Page 273 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

QUINN

“So that’s our proposal,” Imogen finishes, her voice echoing slightly in Rafael’s cavernous storehouse.

The place smells like dust, machine oil, and the faint metallic tang of gunpowder.

Crates stacked to the ceiling form narrow corridors between them, and I’d be willing to bet that each one is filled with the kinds of goods that would make any cop’s day if they ever got a warrant to search this place.

My heart pounds as I watch Rafael’s face. He’s giving nothing away, those intelligent eyes scanning both of us like we’re just another set of merchandise he’s evaluating. Unlike Elliot’s brute force approach to everything, Rafael is calculating, seemingly always running odds in his head.

“Let me make sure I understand,” he says finally, leaning against a wooden crate marked ‘Agriculture Equipment’ that I’m positive contains no such thing. “You want to take Malcolm out. Kill him. Then dissolve the Syndicate entirely and go back to operating independently.”

“That’s right,” I say, holding his gaze. “No more strings. No more votums. No more blood debts.”

Rafael rubs his stubbled jaw. “You know, when you joined the Syndicate, I had a feeling about you.” His lips curl into something that’s not quite a smile. “It’s been a little like watching someone toss a hand grenade into a crowded room and waiting for the explosion.”

I tense, ready to defend myself, but he continues before I can.

“I still don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing,” he says, studying me.

“The Syndicate existed for years before you showed up. We had some turnover, sure, but the structure stayed the same. Malcolm at the top, with the rest of us following orders. Now you’ve been with us what, a couple months? And you’re already planning a coup.”

His tone isn’t accusatory—more curious, like he’s trying to figure out what makes me tick. I know every word matters right now. Rafael could be a powerful ally or a deadly enemy, and he’s balanced on the knife-edge between the two.

“It wasn’t my plan to shake things up,” I tell him honestly. “But Malcolm forced my hand when he made me marry him.”

“And before that?” Rafael raises an eyebrow. “You were perfectly content to be part of his organization? Somehow I doubt that.”

I don’t flinch from his gaze. “No. I never wanted to be part of the Syndicate. The opportunity presented itself as the lesser of two evils. That’s what I thought at the time, anyway.”

Rafael pushes away from the crate and paces a few steps. His hands are in his pockets, but there’s tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there before.

“I’ve been in the Syndicate for a long time,” he says, his voice thoughtful. “I’ve spent years playing by Malcolm’s rules, only to watch him bend those same rules whenever it suited him.”

He stops and turns to face us again. “My mother died because of him, you know. Not directly—he didn’t pull the trigger. But she was collateral damage in one of his operations. And his solution?” Rafael laughs, a bitter sound. “Offer me a place at the table. As if power could replace family.”

I nod, understanding all too well how Malcolm works. “He did the same to all of us. He used our grief and our losses to bind us to him.”

“But that’s just it,” Rafael says, his eyes suddenly sharp. “I allowed it. We all did. I told myself the power was worth it, that my mother’s death shouldn’t be for nothing. We all made that same bet—that the Syndicate offered protection, resources, connections we couldn’t get on our own.”

He runs a hand through his hair, his face troubled. “But what has it really given me? The illusion of freedom while Malcolm pulls the strings? Safety, as long as I follow his rules? I built my whole empire on calculated risks, on beating the odds. And then I handed control of it all to him.”

The warehouse falls silent as his words hang in the air. I hold my breath, sensing we’re close to winning him over but not wanting to push too hard.

“I felt the same way,” Imogen says softly, breaking the silence. “After Layla died, I was… broken. Malcolm swooped in with his offer, and it felt like a lifeline. A way to make her death mean something.”

She crosses her arms, and her expression hardens. “But that’s how he keeps us all under his thumb. He finds us at our weakest moment and offers what looks like strength. By the time we realize the cost, we’re already trapped.”

Rafael nods slowly. “And the others? Elliot? Cassandra?”

“They’re in,” I confirm. “We’re just waiting on Owen. Which may be a bit difficult, if he’s still holding a grudge about what I did to his nose.”

“Imogen will handle him,” Rafael says with a knowing smirk. “He’ll follow her anywhere.”

Imogen rolls her eyes but doesn’t deny it. “We need numbers on our side. Owen may be predictable, but he’s still a vote.”

“And then what?” Rafael asks, looking over at me again. “We kill Malcolm, dissolve the Syndicate, and all go our separate ways? Just like that?”

