Page 68 of Ruin
The authority in her voice stops my argument completely.
This isn't the submissive girl who begged for my approval.
This is someone else entirely. Someone dangerous.
I step inside, movements careful and deliberate.
The gun follows my chest, never wavering, maintaining that perfect kill shot distance.
She backs away as I enter, maintaining control, maintaining space.
The power dynamic between us has shifted so completely it's like walking into an alternate universe where prey becomes predator.
"Turn around and lock the door."
I comply, hyperaware of the weapon at my back.
The sound of the deadbolt engaging feels like a death knell.
When I turn back, she's moved to the center of the room, gun trained on me.
The apartment looks like a war zone.
Papers are scattered everywhere, broken glass glinting on the hardwood, her coffee table overturned, a laptop destroyed against the far wall.
But underneath the chaos, there’s a method to her madness—manila folders spread in neat piles, photographs pinned to the wall like a detective's murder board, legal documents arranged specifically.
She's built a case against me. A fucking airtight case, by the look of it.
"Impressive," I say, taking in the scope of evidence surrounding us. "Very thorough."
"I learned from the best." Her smile is sharp enough to cut. "Sit."
She gestures to a chair in the center of the room with the gun barrel.
The chair is positioned strategically—away from exits, away from windows, away from anything I could use as a weapon or shield.
She's thought this through, planned every detail.
The girl who used to beg for my touch has orchestrated my capture.
I sit slowly, keeping my hands visible on my thighs. "You've been busy."
"Nine years of evidence doesn't organize itself." She remains standing, gun trained on the center of my body. "Though I suppose you'd know that, considering how thoroughly you cleaned up after yourself."
The accusation hangs in the air like smoke.
I scan the evidence she's assembled—crime scene photos, bank records, witness statements that should have been destroyed years ago. The photo that started it all is prominently displayed: me entering Judge Romano's house, grainy but unmistakable.
"How did you get all this?"
"Does it matter? It's all here. Every murder, every cover-up, every life you destroyed to protect your empire." She takes astep closer, gun still steady. "My father was more thorough than you gave him credit for. Hidden copies, backup files, evidence scattered across multiple locations."
Smart man. Smarter than I'd realized.
"The question is," she continues, "what am I going to do with it?"
I study her face in the dim light.
