Page 2 of Ruined

It’s solid advice. But I wasn’t ever supposed to be spotted, let alone caught.

He turns me around to look at me, and to let me look at him.

Angelo Vitali is a silver fox with dark brown eyes that glint mahogany when the sun hits them the way it is doing now, giving just the faintest hint of red. He has the reputation of being a devil, and it is a well-earned reputation. I know I don’t deserve his mercy, and I know he is not going to give it. The moment he laid eyes on me, I was done.

One of his hands is fisted in the front of my sweater. The other runs through my hair, strands of fine blonde hair slipping through his fingers. I can tell he wants to grip it, but it just slides through.

He is looking down at me with a considering gaze, the corners of his lips quirking with amusement as something particularly dark, or perhaps humiliating occurs to him.

“They sent a woman after me,” he says. “I cannot imagine why.”

“Because I am good at my job.” It’s too late to be proud. I was good at my job. But doing my job well does not involve being caught.

“So am I,” he says, his lips quirking. “Do you know what my job is?”

“Being a master criminal wanted on four continents?” The reply could sound snappy, but the quaver in my voice belies the cold dread expanding out from the pit of my stomach, making every inch of me freeze in his grip.

He shakes his head. “No, sweet thing,” he says. “My job is breaking people.”

He’s right. Angelo Vitali is walking corruption.

He’s turned federal agents before, I know that. That’s the real reason they sent a woman after him. They assumed I would not be of interest to him. They assumed he wouldn’t notice me. They assumed that if he caught me, he’d kill me.

For some reason I’m still drawing breath. I don’t know why.

His dark gaze encompasses me, swallows me, drinks me down.

“You make a very cute boy,” he says.

“I’m a woman.”

Angelo shakes his head at me, his expression grave and almost pitying. “The woman they sent after me, she dies today. But there’s something else inside you, isn’t there. Something scrappier. Something more boyish. Something that hasn’t yet had a chance to live. That part of you might survive.”

I stare into his eyes, and I see nothing but dark intention, a smirking, devilish, twisted plan devised just for me in the very instant he met me.

Does he see me that clearly? Or is he just an extremely perceptive sociopath who holds my life in his hands? The grip on the back of my neck could just as easily be around my throat and I wouldn’t be able to do a fucking thing. He could, and probably will choke the life out of me if I don’t tell him what he wants to hear.

He’s not wrong about me having some masculine tendencies. I was a tomboy when I was a kid. I liked to fight with my brothers, get dirty in the woods. I liked to explore. I liked to get into trouble. I even liked short hair, except I wasn’t allowed it. I had pretty long blonde hair that everyone liked more than they liked me. I cut it when I left home, and now it’s down to my shoulders. I don’t know why I’m fixating on my hair of all things now. Anything to stop my mind from fixating on him, in front of me.

“What is your name?”

“Riley.”

He looks pleased to hear that. “A name already made for a boy. This feels like it was meant to be, doesn’t it?”

I’m not a boy, but I will be whatever Angelo tells me to be until I can escape his clutches.

2

“Why is she still alive?”

Bobby looks up and growls the question as Angelo leads me into the interior of his sanctum. Bobby is Angelo’s lover, his one and only among many. I have read plenty of profiles on Bobby Vitali. Most of them agree that he is a psychopath barely kept in check by Angelo, and without Angelo, he would be a lot more dangerous to the world at large.

My approach to the pair of them is more simple, as are my orders: Angelo is a capture target. Bobby is a kill target.

Bobby is broad shouldered, built like a brute. He is muscled and he has very dark eyes and quite pale skin. He is Polish in origin, though he has presented himself as Italian for all of his criminal career. He is nearing thirty, significantly younger than Angelo.

“Why is he still alive?” Angelo repeats the question back to Bobby. Bobby and I exchange glances of confusion, and I have the very strange experience of connecting on a primal level with a psychopath looking for answers.

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