Page 66 of Made For Ruin

“Lainey know about this?” Reign asks between bites.

“No.” She’s got enough on her shoulders without worrying about her brother’s gambling debts. Every morning I watch her get up before dawn, determined to keep that diner running, to honor her father’s legacy. The last thing she needs is this shit.

“Speaking of Lainey.” Reign sets down his fork. “How are things going?”

“Good.” The warmth in my chest has nothing to do with the food. “She moved in last week.”

Reign’s eyebrows lift. “That’s a big step.”

“It is.”

I think about Lainey in my space, the way she’s transformed my isolated cabin into something else entirely. Her coffee cup in my kitchen. Her books scattered across my living room. The sound of her humming while she cooks.

My whole adult life I’ve kept people at arm’s length, built walls between myself and the world. The Marines taught me control. The Pack taught me power. But it was losing Shadow that truly sealed me off.

I built that cabin as a fortress, positioned to watch over Cooper Heights while keeping myself separate from it. Reign’s the only one I’ve ever let close, and even he knows there are lines he can’t cross.

But Lainey walked right through every barrier I constructed. She fills my space with her warmth, leaves traces of herself everywhere. Her vanilla lotion in my bathroom. Her fuzzy socks under my couch. Her grocery lists on my fridge. Small things that tell me she’s not just passing through. She’s making a home. And instead of feeling trapped like I always imagined, I find myself wanting more.

“Never thought I’d see Marcus Ruins settling down,” Reign says.

“Neither did I.” Until her.

“I’m guessing you still haven’t told Axel.”

The mention of my son shifts something in my chest. “No.”

“He’s going to find out.” Reign cuts another piece of salmon. “Small town.”

“I know.” Things between Axel and me have always been complicated. Years of missed birthdays and supervised visits left their mark. We’re finally building something real, and I can’t help but worry this will undo all that progress.

“And when he does?”

“Then I’ll handle it.”

Movement near the stairs catches my eye. The game must be over. The private gaming room empties in a predictable order. First the losers, then the winners, then Castellano.

Derrick Daniels emerges first, shoulders slumped, face gray with exhaustion. His expensive suit looks wrinkled now, his collar damp with sweat. He moves like a man who’s just lost everything. Which, technically, he has.

One of Castellano’s men materializes beside him. He catches Derrick’s arm just above the elbow, speaking close to his ear. From this distance I can’t make out the words, but Derrick’s face tells me everything I need to know.

Wilson releases Derrick’s arm with what looks like a friendly pat. Anyone watching might mistake it for a casual goodbye between associates. But I recognize the controlled pressure of his fingers, the way he positions his body to block Derrick’s path.

Derrick straightens his jacket, a futile attempt to reclaim some dignity. But his hands shake as he fixes his cuffs. When he finally heads for the exit, his steps are just a little too fast. A man trying very hard not to look like he’s running.

Enzo Castellano appears at the top of the stairs, surveying his domain. His salt and pepper hair is perfectly styled, his custom suit unwrinkled despite hours at the poker table. The flash of his platinum watch catches the light as he grips the railing.

He descends with the confidence of a man who owns not just the ground beneath his feet, but everything else in sight. Two more of his security team flank him, their eyes scanning theroom with mechanical precision. Professional. Military trained. Nothing like Wilson and his crude intimidation tactics.

“Ready?” Reign asks quietly.

“Yes.”

Reign pulls out his wallet and drops three hundred-dollar bills on the table. We stand in unison, a movement practiced over years of working together. I register the subtle shift in the room - conversations quieting, silverware stilling against plates. The lunch crowd sensing predators in their midst.

Castellano heads for the back hallway, toward the restrooms. His security team splits up efficiently - one man taking the east corridor, another circling toward the kitchens. Standard procedure. Only one guard remains, hovering outside the bathroom door.

As I approach the hallway, I catch the fluid motion of Reign sliding behind the guard. One arm locks around the man’s throat, the other hand clamping over his mouth. A practiced move. Silent. Efficient.

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