Chapter 32
The door yields under my hand. I let it close behind me with a soft thud.
The air carries the tang of lemon cleaner and the faint trace of bourbon, remnants of countless spills and wipe-downs.
Everything is in its place at Ruin's End, yet there’s a quiet that feels almost reverent, as if the walls themselves are holding their breath.
Will’s behind the bar, sorting through a short stack of mail and receipts. He doesn’t look up right away.
JT’s probably still in the back, stretched out on that busted couch he refuses to give up. Told us again this morning to fuck off and let him sleep until the bruises stopped screaming.
Will finally looks up at me. “That was fast.”
“Did what I could. Helped Sable sweep up. She’s still got a hell of a mess in there.” I pause, letting my hand settle on the edge of the bar. “Who was it?”
Will gives a quiet nod, then sets aside what he is doing. “Devin.” He walks around the bar and stops in front of me. “I’ve seen him before. Short guy, too many teeth crowding their way to the front, shoulder holster he thinks nobody sees.”
“What’d he say?” I prod.
Will reaches into his back pocket and hands me a crumpled slip of paper. I smooth it out. Nothing but an address and time.
“He said you’d know what it meant,” Will says. “Said you’d be smart enough to show up.”
I stare at the paper, memorizing the information. One of his warehouses I’m familiar with. I fold it once and slide it into my back pocket.
Footsteps shuffle in the hallway behind me. I hear the creak of the floorboard outside the office.
“I’ll go with you,” JT calls out, voice low and rough.
I don’t turn. “No.”
“I’m fine.”
“Not even fucking close to fine,” I snap, turning on the heel of my boot to face him.
JT’s leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, chin raised in quiet rebellion against the pain visibly blooming across his features.
The swelling’s gone down, but his eyes are still swollen and bruised, and there’s a long, healing cut along his jaw that already looks like it needs to be rebandaged.
He’s not limping, but he’s stiff. And pissed.
He stares me down, teeth clenched, that fire burning just behind his gaze. He wants to move. To fight. To feel useful. I know that feeling too damn well.
“You’re just beginning to heal,” I say, quieter but firm. “And if this goes sideways, I’m not putting you in the middle of it.”
JT’s jaw ticks. He looks at the floor, then back at me. “Man, I hate this shit.”
I nod. “Yeah. Me too.”
Will steps out from behind me.
“Then I’ll go,” he says.
I shake my head immediately. “Not happening.”
“Hex—”
“No.” I grab his shoulder to draw his attention to my words. “You’ve stayed clean where Stauder’s concerned. You think that’s luck? He hasn’t touched you because you’re not on his radar. Let’s not change that.”
Will crosses his arms, feet braced shoulder-width apart. “You’re not walking into this alone.”
I narrow my eyes. “You don’t think I can handle him?”
Will huffs one short, dry laugh. “I know you can. Doesn’t mean you should have to. And he definitely won’t be alone.”
I stare at him for a beat, rolling my neck to relieve some of the tension I’m having a hard time releasing. “You don’t get it. If he gets even a scent of what you’re capable of, he’ll find a way to use you.”
“You don’t get to protect me from choices I’ve already made. I live this life.” His voice doesn’t rise, doesn’t shake. “We stand together. That’s always been the deal.”
I study him. He’s not built as big as me, but that never mattered when we were younger, barefoot in dirt lots, fists flying, blood on our lips. He preferred precision. I preferred brute force.
That hasn’t changed.
He’s the kind of man who folds his shirts with crisp corners, keeps his shoes spotless, and straightens crooked frames on other people’s walls. Every detail of him is curated, controlled.
To anyone else, Will is the pretty boy. Too put-together. Too calculated. But that’s the trick. That’s what makes him lethal. He’s wiry and fast, sharp as a blade and just as deadly on impact.
A polished shell hiding something far less civilized.
But he’d rather handle the aftermath. Clean the blood, stack the bodies, and return order like it was never broken.
Will doesn’t make threats. He doesn’t posture. He waits, patient as gravity, until certainty sharpens into intent—then moves.
I nod once, slow. “We do it my way.”
“Always.”
Behind him, JT shifts against the doorframe, arms still crossed, but his eyes are softer now. There’s frustration in them, yeah. But he’s not trying to argue anymore.
“We are getting out of this,” I say, looking between them.
