Page 9 of Ruthless Bratva King

I close my eyes, the weight of memory pressing down on me. Blood. Screams. Promises I couldn’t keep.

You don’t deserve anything else.Not love. Not peace. Not redemption.

When I open my eyes, my reflection hasn’t changed. Cold. Calculating. Everything it’s supposed to be.

I turn back to the room, letting my gaze sweep over it one last time. Her life is here, laid out in pieces—books, drawings, a carefully folded shirt draped over the back of a chair.

Last night, I looked at her asleep in bed and knew what I had to do. Wake her up, torture her, get the intel from her, then killher. But all I did was watch her sleep. Then I left like I was never here.

My calling card was carved into the wall but not by me.

Someone warned them I was coming but who and why?

The imbalance between the two halves of the room gnaws at me and stops me from working things out. Elena’s side is muted and careful as if she’s spent her life trying not to take up space.

They left her with nothing. They ran to save their worthless hides. Knew I’d torture her to get to the truth. Knew I was coming. Didn’t care to protect her.

The thought sticks in my mind, sharp and unwelcome. Families like this—ones with golden children and scapegoats—I’ve seen it before. It’s always the same story.

It shouldn’t bother me.

Except this time, it does.

I move into her parents’ bedroom. I kneel by the bed, running my hands under the mattress. It doesn’t take long before my fingers brush against a hard edge. I tug it free—a wad of cash held together by a rubber band—a few hundred.

I toss the money onto the bed and keep looking underneath. Piles of old shoes, a locked metal tin labeled “taxes.”

Amateurs.

I grab a shoehorn from the pile of crap and wedge it under the lid, popping it open with a snap. Inside are a few small plastic bags of pills, white powder, and more loose cash in mixed denominations.

“Drugs and cash. Sloppy motherfuckers,” I mutter, shaking my head. “And so predictable.”

I find something more interesting at the bottom of the tin: a couple of casino chips. Not from Vegas or Atlantic City. These are from a place I recognize—one of Lombardi’s underground casinos.

I pocket the chips and then move to the dresser. My hands work quickly, pulling open drawers and checking the backs and bottoms. People always hide things in the same places. They think they’re clever, but they’re not.

Sure enough, I find a slip of paper in the back of a sock drawer—an address scrawled in sloppy handwriting.

If they hadn’t been in such a hurry to save themselves, maybe they’d have hidden things better. This is the problem with loved ones; they slow you down.

I’ve always avoided emotional entanglements. It’s a rule I’ve lived by for years, and for good reason.

In my world, weakness gets you killed before you can blink. That’s why I’m at the top of my game, and no momentary lapse of judgment will change that.

I study the scribbled address momentarily before tucking it into my jacket—a lead, at last.

Time to focus on the task at hand.

This isn’t about her. It’s about the mission. The job. The blood that needs to be spilled.

Attachment is weakness.

8

ELENA

The morning sunlight stabs through a gap in Veronica’s chiffon drapes, setting off a throb behind my eyes.

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