Page 254 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

QUINN

I barely register the passing scenery as Malcolm’s men drive me back to his house. I can’t stop turning Imogen’s words over and over again in my mind.

Every member of the Dark Lotus Syndicate has the same kind of story.

They all joined to make someone’s death mean something.

The only way into the Syndicate is through blood.

The pieces click together with a clarity that makes my stomach turn. Malcolm says the Syndicate is a partnership of equals, a collection of Detroit’s most powerful crime bosses united for mutual benefit. But it’s all bullshit. It’s not a partnership—it’s a fucking leash he keeps around their necks.

He kills someone they love, then offers them power as compensation.

It’s a twisted kind of blood money. And the rules they all follow so strictly?

They’re just another method of control. Malcolm changes them whenever it suits him, like he did for me, proving to everyone exactly who holds the real power.

No wonder Imogen looked so bitter when she talked about him. No wonder she said they were all suffocating.

The guard sitting next to me clears his throat. “Are you okay, Mrs. Mercer? You look pale.”

That disgusting name snaps me back to reality and I force myself to blink and breathe again. “I’m fine.”

But I’m not. I’m so fucking far from fine that I can’t even see it from here.

I twist the wedding ring on my left hand and remind myself that it’s a symbol of my own blood debt. My own sacrifice. I made a deal with Malcolm to save my men, just like the others made deals to honor their dead. We’re all trapped in the same fucking web, with Malcolm sitting at the center.

We pull into the driveway of Malcolm’s suburban mansion, and I stare up at the imposing place I’ve been forced to call home. Before, I thought of it as a prison. My prison. Now I can’t stop seeing it as a mausoleum that’s been built from the lives Malcolm has destroyed.

Including someone my father cared about.

I storm through the front door, barely acknowledging the staff members who scurry out of my way. For once, I’m not trying to creep around unnoticed or avoid Malcolm’s attention. I need answers, and I need them now.

I check Malcolm’s pretentious little library first, full of books he probably hasn’t even read, then the living room. Empty. A maid tells me he’s in his office on the second floor, and I take the stairs two at a time.

There hasn’t been a lot of time for me to think through what I’m going to say when I’m face to face with him, but I’m not inclined to hold back at the moment.

The door to his office is closed, and I throw it open hard enough that it bangs against the wall so hard it sounds like a gunshot has gone off in the quiet house.

Malcolm looks up from his desk, visibly annoyed. “Welcome home, darling. How was your playdate with Imogen?”

Fucking asshole. He doesn’t even know why I’m upset, but he still can’t resist rubbing salt in the wound.

“Why did my father have the marker?” I walk right up to his desk and put my palms down flat so I can lean in toward him. “Why was he offered membership in the Syndicate? What did you have to do with any of it?”

Malcolm’s expression doesn’t change, but I can see him cataloging my reaction, filing it away to use against me later. He thrives on these moments of vulnerability—when the masks slip and the raw nerves underneath are exposed.

But I don’t care. Not about appearances, not about staying under the radar, not about playing it safe. I need answers more than I need to maintain my dignity.

“Tell me what you did,” I demand. “I need to know what you took from him.”

Malcolm’s eyes harden. He leans back in his chair, putting distance between us as his fingers tap a slow, deliberate rhythm against the armrest.

“I don’t think this is a productive line of questioning.” He looks pissed, but his tone doesn’t give anything away. “What’s in the past is done. It can’t be changed. Your father made his choices, and I made mine. It has no bearing on our current arrangement.”

Nope. I’ll be damned if he’s going to dismiss me that fucking easily.

“Bullshit. Answer the fucking question.”

“Mind your tone. You may be my wife now, but don’t mistake that for permission to speak to me however you please.”

I lean in farther, refusing to be intimidated. “I think I have a right to know what blood debt my father paid for his membership, and what part you played in it.”

“A right?” Malcolm’s laugh is cold and harsh. “Don’t be naive. It doesn’t suit you. There are no rights in our world—only power and those who wield it.” He stands abruptly and turns to face the window. “This conversation is over.”

The hell it is . I circle around the desk, putting myself between him and the view of the perfectly manicured, overly formal gardens he’s attempting to dismiss me for.

“No. It’s not over.” I square my shoulders and plant my feet, bracing for the worst he can do. “Tell me what happened. Tell me what you did to my family.”

