Page 4 of Heartfelt Pain (Ruling Love #3)

Ren

T he alarm goes off at five like it does every morning. I don’t hit snooze or else I won’t get out of bed. And if I don’t get out of bed, I don’t earn money. Work is a vicious cycle.

Hair sticks to my face as I stand directly under the stream of hot water. Bottles of fancy shampoo, conditioner, and body wash line the tiny shelf. I shave my legs and afterward wrap a fluffy towel tight around me.

The ensuite bathroom is the one spot not as messy as anywhere else. Bottles and tubes still clutter the countertop, but that’s normal, right? Girls have lots of stuff.

Serum, moisturizer, and SPF go on. I let the skincare soak in, combing back my brown hair. It’ll crimp into awful waves if I let it air dry.

The TV plays in the background. Morning news because I am an educated woman who listens to such worldly affairs. And okay, I like their accents when I listen to the BBC.

I spray leave-in conditioner and focus on makeup.

I use a generous amount of concealer. Contour, bronzer, blush, and a tiny bit of highlighter to finish it off.

A thin line of eyeliner on the top lashes.

A shit ton of mascara. My morning coffee will eventually ruin the neutral gloss I coat my lips with.

Rough drying my brunette locks, I run the straightener through my hair. I top it off with an oil, making my hair shiny and smooth.

Everything is finished with a setting spray.

Then I move on to clothes.

My phone remains on the charger on my nightstand, but I hear it buzzing. It’s surrounded by a ring of empty soda cans. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted to already pop open a crisp new one. I make myself wait until at least lunchtime, though.

There’s a collection of pressed trousers in my closet. The best decision I’ve made in a long time is sending off my dry cleaning. A total game changer considering I’m more of the I accidentally forgot to do any laundry type.

I keep it neutral with a pair a black flare trouser with a black button-down. I’m not feeling festive, considering the businessmen I’m about to meet with never have a sense of humor.

I pull on a blazer, adjusting my collar and shaking my hair back.

Stilettos go on.

I finally pick up my phone. Thirty texts, half from Isolde and Ben, meaning it’s not as bad as normal. At least, until I check my emails.

I’m proud of myself when I stop by my couch and pick a book off the floor. I drop it into the big leather carryall I use.

Do I think I’ll have time to stop and read some smut today? No, but a girl can hope. Plus, I’d totally make Len’s day if she knew I was carrying around this month’s book club pick. It’s probably the closest I’ll get to actually reading it.

“Good morning,” the doorman says. I make a point to look up from my phone and smile. There’s no good in being rude to the guy.

The pavement is wet, but the short trip between the building and the waiting car service isn’t bad.

I appreciate the driver’s silence. My foot bobs up and down as I answer texts while listening to the morning radio.

I’m dropped off right in front of Fujimori’s.

I don’t mind walking, I swear. But have you tried walking around this city in high heels?

Sure I could put on a pair of sneakers and switch when I get to my office. But does Ren Callahan seem like the type of person to be caught in sneakers?

Hell no.

Businessmen wear suits. It’s the quickest thing I learned when I started hanging out with the criminal lords.

And I am a fucking great businesswoman.

Four years ago, the Russians took one look at my naive sneaker and T-shirt combo and saw an opportunity to play me. Now, I get why Lev and Boris only ever wear suits. Dima and Isolde, as the gunman, have the privilege of wearing sweatpants.

At first, the thought of taking over Aunt Macy’s operations almost overwhelmed me. And not just for the obvious reasons.

I’d worked retail most of my life. I didn’t know anything about running an actual business.

I’ve found it satisfying, though. I’m tired all the time, but I love it. I love making money. I love living my life on my own terms. I can’t ever see myself going back to a normal nine-to-five.

Me and this shadowy world, I’ve found myself in—I think I’m in it for good.

At least as long as they’ll have me.

Working with certain figures comes with its risks.

But Fujimori’s is hallowed ground. You make a hit here, you’ll find no peace.

It’s why all the bodies I keep finding never show up here.

Sometimes people bitch about Fujimori’s rules, but the truth is, the criminal world likes having a neutral ground.

A spot for deals, or messages that could stop potential turf wars. When things need to calm down, this is the spot. It’s a mixture of hardened business transactions and influential negotiations.

I make it a point to always enter through the front. I will never hide from people. If somebody is going to take me out, even if they’re stupid enough to do it at Fujimori’s, they won’t find me cowering. Not anymore.

