Page 27 of 10 Days to Ruin

“What makes you think that?”

“Because that’s how my dad operates. He doesn’t give people time to think or plan. He just…” I wave my hand vaguely, trying to find the words. “Bulldozes. Steamrolls. Takes what he wants and leaves everyone else to deal with the aftermath.”

Gina drums her fingers on the iron stairs. “So what’s option three?”

“I tell him no. To his face. Make it clear this isn’t happening.”

“That’s suicide,” she says flatly.

“Maybe.” I drain the last of my coffee. “But at least it’s on my terms. And honestly? I’m tired, Gee. Tired of running, tired of hiding, tired of letting him dictate the terms of my life from afar.”

She studies me for a long moment. “You’re really going to do this, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. I think I am.”

“Then I’m coming with you.”

“Absolutely not.” I grab her hand. “This isn’t your fight.”

“Like hell it isn’t. He threatened me, too, remember?”

“Which is exactly why you need to stay as far away from him as possible.” I squeeze her fingers. “I’ve spent fifteen years keeping my distance from that world. I’m not dragging you into it now.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but something in my face must stop her. Instead, she just asks, “When?”

“Now. Before I lose my nerve.” I stand, gathering my bag. “Cover for me with the bosses?”

“Are you definitely a ‘no’ on arson? ‘Cause I really do think fire might make this situation go away.”

I laugh. “Glad to know you weren’t too drunk to remember that. I’d hate for you to get yourself into trouble when I’m gone.”

She catches my arm as I pass. “Seriously, Ari… Be careful, okay?”

I try to hold my smile. “Always am.”

The drive to Brighton Beach feels like traveling backward in time. Every street corner holds a ghost: there’s the bodega where I used to buy candy with Jasmine, the playground where Mama would take us after school, the church where Leander would parade us on Sundays like his perfect little family.

I park a block from his office. My hands are steady as I kill the engine, but my heart is doing its best to crack my ribs from the inside.

Come on, Ariel. You can do this.

As I walk around the corner, I see the warehouse looming. A lopsided, corrugated nightmare. Something your eyes would glaze right over—and that’s intentional. Easier to do what you want when no one bothers looking in your direction.

But I know better.

I know that, somewhere in that building, Leander Makris is sitting in his leather chair, smoking his Cuban cigars, thinking he’s already won. Thinking his prodigal daughter will fall in line like all the others.

I’m going to march in there and tell him to his face:

Not a fucking chance.

10

ARIEL

The warehouse door groans like a wounded animal as I enter. Classic Baba—why fix what still works, even if it sounds like a death rattle?

Inside, the smell hits me first: salt, motor oil, and the cigars he’s smoked since I was old enough to steal them from his coat pocket. My throat tightens.

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