CHAPTER 4
RUBY P.O.V.
I drag my leaden feet up the fourth flight of stairs, the flickering fluorescent light overhead humming with this annoying, high-pitched buzz that feels like it’s drilling straight into my frontal lobe.
My apron is still shoved aggressively into the bottom of my heavy canvas bag, and the damn thing smells like burnt espresso beans mixed with the absurdly expensive cologne of the guy I basically told to go fuck himself a few hours ago.
The strap is digging a raw red welt into my shoulder, but I don’t even care.
I’m too busy doing the math in my head, my dirty fingers counting the crumpled bills in my jacket pocket.
"Twenty-four dollars. God, I hate this city.
" I mutter the words to the empty, piss-stained stairwell. Twenty-four fucking dollars for a nine-hour shift of dealing with absolute clown behavior from management and customers alike, and I’m short on rent again.
My whole existence right now is a bad joke, just an endless loop of scraping by while dealing with absolute bullshit.
But my brain won't even let me focus on the money because it keeps glitching back to that guy from the café.
The massive one in the tailored suit with the ice-blue eyes and the jagged knife scars.
Anyone else would have pissed themselves when they spilled hot coffee on a guy who looked like a literal mob enforcer, but I just looked him dead in the eye and told him the dry cleaning was coming out of my tips.
The audacity I had in that moment was honestly unhinged.
I still don't know why my survival instincts didn't kick in, why I didn't feel the overwhelming urge to cower and run like every other normal person in a ten-mile radius.
There was just something about the absolute deadness in his eyes that pissed me off more than it scared me.
"Just a shower and sleep. That’s all I need," I tell myself, forcing my legs to keep moving.
I reach into my pocket for my keys, stepping up to my door, but my hand stops mid-motion.
The wood around the deadbolt is completely white and splintered. Jagged shards of cheap pine are littered across the hallway floor like broken teeth. The door isn't just unlocked. The entire frame has been physically buckled inward by a massive, violent impact.
"No. No, no, no," I whisper, the exhaustion evaporating instantly, replaced by a cold, sharp spike of adrenaline that shoots down my spine and makes my fingertips tingle.
I slowly reach out, my hand shaking just a fraction, and touch a large splinter of wood hanging off the frame.
My short fingernail catches on the rough edge.
My breath hitches in the sudden, suffocating silence of the hallway.
The metallic, raw scent of the broken lock hits my nose.
My heart starts hammering like a bass drum against my ribs, drowning out the music down the hall.
This isn't a random junkie kicking in a door for a TV.
You don't hit a door this hard unless you know exactly what you're doing.
"Desmond, you idiot, what did you do?" I hiss under my breath.
My brother is a walking, talking red flag who has been dragging me into his messes for years, but this feels entirely different. This feels professional. Lethal.
I push the door open with the toe of my sneaker.
It groans on its bent hinges. The small apartment is a graveyard of my pathetic, meager belongings.
My thrifted bookshelf is overturned, paperbacks spilled everywhere like trash.
My single potted plant is smashed to hell across the scuffed hardwood floor, the dark potting soil spread out and looking exactly like a dried bloodstain in the dim light filtering through the window.
The sheer violation of it makes my stomach turn.
This is my space. My tiny, shitty, hard-earned sanctuary, and they just ripped it apart because of him.
I step inside, my eyes darting to the heavy shadows behind the overturned sofa.
I sidestep a broken ceramic mug, the earthy smell of the spilled dirt mixing with the draft of cold air coming through the torn curtains fluttering at the window.
Far off, a car alarm is blaring on the street, but in here, it’s dead quiet. Until it isn't.
A muffled, wet sob echoes out from the kitchen.
"Is someone there?" I call out, my voice tight but louder than I expect. I drop my bag. "I’m calling the police!"
I don't even have my phone in my hand, but I bluff it, stepping carefully over the debris.
I know I should run. I should turn right back around, run down those four flights of stairs, and never come back.
But that pathetic sob is Desmond. Even after all the gambling, the lies, the constant draining of my life force, I can't just leave him to whatever animals broke in here.
I round the corner, stepping over the threshold into the small kitchen, and freeze.
Desmond is lashed to a wooden dining chair in the center of the linoleum floor with thick, industrial zip-ties cutting into his wrists and ankles.
