Page 2 of Beautiful Ruins
I dragged her out and shoved her into the open, my hand locking around her throat just tight enough to keep her upright, to keep her still.
She was a girl.A woman.Young enough that it hit wrong in my chest before I could stop it.
Too young to be here.
Her eyes were wide, glassy with panic, mouth parted like she couldn’t decide whether to scream or beg.Fear rolled off her in thick waves, sharp and consuming.Her hands came up slowly, shaking, palms open like she believed surrender might save her.
It wouldn’t.
“What the hell is that?”one of the Bratva men snarled.
“A problem,” another said, already lifting his gun, finger tightening on the trigger like he’d been waiting for an excuse.
He was aiming at her head.
I smiled.
It wasn’t a friendly thing, and it didn’t reach my eyes.It was the kind of smile that made people misjudge how much time they had left.
“Put the gun down,” I ordered.
The gun didn’t lower.
“She saw too much,” the man insisted, voice tight, trigger finger already twitching.
“Relax.She saw crates and concrete,” I growled, my grip on her throat adjusting by a fraction.Not enough to hurt.Enough to remind her who decided whether she breathed.
The vein in the woman’s neck was slamming against my palm.I felt every beat—fast, erratic, desperate.Panic, not discipline.No trained operative let fear run like that.If she was a spy, she was the worst one I’d ever met.
Which made her dangerous in a different way.Because it made her interesting.
I leaned closer, lowering my voice so only she could hear it.
“Who sent you?”
Her lips parted.Closed.Trembled.
“I—I?—”
I tilted my head and studied her properly then, not as a threat—but as an object dropped into my path on purpose or by fate.There was no tension in her posture that suggested preparation.She wasn’t tracking exits or reading faces.She was fighting tears.
Which meant she wasn’t a professional.These were real tears forming.And real things didn’t belong in places like this.
Which meant she’d probably wandered in at the worst possible time, and the universe had decided to be cruel to her.
Either way, she was my problem to deal with now.
The Bratva leader stepped closer, his boots scraping against the concrete as though in announcement.He dragged one leg due an old injury which had obviously healed poorly.The boots he wore had thick soles, giving him ridiculous lift, because apparently the man wasn’t content with just being ruthless.He needed to be taller, too.
His gaze flicked from the girl to me, sharp and appraising.
“You’re soft tonight, Cavalho,” his lip curled.“This is sloppy.”
I almost laughed.Almost.Because coming from a man propped up by orthopedic bravado and borrowed inches, the criticism felt… generous.
I tightened my grip on her throat just enough to slow her breathing, to force her lungs to obey.Her chest hitched once, then again, panic flaring as she realized how close to the edge really was.
“If she was sent here,” I replied evenly, “I want to know by who.Andwhy.”
