Page 118 of Ruger's Rage

"I've been thinking about justice," I say conversationally. "About what form it should take in your case. Something fitting."

He tenses under my grip, sensing the danger.

"And then it occurred to me—what could be more appropriate than ending your life the same way you tried to end hers?"

Realization dawns in his eyes a second before I push him—hard.

His arms windmill as he tries to catch his balance, a strangled cry escaping his throat as he pitches forward.

The sound of his body tumbling down the concrete stairs echoes through the stairwell—each impact, each crack of bone against unforgiving edges marking the end of the man who destroyed Tildie's life.

When the echoes finally fade, I descend slowly, each step bringing me closer to what remains of Marco Santini.

He lies crumpled at the bottom, limbs at unnatural angles, blood pooling beneath his head.

His eyes are open, staring sightlessly upward.

I check for a pulse, feeling nothing. "It's done."

Bloodhound nods, no judgment in his eyes, only understanding. "I'll handle the cleanup."

We've done this before—disposed of bodies where they'll never be found, erased evidence of our involvement.

It's an unfortunate necessity in our world.

By the time we return to the compound, all physical evidence of Marco Santini has been erased from our lives.

The basement has been cleaned, the van scrubbed down.

No one outside our inner circle will ever know exactly what happened to him.

Viper's still there, sitting with Kinsey in the main room, deep in some conversation.

He looks up as I enter, a question in his eyes that I answer with a single nod. "Business concluded?"

"Completely."

He doesn't ask for details, and I’m glad.

I find Bailey next, still locked in the storage room where we've kept her since discovering her betrayal.

She looks up as I enter, fear and defiance warring in her expression. "Come to kill me too?"

"That depends on church," I tell her. "The brothers will vote on your fate tonight."

Bitterness laces her words. "And what will you vote for, mighty President?"

I study her for a long moment. "I haven't decided yet."

It's the truth. Part of me wants her blood for her betrayal, for endangering Tildie and my aunt, for the brothers who got hurt in the attack.

But another part recognizes the truth in her accusation—that women like her have been treated as disposable by the club for years. Used, discarded, forgotten.

"Why did you do it?" I ask, genuine curiosity overriding anger for a moment.

Her laugh is hollow. "Because he made me feel like I mattered. Like I was more than just a convenient hole for brothers to use when they got bored."

The crude assessment makes me wince, not because it's shocking, but because I can't entirely deny it.

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