Page 15 of Ruin
When we pull around back and take the private elevator down to Hell, the air changes the way it always does—heavier, warmer, the faint hum of soundproofing pressing against your ears.
Natalia is waiting at the bottom.
Dark hair, dark eyes, the woman who manages Hell's operations with the same quiet ruthlessness I value in Vincent.
She looks at Selene the way she looks at everything—measuring it, deciding if it's useful or dangerous or both.
"New pet?" she asks me in Russian. "New partner," I answer in English.
Natalia's expression doesn't change, but her eyes sharpen.
She notices. Doesn't flinch.
The room at the end of Hell's east corridor is soundproof.
Triple-insulated walls, concrete floor with a drain, fluorescent lighting that makes everything look clinical and terrible.
It's where I handle problems that can't be solved with money or lawyers.
There's a man in the chair. Mid-forties, balding, sweating through his dress shirt.
His name is Gerald Fink, and three days ago, he skimmed forty thousand dollars from one of my restaurant fronts.
Lionel stands behind him like a mountain with tattoos, arms folded, face empty.
I bring Selene in without warning.
Gerald's eyes go wide when he sees her—not because he knows her, but because she's beautiful and this room is ugly and the contrast makes no sense.
She's changed into a black dress. Heels. Hair pulled back. She looks like she's attending a board meeting.
"This is Gerald," I tell her. "Gerald has a math problem."
She looks at Gerald, then at the blood on his shirt collar—Lionel's greeting.
Then at the tools laid out on the steel table against the wall. Her expression doesn't change. Not a flinch. Not a flicker.
A year ago, she would have screamed.
She would have begged me to stop, would have looked at me with those wide hazel eyes full of horror and I would have had to choose between my operation and her innocence.
Now she pulls the other chair from the corner, positions it three feet from Gerald, sits down, and crosses her legs.
"How much?" she asks.
"Forty thousand," I say.
She looks at Gerald. "That's a lot of money to steal from the wrong person."
Gerald starts babbling. Sick wife. Medical bills. Meant to pay it back. The usual symphony of excuses that plays in this room before the music changes.
Selene holds up one hand. He stops.
She sets a tablet on the desk between them and turns it so he can see the screen—property records, liens, the second mortgage he thought no one noticed.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” she says, calm and methodical, like she’s reviewing a quarterly report instead of dismantling his life. “You have seventy-eight thousand in equity, even after the refinance. No outstanding tax liens. Your debt-to-income ratio is salvageable—barely.”
She scrolls once, confirming what she already knows.
