her scent rising from the bed. “She’ll call when he gets in touch.”

The voice on the phone draws my attention. “You sound like you’re going to let her live.”

My jaw tightens. “He’ll contact her soon enough. She’ll tell me where the prick is.”

“And what about the detective who tried to warn her about you?”

I pause, my hand curling around the edge of the desk. My tone drops, colder now. “He won’t do it again.”

The low chuckle from the other end is as expected as it is grating. “How messy?”

My tone is professional. “Do you want details of how many bones I broke, or do you want me to get on with my job?”

The laughter dies, replaced by a sharp edge of warning. “I want it back, and I want it back fast.”

“I’ll get it.”

“You better.”

The line goes dead.

My eyes drift back to the sparse side of the room. The walls are bare, no photos or posters, and my gaze lands on the stack of sketchpads. I pick one up, flipping it open with careful fingers.

The pages are filled with architectural designs, each one meticulously drawn. High-rises with glass facades. Bridges spanning rivers. There are measurements scrawled in the margins, notes written in a hurried but steady hand. They’re precise, deliberate. But done in secret.

I close the sketchpad and set it down. “She wants to be an architect,” I mutter.

My gaze shifts to the vanity across the room, cluttered with high-end makeup and perfume. Photos pinned to the wall of agirl and her friends at nightclubs and fancy brunches, grinning into the camera. Notably, there are family photos too, tucked in alongside school achievement awards and cheerleading commendations.

“So here’s the golden child,” I murmur. “And her sister is Cinderella. No wonder they didn’t take her with them.”

The weight of the phone call makes me pause—the lies I spun so easily. Lies that could get me killed if they unravel. I’ve never lied to him before. Why now?

Why am I letting her live? I could go find the family without her easily enough; hunting is what do best. I don’t need her.

I step to the window, staring out at the street below. My reflection in the glass is faint but clear enough: hollow eyes, sharp angles, a face carved by death’s own hand.

Attachment is weakness.

I’ve seen it before. In others, in myself. My earliest memories are of my parents telling me they’d never leave me. I let myself get attached to them.

Bullshit.It’sallbullshit.

Love makes people soft and reckless. Vulnerable. And vulnerabilities get people killed.

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