His face is a ruined map of purple, swollen bruises and split, weeping skin.
But it's not the sight of my beaten brother that makes the blood drain from my face.
It's the three men standing around him. They look entirely out of place in my rundown tenement.
They are wearing bespoke charcoal suits that probably cost more than I make in three fucking years.
They aren't street thugs. They are corporate predators. The leader of the group is leaning casually against my small, humming refrigerator beneath the bright, unforgiving fluorescent kitchen light. He’s tapping a slow, arrogant rhythm on the metal door with a heavy gold signet ring.
"Finally. The guest of honor," the leader says, his voice smooth and completely devoid of human warmth.
"Desmond, look at me. Look at me!" I demand, ignoring the suit entirely.
The air in the kitchen smells like their expensive, spicy cologne mixed with the harsh, copper tang of Desmond's blood. The leader’s eyes track me, and they are as empty as the scarred guy from the café, but the vibe is completely wrong.
The café guy felt like a force of nature, a storm you just happen to get caught in.
This guy feels like a snake waiting for you to step on it.
The leader pushes off the fridge and stands up straight, taking his sweet time smoothing the front of his tailored jacket.
He gestures lazily toward Desmond’s bleeding face.
"Your brother has a very creative imagination when it comes to debt settlement, Ruby. He told us he had an asset we’d find... intriguing."
The word 'asset' makes my skin crawl so hard I feel physically sick.
The absolute audacity of these men breaking into my home and talking about me like I'm a used car on a lot.
My hand instinctively creeps backward toward the cheap laminate counter behind me, my fingers splaying out, blindly searching for anything heavy, anything sharp, anything I can use to bash his fucking teeth down his throat.
"I’m not an asset. I’m his sister," I snap, holding my ground.
The leader chuckles, a dry, humorless sound. "He’s more than paid for, gentlemen. He’s the down payment."
I ignore the men and lock my eyes onto Desmond. He’s avoiding my gaze, his head hanging low, his chin touching his chest as a drop of blood falls onto his stained shirt. "Tell me," I whisper, my voice trembling with a rage so thick I can barely swallow around it. "Tell me you didn't do this."
Desmond finally lifts his head. His swollen eye is leaking pathetic tears. "I had no choice, Fal. They were going to kill me."
The absolute cowardice of it hits me like a physical blow to the sternum.
Every double shift I worked, every meal I skipped so he could make rent, every time I bailed him out of jail—rendered completely fucking meaningless because he couldn't take a beating like a man.
He chose his own pathetic life over mine.
"You sold me. You actually sold me," I say, the words tasting like ash in my mouth.
The largest enforcer of the three steps toward me.
He’s got a thick, bull-like neck, a heavily scarred brow, and he reeks of cheap peppermint gum trying to mask cigarette breath.
"Enough talk. We have a schedule to keep.
Don't make this difficult, sweetheart." He reaches out with a massive, meaty hand to grab my bicep.
The moment his rough wool sleeve brushes my skin, the fear completely vaporizes. I just snap. I jerk my arm back violently, my shoulder blade slamming into the wooden cabinets behind me with a dull thud.
"Get your hands off me," I spit.
The enforcer’s eyes narrow, his jaw clenching. "The hard way it is, then."
He lunges. Before I can dart out of the way, his massive hand clamps down on a fistful of my dark, chopped hair.
He wrenches my head back so hard my neck cracks.
I gasp, my scalp absolutely screaming in white-hot pain, tears instantly prickling the corners of my eyes.
But I don't pull away. If I pull back, he has all the leverage.
I lean directly into the violent motion, throwing my entire body weight forward, and drive my knee upward with every single ounce of feral strength I possess.
My sneakers slip slightly on the slick linoleum, but the angle is dead-on.
The sickening thud of my knee connecting squarely with his groin echoes in the small kitchen.
"Jesus—!" the enforcer chokes out. He instantly deflates, his grip ripping from my hair as he folds in half. The sound of his breath leaving his body in a ragged wheeze is the best thing I’ve ever heard.
"I told you not to touch me!" I scream at him.
I don't even wait for him to hit the floor.