Will nods once and slings his jacket on.
I should be thinking about our plan. I should be visualizing exits, angles, contingencies.
Instead, my mind is on Sable. Her voice. The angel wing I drew on her skin. Her son’s name on her lips.
I’ve got plans this week. Meet her kid. Sit at her table.
But there’s no guarantee I walk out of this in one piece.
Stauder never deals straight.
And whatever’s waiting at that warehouse…
It’s not just a conversation.
The warehouse hasn’t changed.
Same rusted panel doors. Half the overhead fluorescents dead or flickering. Paint peeling from the beams the way old skin flakes from a sunburn. There’s still blood on one of the support columns near the far wall. Mine, maybe… or someone else’s.
Back in the day, this place hosted underground fights.
Not the flashy kind with cameras and pay-per-view.
It wasn’t fucking entertainment. It was a meat grinder with a crowd.
Bare fists. Broken ribs. Bets passed hand to hand in blood-soaked bills.
Beaten bodies dragged out the back before they got cold and became a problem.
If you won, you got paid. If you lost, you got stitches…
that is if anyone gave a shit to patch you up.
Stauder owns half the warehouses off Jackson. Paper says storage. Reality says drug pipelines, weapons drops, unlicensed contraband in crates labeled organic produce. He kept the law at arm’s length with hush money and made sure bodies were too mutilated to identify.
Cops didn’t ask questions. Not when their kids’ college funds came from envelopes dropped in mailboxes with no return address.
Will walks in beside me, eyes sharp and scanning the scene in front of us. No need for chit chat.
Five men stand and sit near a folding table in the center of the space. Makeshift chairs. A single fan humming in the corner. All of it too familiar.
Then I see him.
Tanner.
Five-foot-nothing, greasy hair slicked back with spit and cockiness, scraggly goatee that looks glued on in the dark. He’s laughing with one of the others, some smug-ass look on his face, until his eyes meet mine.
The little fuck who touched my brother goes still.
I walk.
Each step a countdown.
Will doesn’t move to stop me.
“Morning,” Tanner says, lips curled like he knows something I don’t.
I don’t answer.
I bury a right hook so deep into his jaw I feel his teeth crunch like gravel underfoot.
His head snaps back, body crashing into crates. Blood hits concrete in a lazy splash.
“That’s for JT, you piece of shit,” I snarl, shaking out the sting. “Say another word, and I’ll make you gargle what’s left of your fucking molars.”
Tanner groans, slouched on the floor, hands over his busted mouth.
“Now, now,” a voice drawls from behind us. “Let’s not get messy before the pleasantries.”
Ned Stauder steps into view.
Close to sixty with weathered skin comparable to cracked leather. He’s lean, relatively still fit for his age. He’s not much to look at in a fight… but that’s the con. The danger isn’t his hands, it’s his reach.
His men flank him. Broad. Armed. Faces blank like they’ve been taught how to kill with no witnesses and even less guilt.
Ned lifts a hand. His muscle pulls back. Obedient dogs waiting on the kill command.
“You done swingin’?” Stauder asks, voice lazy but with an undeniable edge behind it.
I run my other hand over my busted knuckles, blood already drying in the creases. “For now.”
He smirks, slow and crooked, clearly enjoying the advantage of catching me off guard. “Good,” he says. “Let’s talk.”
He nods toward a couple of plastic chairs flanking the folding table, cheap and creaky, one with a cracked leg that’s secured with electrical tape.
I don’t move.
Will doesn’t either. He plants himself by my side, arms folded across his chest, gaze locked on the men standing behind Stauder. Watching their hands, their spacing. Every inch of him is calm.
Stauder shrugs, unbothered. “Suit yourself.”
He circles the table with the ease of a man preparing to deal cards, not leverage someone’s secrets. In one hand, he holds a plain manila folder. He sets it down, drawing my attention, then taps the cover with one nicotine-stained finger.
“You know Brandon Dillinger’s gone missing,” he says. Not a question.
I draw a lazy gaze to meet his. “I’ve heard.”
“Cost me a lot,” Stauder continues, beginning to pace.
He takes measured steps that scratch across the concrete floor.
“His… partnerships kept certain doors open. Made certain people look the other way. Now his company’s crumbling, bleeding money, and I’ve got a goddamn detective sniffing around the carcass. ”
He glances at me, one brow lifted.
