Page 57 of Ruins
Nico glances at the mess behind us. “I’m guessing you took his tongue?”
A ghost of a smirk tugs at my lips. “Of course.”
“Good.” Nico exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Maks wants to be the one to gift-wrap it for Kaya.”
I nod, barely hearing him now. The high is fading.
“Got it from here, boss, if you’re good,” Nico adds.
Angelo picks up his shirt from the tool table, sliding it on as I follow him up the stairs and out into the night air.
“That was invigorating,” Angelo says, clapping me on the back, his voice buzzing with residual energy. “You did excellent work.”
“Thank you,” I say automatically, stepping toward my car. The words feel distant, mechanical.
The blood is still drying on my skin.
“I heard Elena doesn’t want to come home,” I say, changing the subject.
Angelo stiffens. His jaw ticks. “She doesn’t have a choice now. I’ll get on a flight and drag her back if I have to.”
I nod, but my mind is barely registering his response. My thoughts are still tangled in the remnants of adrenaline and violence, my body still buzzing with the aftermath. The rage, the power—it burns out, leaving a hollow, sinking weight in its place.
Then Angelo speaks again, and the hollow ache twists into something else.
“What about Vasilisa? You moving her in before the wedding? Just in case?”
Vasilisa.
Her name slams into me like a wrecking ball.
The image of her flickers to life—her face, bathed in golden light, the sunset casting a halo around her. The way her skin felt beneath my fingertips. The warmth of her breath against mine. How close I was to tasting her.
How fucking pure she is.
A punch of shame coils tight in my gut. I had forgotten her. Forgotten her completely in the sea of blood I spilled. Her angelic face erased beneath the carnage, the screams, the warmth of torn flesh under my hands.
I feel sick.
She doesn’t belong in this world. She doesn’t belong withme.
I almost let myself believe I could have her. That I could hold onto something normal, something untouched by death and destruction.
But I’m not a normal man.
And nothing in my life is fair.
I meet Angelo’s gaze. His eyes reflect the same emptiness as mine—the same hollowed-out grief, the same silent rage that’s been carved into us since the night our mother was murdered.
Vasilisa could end up just like her.
I shove the thought down, bury it deep, and lock it away with the rest of my weaknesses.
“No,” I say, my voice flat. “She’s just an arrangement. She’s not a target.”
“Not a targetyet,” Angelo responds as he leaves my side for his car.
I reach for my door, grabbing my jacket off the driver’s seat to toss onto the passenger side when my phone slips from the pocket, landing with a soft thud.
