Page 121 of Ruined

I grab my leather jacket and gun, checking the magazine one more time before holstering it against my side. My chest aches badly, but I ignore it. Pain is just weakness leaving the body—that's what my father taught me before I put a bullet in his head.

In the garage, I find my Ducati waiting. The sleek black machine has gotten me out of more dangerous situations than I can count.

I swing my leg over the seat, feeling the familiar vibration as the engine roars to life. The sound echoes through the concrete parking structure, drowning out the voice in my head telling me I'm overreacting.

Maybe I am. Maybe Ivan's family connections won't come looking. Maybe Evelyn's father is just trying to make himself seem important.

But I can't take that chance. Not with her.

I pull out of the garage, the cool night air hitting my face as I accelerate onto the street. Traffic is light, which means I can weave between cars, cutting my travel time in half.

My mind races faster than the bike. If Ivan's uncle really is connected to the Russian government, we're looking at more than mere street thugs. We're talking about trained operatives, men who kill without hesitation or remorse.

Men like me.

I push the Ducati harder, the engine screaming as I fly down the streets of New York. Every minute I'm not with Evelyn feels like a minute something could go wrong.

Matteo would laugh if he could see me now, racing across the city for a woman. He'd never let me hear the end of it. But Matteo isn't here and even if he was, I wouldn't give a fuck what he thinks.

A car cuts in front of me, forcing me to swerve. The sudden movement pulls at my stitches, sending a sharp pain through my chest. I grit my teeth and keep going.

I've never felt this way before—this constant need to protect someone. To be near them. Even when I know she's safe with Franco and Vito watching, it's not enough. I need to be there myself.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. At the next red light, I pull it out.

A text from Franco:All clear. No movement.

I should feel relieved, but I don't. I need to see her with my own eyes. Need to touch her, make sure she's real and safe and still mine.

The light turns green and I'm moving again, the bike responding instantly to my every command. The streets blur past me as I head out of town toward the Anderson house, toward Evelyn.

I'm standing in my old bedroom with Jessica, still processing the confrontation with our father. The walls are the same pale blue they've always been, the twin bed with its pristine white comforter unmoved since I left. This room never felt like mine—just another stage set for the perfect daughter performance.

A soft knock interrupts my thoughts.

The door opens slowly and Mom stands framed there. Her fingers tremble and she looks smaller somehow, her shoulders curved inward as if carrying an invisible weight. The perfect chignon she always wears has loose strands escaping around her face.

"Can I come in?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jessica and I exchange glances. I nod.

Mom steps inside, closing the door behind her. She doesn't sit, doesn't move toward us, just stands there looking lost in a room she's entered thousands of times.

"I don't..." she starts, then stops. Her eyes dart between us, then fix on the floor. "I don't know where to begin."

The silence stretches between us. I've never seen her this uncertain—this human.

"I love you both," she says, her voice breaking. "I love you so much."

Tears spring to her eyes, and I feel something crack inside me. In twenty-four years I've never heard those words from her without some qualifier attached.

"I know I've been a terrible mother." Her hands twist together. "I let him... I let your father control everything. Your lives. Your futures." A tear slides down her cheek. "I thought I was protecting you by staying silent, by not fighting him. But I was wrong."

Jessica moves first, crossing the room to take Mom's hand. I stay rooted in place, decades of disappointment holding me back.

"When I heard about what happened with Ivan..." Mom continues, looking directly at me now. "I realized I might have lost you both without ever telling you the truth. Without you knowing that behind all this—" she gestures vaguely around the pristine room "—I've always loved you. Not your achievements or your performances. Just you."

"Then why?" The words escape before I can stop them. "Why did you let him lock me in practice rooms? Why did you watch him break me down over and over?"

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