Beautiful Ruins (Beautifully Ruined #3)

Chapter 1

Raze

Water dripped somewhere in the dark, slow and steady, like the building itself was bleeding out.

The concrete floor was uneven, cracked in places, slick with damp that had no business existing this far underground.

I took one careful step, then another, watching my boots more than the men waiting for me.

Italian leather didn’t deserve this kind of abuse.

If I scuffed them for this deal, someone was going to lose a kneecap.

The space had once been part of an old factory—manufacturing something harmless; buttons, if my memory serves me. Now it was stripped down to bare bones and shadows, with rusted support beams and crates stacked haphazardly like they’d been dropped and forgotten.

The men across from me were Bratva. Five of them, packed into thick coats that didn’t quite hide the guns beneath them.

Their thick accents weighed down every word, and their eyes never stopped moving as they surveyed their surroundings for threats.

Paranoid bastards. I would be too, if I were meeting with me.

They were armed, badly trained, and sweating through their collars.

It felt like this meeting mattered more to them than it did to me. Which meant it probably did.

“You bring what you promised?” The leader inquired. The scar through his eyebrow gave his face a permanent scowl, and his hand hovered at his gun like it needed reassurance. With fingers that jittery, he’d probably put a bullet in his own thigh before I gave him a reason to use it.

I nodded once.

The case snapped open at my feet. Inside was order in a place that rarely deserved it—compact charges fitted snugly, the wiring color-coded and fancy, detonators secured and ready. Clean. Beautiful in a way only precision could be.

Art.

The Bratva leader leaned closer, eyes lighting up despite himself.

“Military grade?” he probed.

I nodded once, wordless, but my eyes obviously held all the answers he needed.

The grin split his face, slow and greedy. “You enjoy this.”

I lifted one shoulder, shrugging easily. “Some people paint. Some people cook. I like things that go boom.”

A few of his men chuckled, the sound thin and unsure. The one in front didn’t join in. His gaze never left my hands, tracking every small movement like he expected me to explode out of sheer enthusiasm.

We were mid-negotiation when I heard a sound that didn’t belong to either side.

Neither, I realized, did it belong to the rats that claimed this basement as their kingdom.

It was too pronounced. A soft scrape, like metal kissing metal, even though it seemed like someone was trying very hard not to be heard.

I went still, my body coiling with tension.

So did my men. Their shoulders tightened, hands drifting lower, closer to their weapons. The air in the room changed, thickening, sharpening. It always did in that split second before violence stepped out of the shadows and decided who it liked.

Then the interruption came again. But this time, it was so much more.

It was a short breath. Shallow, regular, and definitely human.

And so wrong in this scenario.

I didn’t wait for confirmation. Nor did I give anyone time to speak or reach for their weapon or panic.

I moved. One moment I was standing by the case. The next, I was gone.

I crossed the space in two long strides, any concern for my leather boots abandoned as they sloshed through the water pooling across the concrete. Expensive, yes. Replaceable, also yes.

I didn’t stop to think. Thinking was slower.

Instinct took over, quick and ugly and entirely familiar.

The stacked crates along the wall rose out of the darkness.

I kicked one aside without ceremony and reached into the narrow gap behind it, my fingers closing on fabric and flesh at the same time—soft where it mattered, solid where it counted.

Whoever was hiding there sucked in a sharp breath, like they’d been foolish enough to believe the shadows would protect them, before they let out a yelp.

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. And why.”

“And if she’s nothing?” he pressed.

“Then she’s mine to deal with.”

The room went deathly still.

That did it. I saw it land—the change in posture, the recalculation. Ownership carried weight in this world. Claiming something, even something small and shaking in your hand, drew a clear line.

I reached into my pocket and withdrew a syringe, already loaded with clear liquid. I never left home without it.

The woman’s eyes flew to the syringe, panic surging so hard it vibrated through her body. She shook her head, a broken, desperate movement.

“I’ll be gentle,” I murmured, my voice low.

I pressed the needle into her neck.

She went slack almost immediately, strength draining out of her like someone had pulled a plug. Her weight folded forward, sudden and awkward, and I caught her before she hit the floor, irritation flaring at the inconvenience.

She was lighter than I expected.

“Christ,” one of the men cursed. “You’re taking her with you?”

“I am.”

“She could be trouble.”

I handed her off to one of my men without ceremony. “She won’t be.”

“And if she is?” the Bratva leader bit out.

I straightened, wiping my hand on my coat. “Like I said. Then she’s my problem.”

He watched me for a long moment, eyes searching for any signs of weakness and finding none. Finally, he nodded once.

“Your problem.”

“Exactly.”

I turned back to the case, dragged it shut, and resumed the deal as if nothing had happened. Business first. Curiosity second.

And the girl? She’d wake up soon enough. And when she did, we’d have a very interesting conversation.