Page 142 of Ruin My Life
She wants justice. She wants blood.
And after what he did to her family, to her sister…
Hell, maybe she deserves it.
But not like this—not when it’s going to end with a bullet between her eyes, Matthias himself pulling the trigger.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Brie
OIL-PANMOTORS LOOKS LIKE A GRAVEYARDwith a fresh coat of rust on everything in sight.
It’s tucked just off the last exit of the Belt Parkway, not far from the gas station where Dad had stopped on the way home from the airport.
The memory of that day comes uninvited, like most of them do—biting and sweet, and completely useless now.
The garage itself is a squat. Weather-beaten concrete block wrapped in chain-link and topped with barbed wire that’s more for show than function.
A heavy sliding gate guards the front, shut tight today since it’s closed. The sign in the window is faded, the lettering chipped like the paint on the steel doors lining the shop’s main façade. Rows of gutted junkers litter the lot—stripped of their wheels, glass, and general worth.
If R.O.S.E. hadn’t flagged the CCTV footage of Alexander dragging his trash bins to the curb just before nine A.M.—still half-asleep and clearly running late—I would’ve assumed the place was empty.
But that one lazy mistake?
It’s why he dies today.
I tighten my grip on the gun in my hand, circling to the side entrance. It’s locked, of course, but it’s a simple passcode lock—the kind you can find on Amazon for cheap—and based on Alexander’s recent revenue, I doubt he can afford any other security measures.
I did some digging in the time it took for me to get a hit on Alexander. He dropped out of high school at sixteen, likely totake on more responsibilities with the Songbirds. He only started working at this mechanic shop a few months ago and has had little-to-no contact with the Songbirds since—at least from what I was able to find.
Apparently, the previous owner died right before Alexander took over the property. Given his reputation, I wouldn’t be surprised if Alexander had something to do with that, but there’s no proof.
I already have a guess at the door code.
He’s predictable. Lazy. Born in 1997.
Beep.
The deadbolt disengages.
“Idiot,” I mutter, pushing the door open with a soft click.
Inside, it smells like oil and motor oil and old sweat. A wall of tools lines the far end of the shop—most rusted, a few still usable. Two of the car lifts are in use, vehicles raised like cadavers on display. The floor is pockmarked concrete, stained in every imaginable way, and sloped toward steel drainage points.
It reminds me of the holding cell beneath The Speakeasy.
That memory shouldn’t sting. But it does.
A lump catches at the base of my throat—dry and jagged—and no matter how many times I try to swallow it down, it doesn’t move.
I can’t shake the weight of what I did. Of what I may have broken.
Damon.
His name carves its way into my thoughts like a blade.
He’ll be furious. Hurt. The others will never trust me again—not that they really did to begin with.
