Page 15 of Knot Ruined

“Yeah,” Romano grins, “but I love that she just accepted it. No panic, no questions. Just, ‘Oh, cool, my new husbands are criminals. Let’s roll with it.’”

Kingston chuckles again, the sound dark and amused. “Speaking of business.” He straightens, flipping the card between his fingers before propping it up on the mantel above the fireplace. “Jace?”

Jace is already adjusting his sleeves, looking every bit the man who handles problems without hesitation. “I’ve retrieved the asset you requested,” he says, his gravelly voice filling the room. “He’s at our usual place.”

We always talk in code. Not because we don’t trust our security but because I make sure our systems are airtight. But because paranoia is what keeps men like us in business.

“Voss,” Kingston turns to me next. “I need you to inquire about the missing numbers.

I nod once. “If there’s anything to know, I’ll find it.”

“Romano,” Kingston continues, shifting his gaze. “Go through the finances. I want to be sure we haven’t missed anything.”

Romano heaves himself up from the couch with a dramatic sigh, stretching before grabbing his phone. “On it, boss.” I follow suit, pushing off the armchair and stretching out the stiffness in my muscles. Kingston exhales with one last glance at Fallon’s letter, his expression settling into something colder, more focused.

It's time to ruin some corrupt men’s lives. And just like that, we head for the warehouse. Business as usual.

The warehouse is on the outskirts of Chicago. It’s in the more modern industrial areas. If it looks legit, it’s doubtful someone will come looking. Most people picture seedy, rotten buildings for crime. The overhead LED strips cast stark white light against the polished cement floors, their hum barely noticeable over the distant whir of ventilation systems.

This place isn’t some run-down, forgotten building. It’s modern, efficient, and designed for discretion and control. The walls are steel-reinforced, sleek, and painted in dark industrial grays, with strategically placed security cameras embedded into the corners. I know for a fact that Romano sees every angle the moment we walk in.

Rows of modular glass-walled offices line the left side. Their interiors are minimalist but functional—dark desks, ergonomic chairs, and high-end monitors blinking with encrypted data. The soundproofing is so good that, from the outside, you’d never hear the conversations happening inside.

To the right, past the open space in the center, is what we call “the pit”—a vast, sunken area designed for interrogations, negotiations, and the occasional… disposal of problems. The walls are lined with stainless steel panels, and the floor is graded for easy cleaning—a single grated drain on the floor.

Above us, a steel mezzanine stretches across the back wall, leading to private rooms, locked storage units, and a control hub where Romano’s systems run 24/7. The glass panels are one-way mirrored, giving a clear vantage point of the floor below. Everything about this place is clean, organized, and ruthlessly efficient.

The pit is already occupied, but my attention flickers first to Marco, who’s lounging in a chair like he’s watching a damn sports game.

He’s got a bag of peanuts in one hand and is tossing them into his mouth like this is just another Tuesday. Ever since his wife made him quit smoking, the man has developed an addiction to snacks. At first, they were sunflower seeds, but the shells ended up everywhere. So, now? Already shelled peanuts. It’s an improvement.

He’s dressed as impeccably as always because Marco in anything but a suit would be an omen of the apocalypse. His jacket is unbuttoned, dark navy blue, with a crisp white shirt underneath. Sleeves rolled just enough to reveal the gold cufflinks his wife gave him. His black hair is perfectly styled, except for the one defiant curl that always falls between his hazel eyes.

We’ve made it our mission to mess with him about it with Superman jokes. Little figurines were left everywhere—his house, his car, his desk; he even snuck one into his damn suit jacket once. He still has no idea who’s doing it. His wife thinks it hilarious and has helped on occasion.

Marco grins up at Kingston, voice deep and amused, a familiar hint of laughter buried in his tone as he calls out, “Boss.”

With a grin, he stands, shifting his chair back with his foot, dragging it out of the “splash zone.”

I follow his gaze, finally landing on the night's main attraction. Suspended in the middle of the pit, chains creak under the weight of a man hanging limply, wrists bound, ankles shackled.

His head droops forward, dark hair slicked to his forehead, damp with sweat and something thicker. His white dress shirt is torn and stained in places where bruises bloom beneath the fabric. The once-pristine material is now wrinkled, clinging to him from the sweat rolling down his spine.

His face is a mess of swollen flesh and split skin, one eye nearly swollen shut, his lip split down the center, and blood trailing from the corner of his mouth. He’s breathing, but barely.

The rhythmic drip, drip, drip of blood hitting the grated floor echoes in the silence. I step into the pit, movements calm and methodical, his presence alone shifting the air. The man stirs and lifts his head just enough to look at us, eyes glazed but still holding onto some stubborn scrap of defiance.

Marco pops another peanut into his mouth and chews slowly, watching.

“Well,” he murmurs, “he’s still conscious. That’s progress.”

I smirk. Not for long. I step closer, the echo of my boots against the concrete, the only sound in the pit. The man before me, low-level scum, barely worth the oxygen he’s sucking in, hangs limply from the chains.

“Well, well,” I murmur, slowly and measured, letting his name roll off my tongue. “What a mess you’ve gotten yourself into.”

My voice drops lower, taking on that familiar, unsettling edge, the one that has broken stronger men than him. I watch as a shudder rolls through his battered frame, his shoulders tensing just enough to tell me he’s still got a little fight left.

I grin, sharp and feral.

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