“You know Bryant?”
“I know the name.”
“Then you know he’s a fucking bloodhound.”
Knowing exactly how far my reach is, Stauder stops pacing and plants himself just outside my striking range. He clasps his hands loosely in front of him, gaze steady but sharp and testing.
I don’t move a damn muscle.
His face is calm, but I can see the calculation behind it. The tension riding just beneath the casual swagger. He’s not here to make peace.
He’s here to own me again.
“And you wanna know what I find interesting, Hex?” he says, voice quiet but cold. “Brandon met with you just two days before he disappeared. Strange coincidence, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know a fucking thing about it,” I say.
“You think a bar and a few dim-witted loyalists erase the years you spent breaking faces for me?” He chuckles, shaking his head. He leans on the table with both hands. “Don’t insult me.
“You really think you’re clean now?” he asks. “You think you get to wash the blood off just because your whore’s got a kid and a mortgage?”
Rage spills over my patience at the mention of Sable. I lunge, but Will puts his arm out effectively stopping me.
Ned widens his grin, enjoying his provocation.
“You were nothing, Hex. Raised in piss and poverty. Wild. Angry. Your mom? Strung out and seeing angels. You made your living off my name. Off my money. Off my fights. Then when I looked to you to deal with Dillinger’s little girl problem?
What do you do?” He slams a hand on the table.
“You fuck it all up. Like I’ve done nothing for you! ”
He breathes out, slicks his thinning hair back with his palm and gathers himself, then looks up with a grin.
“But see, I’ve got footage. From outside that condo.
That genius little brother of yours must not have swept far enough.
One of my guys caught you and that pretty piece of ass in walking distance from the building. ”
I’m trying so fucking hard not to lose my shit, but I don’t say a word.
“Oh yeah,” he says, shaking his head. “I learned a lot about her. Real interesting woman. Cute shop. Nice little house. Son about the age JT was when your mama got so doped up she saw Jesus.”
I clench my fists so hard, my wrists begin to ache from the tension.
Will steps closer, body taut. “Don’t,” he warns.
My pulse is in my goddamn ears.
Ned knows he’s struck something deep.
“You don’t get to pretend to be human now,” he says, like it’s gospel. “You’re a dog. You’re my dog. And dogs don’t get to play house.”
I sidestep Will and get right into this human shitpile’s face. “What the fuck do you want, Ned?”
Ned licks his bottom lip, like he’s tasted victory before and he’s about to enjoy it again. “The way I see it—you owe me. You cost me Dillinger. Cost me access, money, movement. I’m not here to bury you, Hex. I’m here to give you an out.”
He steps closer, showing me how fearless he is. I take long and slow breaths into his face.
Big fucking mistake.
“I’ve got a fight lined up. Two weeks. Big stakes. Underground stream. You fight for me. You win. All debts cleared. Simple. Or—”
I turn and start walking. Will turns with me, already in step.
“I take a trip to Hawthorne’s house,” Ned calls out, voice ricocheting across the air, fueling the inferno inside me. “Maybe drop a package in the kid’s backpack. Or maybe I just watch. Follow. Wait till you’re not looking,”
I freeze.
Not from fear.
From fury so sharp it turns surgical.
My fists curl so hard the broken skin on my knuckles has blood welling like a warning. I could be across the concrete in seconds. I could break his jaw, his ribs—fracture something essential before anyone gets a hand on me.
And for a second, I want that.
I want it so bad my teeth ache.
I want to hear the crunch.
I want to see him bleed.
I want him to understand what it feels like to beg for breath he doesn't deserve.
But then it hits me—
There are too many men between me and him. Even with Will’s help. Armed. Ready. They wouldn’t just hold me back. They’d take me out.
And while I'm bleeding into the pavement, Sable and Bash would be alone. They would be vulnerable. The angel wing I drew on her skin this morning would mean nothing if I'm not alive to protect what it represents.
They'd be wide open. Unprotected.
He wants me reckless so he can gut the rest of my life without lifting a fucking finger.
I shift my weight. Roll my shoulders back. Quiet. Controlled.
“I’ll be there.”
But make no mistake—
I’ve already made the decision.
I will destroy him.
And it won’t be with fists.
It’ll be slow.
Painful.
And so permanent, even the devil will flinch when he sees what’s left of Ned Stauder.