His jaw tightens, and he looks down at me like he’s considering throwing me out the window. If he does, I’m bringing him with me. “I didn’t do anything to your family. If you’re determined to have this conversation, at least get your facts straight.”

“Then correct me,” I say. “Tell me what really happened.”

For a long moment, we stare at each other as he calculates and assesses, no doubt deciding whether answering or continuing to refuse will give him more control.

“This isn’t going to give you the closure you’re looking for,” he says finally. “Some stones are better left unturned.”

“They’re my stones to turn.” I cross my arms, both to prove I’m still standing my ground and to keep myself from fidgeting in nervous anticipation of whatever he’s about to say. “I’m not leaving until you tell me.”

He studies me for another long moment, then sighs like a parent dealing with a stubborn child. “Fine. If you’re so determined to pick at old scabs.” He gestures toward a chair. “You might want to sit for this.”

I remain standing, unwilling to follow even his smallest command.

His lips twitch in what might be amusement before he schools his expression again. “Your father was a talented man, and quite resourceful. Before he built Enigma, he was a contractor of sorts. I hired him for a particular job that required a good amount of discretion.”

“What kind of job?”

“There was an organization moving into Detroit at the time, trying to establish a foothold in the drug trade. They were ambitious and ruthless. And they were in my way.” His voice is matter-of-fact, as if we’re simply discussing business.

“Your father planted evidence that led to several of their key members being arrested in a DEA raid. Three of them received life sentences.”

I try to picture my father doing Malcolm’s dirty work, setting up strangers to take a fall. It doesn’t fit with the man I knew, but that’s becoming an unfortunate theme lately.

“The job went perfectly,” Malcolm continues. “Your father executed it flawlessly, as agreed. Unfortunately, someone talked, and the surviving members discovered who was responsible.”

A sense of dread creeps up my spine. “And they came after him.”

“They made him pay, but not by going after him.” His eyes meet mine—cold and dead, like the shark he is. “They went after your mother.”

I feel like I’ve just been punched in the face. I go completely still while my heart seizes in my chest.

My mother died because of Malcolm.

Maybe indirectly, but it was because of a job he hired my father to do. A domino he pushed over that eventually led to my mother being killed, to my father building Enigma, to me standing in this office and married to a man I despise.

I stare at him in stunned silence, trying to process the enormity of what he’s just revealed.

I think of Imogen, of the bitterness that edged her voice when she spoke of Malcolm.

Of her sister’s death being the reason she joined the Syndicate.

Now I understand that bitterness, because I feel it too.

“You’re a monster.” It’s the most honest thing I can say to him, but I know it won’t make a difference. Calling him out won’t change the trajectory my life is on, and it sure as hell won’t change the past.

“I’m not a monster.” His tone is almost gentle, and that makes it even more unnerving.

“If I were a monster, I wouldn’t have been so patient with my new wife.

” He steps around the desk, moving toward me with deliberate calm.

“If I were a monster, I wouldn’t have allowed you to sleep in a separate room, in another bed, keeping from me what’s rightfully mine. ”

The possessive claim in his voice makes my stomach churn. I’ve been tiptoeing around this moment since our “wedding,” knowing it was coming but hoping to delay it as long as possible.

“Nothing about me is yours,” I say, but we both know the truth.

In this world, according to its rules, I am his. On paper. In name. In the eyes of the Syndicate.

“ Everything about you is mine.” His voice drops to a dangerous growl that makes my muscles tense. “Your name. Your body. Your future.”

I think of Nico, of that stolen moment in the bar bathroom. Of his hands on my skin and his mouth on mine. Of belonging to someone by choice instead of coercion.

Malcolm stalks toward me as he speaks, and my pulse kicks up. I move backward, maintaining my distance until my back hits the bookshelf.

He closes the gap between us in two long strides. Before I can slip away, his hand shoots out and grips my jaw hard enough to leave a bruise. I try to pull free, but he holds me in place so easily it’s terrifying.

“You think you’re still the one in control here?” he asks. “That you’re the one making choices?”

His mouth crashes down on mine, brutal and possessive. There’s no passion in it, only dominance—a reminder of his power and authority. His other hand slides up my side, groping roughly at my breast through my shirt.