Jane’s already opened the front door. I don’t see her, though, I know she’s here. She’s the one who turns on the soft music. Abe’s dad doesn’t know how to work the sound system and Abe blasts heavy metal.

Though, in a few minutes Abe’s dad will choose the first song on the jukebox of the day.

My hand lovingly touches the large thing as I walk past. It showed up on New Year’s Eve and I swear it’s the best thing ever.

“Hey.” I lean up against a metal worktable. Abe’s dad shoots me a toothy grin before his attention is pulled to something in the alleyway.

I survey the state of the kitchen. “You’ve already got a lot going on?”

Abe slams celery onto the table. Pretty sure that’s going to bruise. “That’s what happens when we schedule meetings at eight in the morning.”

I’d like to pour myself a cup of coffee, but Abe’s narrowed eyes make me reconsider the timing. “I’m sorry, Jane said it’d be okay.”

She might not like my cigarette habit, but Jane is easygoing. She has to be considering how her husband and son act on a daily basis.

It also probably helps that the Fujimori’s understand the importance of the restaurant. The city needs a spot where bullshit is put to the side. It’s how the really bad shit never spills over to the point that the Feds are breathing down the city’s neck.

Abe normally understands that too.

“You still not over the dead body?” I ask. It’s been a couple of days.

He slams his knife down. “You shouldn’t be either!”

Oh, my dear, dramatic friend. He’s clearly on his fifth cup of coffee so I don’t feel bad about pouring myself one.

There’s a lot of aggressive celery chopping as he talks. “You clearly didn’t read all of Ben’s messages.”

I hold the steaming mug close, inhaling the strong scent of caffeine. Ben’s morning messages always get a cursory glance. They’re normally too important to go unnoticed. But seeing as I didn’t spot any scheduling or business details, I didn’t do a nose dive.

And okay, yes. It’s because I knew what they were about.

“I know Ben texted you all my frustrations.” There’s a hard whack of the knife. “Because apparently I’m annoying when I worry away all night.”

“You don’t have to worry,” I say, blowing on my coffee. I’m desperate for a sip but don’t want to burn my tongue.

Abe throws his hands up. “Oh, right! Because finding out that there’s a serial killer who’s targeting my best friend isn’t reason to worry.”

“I mean technically he’s only after my ex’s.” I mutter into my mug, “Good thing you’re gay.”

He throws me a furious look. “Now is not the time for jokes. ”

Half of my face remains covered by the coffee mug, but I lift a brow. “Have you not met any of us?”

Shit, he’s lucky, Isolde isn’t here yet.

“My concerns should be taken seriously.” Abe rubs his hands on his apron. “Unless, you’re wanting to get offed by a serial killer?”

“Maybe we shouldn’t be referring to him as a serial killer. We don’t know all the bodies are connected.”

Abe sighs, frustration and exasperation all mixed together.

“Okay, well, I’m going to go finish my coffee.” I turn to leave. I’ll shelter in my preferred booth and hope Abe takes pity on me enough to feed me later.

He stops me instead. “You know this isn’t okay? This isn’t normal.”

Isn’t it? Our world is full of dead bodies. One day I’ll be a dead body.

They say moving to the city makes you blase about a lot. Try working with various criminal syndicates. You become apathetic in no time.

“Ren.” He tries again. “This isn’t random.”

The mug is warm in my hand. The coffee and cloudy weather should make the morning feel cozy. It’s anything but. “I know,” I reply after a moment. Deep down, I’m grateful for his concern. Grateful I have friends who trudged through the rain to help me find a dead body.

But I’ve got a day full of meetings. I’ve got messages to respond to. My accountant wants to talk.

I’ll figure out the dead bodies. Really, I will. Just not at this moment.

Each time I light up, Jane glances at me, so around lunchtime, I escape to the alleyway behind the restaurant. It’s just me and the rats as I inhale tobacco.

Steady footsteps pull my attention to a tall man with broad shoulders.

“Boris Akatov,” I greet.

My feet ache and I’d love to lean up against the brick wall but I don’t want the material to rub my blazer. I settle for crossing my arms over my chest as I take another drag of the cigarette.

It’s not often I come into contact with Lennie’s dad. The last time I saw him, I’d helped Adeline and Elijah rescue Len from the batshit Leopold Stuart. That happened almost six months ago.

The cut of his suit is impeccable. His smile brightens his face and he keeps his hands in his pockets, his shoulders relaxed.

I can’t help but compare him to Lev. And the Russian is certainly on my mind since I called him a few nights ago. But at least Boris doesn’t glide in on fake swagger and inflated ego.