Page 49 of Ruin
My hand stills on my jewelry box. Something in her tone suggests there's more.
"But?" I prompt.
"But there's been a string of murders over the past decade that are being attributed to his organization, and they don't match the typical MO. These are clean kills. No witnesses, no loose ends, no dramatic statements."
"What kind of murders?"
"High-profile targets. Judges, prosecutors, city officials. All people who were investigating organized crime or refusing to cooperate with criminal enterprises." Michelle pauses, and I hear her flipping through papers. "The weird thing is, the evidence points to Russian involvement, but the execution suggests someone else entirely."
My blood runs cold. "Someone else?"
"Local crime families, maybe. Someone with the skill to make it look Russian but the intelligence to avoid the typical Bratva mistakes. The Russians are brutal, Selene, but they're not subtle. These murders required finesse, planning."
Judges. She said judges.
"What judges?" My voice sounds strange to my own ears, tight and strained.
"Oh, let's see..." More paper rustling. "Judge Kowalski three years ago, Judge Schmidt five years back, Judge Deveraux nine years ago?—"
The phone slips from my hand, clatters to the hardwood floor.
Michelle's voice continues, tinny and distant, but I can't process the words over the ringing in my ears.
Judge Deveraux. My father.
Someone's using Russian methods as cover for their own hits.
My legs give out, and I sink onto my bed, staring at my reflection in the mirror across the room.
The woman looking back at me is pale, shocked, wearing a diamond collar that suddenly feels like a noose.
"Selene? Are you there? Selene!"
I scramble for the phone, hands shaking. "I'm here. Sorry, I... dropped the phone."
"Are you okay? You sound?—"
"I'm fine. Can you send me everything you found? All of it? Every file, every report?"
"Of course, but Selene, if your client is really dealing with this level of organized crime, you need to get them federal protection immediately. These people don't just threaten—they follow through."
"Just send it. Please. Everything."
I hang up before she can say anything else, before she can hear the panic in my voice.
Cassius is waitingfor me in Hell, sitting in his chair like a king on his throne.
The moment he sees me, his expression shifts from business to something softer, warmer.
Even after everything we've shared, that transformation still makes my heart skip.
"Come here, little wolf."
I cross to him on unsteady legs, still shaken by my conversation with Michelle.
When I'm close enough, he pulls me onto his lap, hands immediately going to my face, reading my expression with the skill of someone who knows me intimately. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing serious. Just...information overload." I settle against him, drawing strength from his solid presence. "Michelle gave me a lot to process about Zhukhov."
