Page 23 of Ruin My Life
Roaches,really. Let them in once, and they infest everything.
They multiply in the dark. Hide beneath your floorboards. Pretend to be something they’re not.
I learned that the hard way.
But their reign over this borough? It’s over. Has been for the last two years.
The only Songbirds left in Kings now are the ones perched along the trees in Bensonhurst Park—vermin in their own right, sure, but those ones? They’re easy to deal with. Toss a few seeds, and they’ll scatter.
Since I took control, Kings has become one of the safest places in New York. Outside of maybe Staten Island, you won’t find a neighbourhood more secure.
Is it perfect? No.
Crime never dies. Not where humanity thrives. But I intend to maintain the peace I built—with my own hands, and with my own rules. Unlike the cops, I’m willing to get my hands dirty to keep the innocent safe.
Like right now, as two members of my inner circle and I roll into the parking lot of a run-down motel near Brownsville.
We’re here for a man named Oswald Pietro.
Icouldreport him to the cops.
I could share every one of his wife’s reports—about how he beats her when the market dips and carves the date into her skin when he turns a profit.
But the cops? They’ll see his net worth and look the other way.
No one wants to tangle with a man who can buy the judge three times over. Not unless they catch him mid-swing with a bloody knife in hand.
That’s where I come in.
When the system fails, when the law looks the other way—they come tome.
Do I make problems disappear?
Yeah.
Does that make me a murderer?
Maybe.
Am I wrong for it?
If protecting people makes me wrong, then I don’t want to be right.
Monroe parks the SUV in a tight space near the rental office. Connor and I came straight from a meeting—some boring pitch about expanding my security company out of state—so we’re still dressed like we belong in a boardroom.
Black slacks. Dress shirts. I kept my matching suit jacket, but Connor ditched his for a navy trench coat, trying to brace against the early winter chill.
Monroe’s the only one dressed for action—black athletic long-sleeve, fitted cargo pants, and combat boots that make no sound when he moves.
Together, we look like we could be members of the New York mafia.
That suits me just fine. Men like Oswald should feel the instinct to run when they see us.
Not that running would do them any good.
On paper, I’m a successful entrepreneur—owner of one of the most exclusive security companies in the state:The King’s Eye.
We install high-end surveillance systems for the rich, the paranoid, and the morally bankrupt. Selling to them is easierthan handing a bottle to a starving infant. They can’t resist something they think onlytheycan afford.
