19. Ruin
Chapter 19
Ruin
It’s unusual for Rage to be late.
One of his most prominent traits is punctuality, because he’s obsessive about keeping a schedule. When the schedule is kept, everything else that follows runs smoothly.
The fact that I’m standing at Jimmy Morrel’s doorstep with a bouquet of flowers in hand is not an indication of things running smoothly.
He’s late.
And I’m the one suffering for it.
Mrs. Morrel is an older woman, well-known within the bratva for her husband’s accomplishments and her son’s failures. The former died a respectable enough death in a shoot-out that took half a dozen enemy lives, but the latter found himself tied to my chair while I ripped his tongue out with rusted pliers. The differences between the father and son duo could not be understated, and Mrs. Morrel, as a woman of average intelligence, understands this.
It’s why she isn’t surprised to find me on her doorstep.
“Come in,” she says gruffly, not bothering to hold the door open for me. “Wipe your feet on the mat.”
Her home is average, too, with decor I’ve seen dozens of times in houses all across the city, arranged in exactly the same way, at the same height on the walls and paired with the same colored knick-knacks. I could tell her that she has a lovely home, but that would be a lie.
“Your son died.”
I don’t tell her that he died honorably, because he didn’t. She likely understands that, too. I leave out the part about him praying to God, though, and the part about him begging for forgiveness around what little remained of his cracked teeth. Most people don’t want to hear the details. They only need the most basic of truths.
“I figured when he didn’t come scurrying home, that he was gone for good this time.” She doesn’t sound too sad about it. Sitting in a rocking chair by the roaring fire, she eyes me from across the room. “You’re one of those brothers,” she murmurs. “Can’t say we haven’t met, because I recognize you from somewhere. Lord knows where, though, in this city. You must handle the tough jobs, on account of the mask.” She nods toward me like she understands, but this part, she’s faking.
No one knows the full extent of what I do, because it’s always changing. I float in and out of the spaces my brothers leave empty, removing body parts wherever I go because I can’t help it, while our clean up crew silently mops up the mess. They don’t complain, so neither do I. It’s not a bad life.
It’s just not a normal one.
“I brought you flowers.” I hold out the bouquet. The petals are all different shapes, some soft, some prickly, with varying colors from one flower to the next. People are like that too, on the inside. Some parts soft. Some hard. Different colors bathed in reds and blues and pinks, changing with every slant of light.
“Put them in a vase with some water. They’re in the lower left cabinet by the kitchen sink.”
There’s only one vase. Tall, blocky, bland. As white on the inside as the outside. I fill it with tap water and stare out into Mrs. Morrel’s backyard. It’s a tiny square with patches of dead grass sprinkled across bare earth, enclosed with a chainlink fence that’s seen better days. It’s rusted where the metal links cross one another—like my pliers.
The problem with Rage not being here is that he handles transitions best. There’s an easy way to move people from one room to the next, and it’s by using your words. He’s good at that. Talking.
“No dog?” I ask, staring out at the empty doghouse in the backyard. The paint chips off the sides, blanketing the ground like snow.
“He died shortly after my husband.”
I stick the bouquet inside the vase, the plastic wrap crinkling as it slides through the lip. “How did he die?”
Mrs. Morrel appears at the refrigerator door, refilling her glass of iced tea from a plastic pitcher. “Got run over in the road. That how my Jimmy die? Car crash?”
“No.”
She sips her tea. “Didn’t think so.”
Silence stretches between us. “They sure didn’t teach you anything about conversation, boy. Your mama run off?”
The scars crawling up my neck itch. “She died.”
“My condolences.”
I don’t think Mrs. Morrel means it.
I really wish that Rage were here. Then I wouldn’t have had to speak with Mrs. Morrel at all. Truthfully, I could have broken in through her back door or any of the bedroom windows, but Ezra told me to be polite. She lost her son recently. She might scare easily.
Nothing about the old woman in front of me looks scared.
Why would Rage be late? Why wouldn’t he call? The cell phone in my pocket feels heavy. I tap my fingers against my thigh. “Can I sit with you, Mrs. Morrel?”
She waves her hand toward the living room. “I’ll pour you some tea.”