“Just like that,” I say firmly. “No power struggles. No new hierarchy. Just freedom.”

He studies me for a long moment, and I can almost see the calculations happening behind his eyes—weighing risks, measuring benefits, calculating his odds of survival.

Then, suddenly, Rafael throws his head back and laughs—a genuine sound this time, surprising in its warmth.

“What the hell,” he says, wiping his eyes. “You know why I got into this business in the first place? Because I love the odds. The rush of taking a chance when the stakes are high.” He spreads his hands. “And what’s a bigger gamble than this?”

Relief floods through me, but I keep my expression neutral. This is three down, with just one left to go.

“You realize you’ll probably get us all killed,” he adds, but he’s still smiling. “Malcolm has resources we don’t even know about. Connections in places we can’t touch. If we fail…”

“We won’t,” I say with more confidence than I should be entitled to feel.

Rafael’s smile turns knowing. “That’s what I like about you, Quinn. You believe your own bullshit.”

“So that’s a definite yes?” Imogen presses.

He nods. “I’m in. Things were getting boring anyway.” He gestures around at his warehouse. “All this… it’s just stuff. Merchandise. It’s been a long time since I felt the real thrill of the game.”

“This isn’t a game,” I warn him.

“Everything’s a game. The only difference is the stakes. And these?” He lets out a low whistle. “These are the highest I’ve ever played for.”

The next two days are filled with tension and forced smiles as I wait for word from Imogen. When it finally comes, it’s just what everyone predicted—Owen is in.

That’s it. The final piece. Everyone in the Syndicate is united against Malcolm.

I should feel good. We’re well on our way to winning the battle that’s coming. Instead, I feel like I’m walking a tightrope with no safety net. One wrong look, one miscalculation on my part, and Malcolm will know.

And then we’re all dead.

I haven’t seen my men since that night with the bikes.

I miss them like a physical ache—a hollow space behind my ribs that nothing can fill.

I’ve been sending messages through the members of Enigma who are helping rebuild Blood and Ink, but it’s not the same.

I need their hands on me, their voices in my ear, and their bodies surrounding mine.

It’s too risky to sneak out again though. Malcolm has been watching me more closely, tracking me around the house like a goddamn predator watching his prey.

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night to find him just… staring at me. Not touching, not speaking. Just watching with those empty fucking eyes.

Without Atlas, Nico, and Killian around to ground me and give me the reset that I need, I feel like I’m fraying at the edges. I’m unsettled and too fucking jumpy, and it’s only a matter of time before another PTSD episode hits me.

These are the thoughts that are circling around and around inside my head this morning as I step out of the shower and wrap a towel around my body. The hot water helped a little, easing the tension in my muscles if not in my mind.

The bathroom door opens without warning and my heart nearly fucking stops as Malcolm walks in. I don’t turn to face him, but I can see him approaching in the mirror.

He steps up close behind me and presses me against the sink. “Good morning, wife”

I swallow the bile that rises up in my throat, but I can’t quite manage one of my fake smiles. Not this time. Not with him this fucking close to me. “Morning.”

His eyes meet mine in the mirror, and his hands settle on my shoulders, heavy and possessive. “My beautiful wife.”

I want to vomit. Or spit in his face. Or knee him in the fucking balls.

His right hand slides up to grip my chin, and he turns my face slightly. His fingers trace my cheek in what could almost pass for a tender gesture if it wasn’t for the cold, unfeeling look in his eyes.

His fingers stop at a spot high on my cheekbone, and he presses down hard. Pain surges beneath the pressure, and I fight not to react, not even to flinch or gasp. I won’t give him the fucking satisfaction.

“Perfect,” he whispers, releasing the pressure but leaving a small red mark on my skin that’s easily visible in the mirror.

Before I can process what the fuck just happened, he spins me around to face him, pressing my ass against the cold edge of the sink. “Kiss me,” he demands.

There’s no mistaking the threat in his tone . One refusal, and the fragile truce we’ve built will shatter. And I need more time—just a little more time until we’re ready to move against him.

So I do it. I press my lips to his, hating myself, hating him, hating the whole fucked-up situation.

He groans against my mouth, and his hands tighten on my waist as his tongue forces its way past my lips. One hand slides up to my towel, tugging it loose. It falls to the floor around my feet, leaving me completely naked and way too fucking vulnerable.