I spin toward the counter, my hand slamming down until my fingers wrap around the base of my heavy ceramic table lamp.
I yank it hard, ripping the cord straight out of the wall socket, and swing the entire thing in a massive, desperate arc just as the leader steps forward to grab me.
The cord whips wildly through the air, the plastic plug smacking into the metal toaster with a loud clack right before the heavy ceramic base connects with its actual target.
"Stay back!" I yell.
The lamp smashes directly into the side of the leader's face. The crunch of ceramic shattering against bone is deafening. A spray of hot blood erupts from his nose, splattering across my cheek in a warm, sickening mist. The smell of dust from the pulverized lamp base fills the air.
"You bitch!" the leader roars, stumbling backward and clutching his ruined, profusely bleeding face. I can literally see the white glint of bone protruding from the bridge of his nose. Good. Fucking bleed.
But I don't have time to reset. The third man doesn't try to grab my arms or negotiate.
He just drops his shoulder and tackles me like a linebacker.
His weight hits my midsection like a freight train, driving every single ounce of oxygen from my lungs in a violent rush.
We both crash into the small, rickety kitchen table, shattering one of the wooden legs and sending the whole thing skidding violently across the linoleum floor.
I hit the ground flat on my back, the impact jarring my teeth.
He’s instantly on top of me, pinning my thighs down with his heavy knees.
I thrash beneath him, kicking, bucking my hips, going absolutely feral as I reach up and claw at his face.
My nails dig deep into his cheeks, dragging down and leaving thick, red furrows of torn skin.
"Pin her down! Use the damn needle!" the leader screams from somewhere above, his voice thick and wet with his own blood.
"No! Let me go!" I scream back, my voice tearing my throat raw.
My lungs are burning, desperate for air I can’t get with his weight crushing my chest. The cold linoleum is freezing against my spine.
I taste heavy copper in my mouth where I bit the inside of my cheek during the fall.
I keep clawing, punching whatever I can reach, but he grabs both of my wrists in one massive hand and slams them down onto the floor above my head.
The first enforcer—the one I kneed—crawls back into my field of vision.
His face is twisted into an ugly, sweaty mask of pure rage.
He reaches out and grabs my jaw in a vise grip, his thick fingers digging into my cheeks and forcing my head flat against the hard floor until I see black spots dancing in my vision.
In his other hand, he’s holding a pre-loaded hypodermic needle.
"You’re going to regret that, girl," he snarls, his breath hot and smelling violently of peppermint and bile.
My eyes lock onto the needle. The harsh kitchen light catches the tiny, clear bead of liquid trembling at the very tip of the steel. It’s over. The fight, the scratching, the adrenaline—it doesn't mean shit against chemistry.
"Please, don't. Please," I choke out, the words muffled by his hand crushing my jaw. I hate myself for begging. I hate that I’m giving them the satisfaction.
The cold, sharp sting of the needle slides into the side of my neck. I feel the distinct, sickening pop as it pierces the skin and enters the muscle. The sharp, clinical smell of rubbing alcohol fills my nose.
A wave of artificial, chemical heat instantly rushes from the puncture wound, flooding down my neck and straight into my chest. It races through my veins like boiling water.
My limbs, which were just thrashing wildly a second ago, suddenly turn to solid lead.
The connection between my brain and my muscles is completely severed.
My eyes stay open, staring straight up at the cracked plaster ceiling, but I can’t even blink.
The men get off me, their heavy weight disappearing, but I can't sit up. I can't move my arms. The last thing I see in my peripheral vision is Desmond’s dirty boots. He’s still sitting in that chair, still crying, his pathetic sobs echoing as if they’re coming from the end of a very long, very dark tunnel.
"She’s under. Move her," the leader’s muffled voice orders.
"I'm sorry, Ruby. I'm so sorry," Desmond weeps.
My fingers twitch exactly once, the tips resting softly in the pile of spilled dirt from my broken plant.
The sound of my own heartbeat slows down in my ears, the thumps turning sluggish and heavy.
The bright fluorescent light above me blurs into a hazy, washed-out white.
My body is completely shut down, heavy and useless on the cold floor.
But inside my head, behind the paralysis, there is no fear left. Only a cold, vicious promise.
I’m going to kill him. I'm going to kill them all.