The ice clinks in my glass, condensation dripping down the sides. The entire house is warm from the fire, making my palms sweat. The glass slides down my fingers. I set it on the coffee table and lean back on Mrs. Morrel’s couch. “I’ve never had iced tea.”
Her face twitches. “Why don’t you try some. Jimmy loves my tea.”
“Jimmy’s dead.”
“How did he die?”
I lick my lips, a shot of adrenaline coursing through my veins. “I killed him.”
The confirmation rocks through her body like a bullet, jolting her backwards, the chair rocking into the wall. “Oh, Jimmy. You fool.” She shakes her head, but I catch the swell of tears in her eyes. Jimmy cried too, near the end. Mother and son have that in common.
I rise from my seat and cross the rug toward her. It’s also white. So much of this house is white. And beige. And cream. Wicker furniture. Things that stain easily.
“Where is your brother?” Mrs. Morrel asks suddenly, her hands shaking around her glass. “He’s supposed to be here, isn’t he? He’s supposed to speak with me. You don’t go on these visits alone, do you?”
“I don’t know where he is.”
“Then call him!”
“He’s probably busy.”
Which can’t be right, because he picked Celia up this morning. Neither of them have come home yet, and the sun will set within the hour. He can’t be busy, because there’s nothing for him to be busy with when he’s with Celia.
“I’m not supposed to hurt you,” I tell her. “We’re supposed to talk.”
“You’re bad at talking.”
“I know.”
She exhales heavily, slumping in her rocking chair. “Jimmy did his best, you know. For the bratva. For this family.”
I know that she believes that, so I don’t say otherwise.
My phone vibrates in my pocket while I’m standing in front of Mrs. Morrel. When I’m on the job, I usually leave it in the car, on the floor, on the counter. Somewhere out of the way, where it can’t buzz at me. But the only ones who contact me are Ezra or my brothers.
And lately, Celia.
I take the few steps back to the couch and sit down. Mrs. Morrel visibly deflates like a balloon, flattening into her chair, forgetting to rock. Her breathing is shallow, but she keeps her eyes on the fire, like its presence is going to make a difference for what happens tonight. Or maybe she’s trying to see the future. Forget the past. People do strange things before they die, so I keep my eyes on Mrs. Morrel to find out what she’s going to do next.
My phone buzzes again, so I fish it from my pocket and squint at the screen. Rebel is spamming our group text with messages.
Rebel:
you mofo
where are you?
its been all goddam day
hello???
Then, in our group chat with Celia:
Rebel:
baby, u ready 2 come home?
I can cook u dinner
Rage remains silent. Celia doesn’t reply. It’s like they’re keeping us out—which goes against our new rules. I send a message to our private chat without Celia.
did she choose you today
Rebel:
fuck no, she didn’t choose Rage
she chose me
fucker locked me in my room
im still here u know
i told u to let me out ruin
y is no one home??? im starving
I call Celia’s phone, and it goes to voicemail. The same for Rage’s. I call Rebel, and he starts yelling at me the moment he picks up.
“It’s about damned time! How far away are you? Can you bring me a burger or a taco or something?”
Mrs. Morrel’s eyes move from the fire back to me. Watching. Waiting.
“Rage isn’t answering his phone.”
“ I know. I’ve left him ten fucking voicemails.”
“Celia won’t answer either.”
“ Tell me about it,” Rebel snaps. “You send a girl one fucking dick pic, and she ices you out!”
“She won’t answer me, either.”
Rebel snorts. “Because she definitely wants to talk to the guy who smears blood all over her thighs.”
I grunt. Celia could like it.
My phone pings again.
Rage:
don’t come after me
I mean it
“What the fuck does that mean,” Rebel groans. “Do you think he’s high?”
“He doesn’t get high.”
“Maybe he would if Celia asked him nicely.”
Well. Maybe.
A picture comes across the group chat, and my heart thumps hard. Rage is crumpled on the ground, his head caught at an awkward angle against a car tire. His tire. I recognize the color and trim of the vehicle.
“What the fuck is this?” Rebel yells.
Rage’s skin is paler than usual, and there are dark shadows around his neck like he’s been choked. But there aren’t any other signs of a struggle—no ripped clothing, torn fingernails, blood or bruises. It’s like he got choked out by a ghost.
Any sign of Celia is also nonexistent, like she vanished into thin air.
“Maybe an ex-girlfriend went after him,” Rebel guesses, his voice muffled as he shuffles around his room. I can picture him pacing, agitated, clawing his way out. It’s bad enough that he’s been locked up all day, but to be locked up while something’s going on will drive him crazy.
I think about Rebel’s theory. It could be an ex-girlfriend… or a new one.
Blood rushes through my veins. Exhilaration. Pumping its way into my limbs, coursing through every chamber of my heart. Did Celia try to kill Rage? Did he hurt her first, or did she crave that look of fear in his eyes the same way I do?
Rage wouldn’t give it up for just anybody. I doubt he’d even give it to Celia. No, he was probably grinning up at her while she tried to strangle him to death.
Key word being try.
If it was her, there’s no way she finished the job. She’s too green right now, inexperienced in the art of death.
I can’t wait to paint her in deep shades of red.
“I’m coming to get you.” I’m already halfway across the room by the time Rebel replies.
“Wait! I’ll let Liara in. She can handle it.”
“Rage doesn’t like other people in the apartment.”
“Does it look like he’s gonna care who I let in the apartment? Go get him, Ruin!” He hangs up the phone and I jump to my feet, already dialing Rage’s number again. I’m out the door without saying goodbye to Mrs. Morell, but I doubt I’ll ever see her again. If she’s smart, she’ll leave town after tonight.
There aren’t any defining features in the picture to clue me in on Rage’s location, and we don’t have tracking devices on each other in case one of us gets kidnapped. We’ve made a pact: brothers first, then ourselves. We don’t want to lead our enemies to the rest of us, even inadvertently. When the phone rings and rings, I hang up and call Thanatos. He picks up on the first ring.
“Ruin,” he greets, unable to hide the surprise from his voice. We aren’t very close on account of being nearly fifteen years apart in age. “What is it?”
“Rage is missing.” I jump into my SUV and start the engine. “Someone strangled him.”
There’s a beat of silence. “Is he dead?”
“Not likely.” Although he was pale and unconscious, he didn’t look dead.
Thanatos makes a sound that I can’t decipher over the phone. “He was with Celia an hour ago. Shit, maybe two. Or more.” He huffs into the receiver, making rustling sounds as he moves. “They left the safe house in The Backyard together.”
The safe house? “What were they doing there?”
“Fucking,” Than grunts, then adds, “and ruining my good sheets.”
My cock swells, but I ignore it and pull out onto the street. I bet Rage has been on cloud nine all day, while Rebel’s been miserable with jealousy over breakfast . When he finds out they had sex, he’s going to explode. I saw the group text—Celia wasn’t clear on who she wanted to see, but that means they both should have gone.
If they had gone to see her together, Rage wouldn’t be lying on the asphalt right now.
“Which way did they go?” I ask.
Thanatos grumbles. “I don’t know. I wasn’t with them. We got into a—” something slams in the background—“an argument.”
I’ll have to ask about that later. “I’m on my way there. Text us when you find him. I’ll tell Rebel we’re going to The Backyard. ”
“Call Wren. Is he still practicing?”
“He’s still living.” That’ll have to be close enough.
I’m about to end the call when Thanatos stops me. “Ruin, wait.” He exhales harshly, crackling the line. “Do you know why I’m back in the city?”
I haven’t guessed, and no one has told me. I answer honestly. “No.”
He clicks his tongue against his teeth. “I tracked him here.”
There’s only one him that Thanatos would follow past city lines—it’s the reason he left five years ago. To find him. Capture him. Kill him.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
Nerves spread down my arms, tingling every dead and broken cell in my body. I’m not scared of anything, especially if it’s something I can kill. But dormant emotions don’t follow the rules. They crack through the layer of rock around my heart and break free one small sliver at a time, infecting the present with the past.
I’m not afraid of my father like I used to be.
But some feelings are burned into the flesh.
And grudges are born from scars like ours.