Page 280 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

She nods, satisfied. “Good. One less variable to worry about.” She produces a key card from her jacket pocket and swipes it against a hidden reader on the wall. The service door clicks open. “I had to grease a lot of palms to get this kind of access. This place is Malcolm’s territory.”

“Not for long,” I mutter as we follow her inside.

The service corridor is narrow and dimly lit, the air heavy with the scent of hookah tobacco and something sweeter—cannabis oil, probably. Imogen leads us past the kitchens and through a maze of hallways, expertly avoiding the main areas where guests might spot us.

“The VIP rooms are upstairs,” she explains in a hushed voice. “Malcolm always uses Room Three. It’s the most private and has its own dedicated exit if needed.”

“How many staff will be around?” Atlas asks, always thinking about potential witnesses or threats.

“Minimal. I paid the manager to keep the regular staff away from that section tonight.” The carpeted stairs absorb our footsteps as we climb to the second floor. “As far as they know, there’s a private business meeting that requires discretion. Nothing unusual for this place.”

At the top of the stairs, she pauses to check the hallway before leading us toward a door marked with an ornate number three.

“This is it,” she says, and I can hear the tension in her voice. “Everyone else is already waiting inside.”

The room is larger than I expected, richly furnished with low couches and plush pillows surrounding a central hookah station.

The lighting is dim, with Moroccan-style lanterns that cast intricate patterns across the walls.

It feels intimate and secluded—the perfect setting for the private dealings of Detroit’s criminal elite.

Every head turns as we enter. Rafael stands by the window, his expression guarded as he nods in greeting.

Cassandra reclines on one of the couches, her platinum blonde hair gleaming in the low light.

Owen leans against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest, watching us with narrowed eyes.

And Elliot—he’s sitting in the corner, his face partially shadowed, fingers drumming impatiently on the armrest of his chair.

The tension in the air is so thick I can almost taste it. These people have been Malcolm’s allies for years, and now they’re here to betray him. I wonder how many of them are having second thoughts.

I’ve been quick to tamp down my own doubts over the past twenty-four hours, because this has to work. It simply has to.

There’s no alternative, and there’s no backing out now.

“Everyone is here,” Imogen announces, closing the door behind us. “I’ve instructed the staff to bring Malcolm directly to this room when he arrives.”

“We’re certain he won’t have any guards with him?” Killian asks, scanning the room for potential entry and exit points.

“He won’t have any,” Cassandra speaks up. “He thinks he’s meeting Ronan alone. Kane’s reputation for privacy works in our favor tonight.”

“And you’ve confirmed Ronan won’t show?” Elliot asks me directly.

I nod. “He’s occupied for the night. He won’t be interrupting our business with Malcolm.”

Rafael moves away from the window, checking his watch. “Good. Malcolm should be here any minute, and we can take care of business.”

I move farther into the room, my men spreading out around me.

Even though everyone in this room has a shared goal tonight, there’s still a palpable current of distrust between us.

We’re criminals who have spent years looking over our shoulders, making and breaking alliances as needed. Trust doesn’t come easily to any of us.

But tonight, we’re united in a single purpose—Malcolm Mercer has to die.

The minutes drag by like hours as we wait, the silence is only occasionally broken by briefly whispered conversations or the soft click of a lighter as someone lights a cigarette. I’ve taken a seat near the door, and my heart is beating so loudly I’m sure everyone can hear it.

What if Malcolm doesn’t show? What if someone tipped him off? What if Ronan changed his mind and called to cancel? What if one of the people in this room is playing both sides?

My mind cycles through every possible way this could go wrong, and there are so many. We’re risking everything on this play—if Malcolm walks out of here alive, none of us will survive his retaliation.

I catch Nico watching me from a few feet away, and his expression tells me everything he can’t say out loud. We’ve got this. We’re together. Whatever happens, we’re facing it as one.

I take a deep breath and nod, drawing strength from his certainty. We’ve come too far to back down now.

Cassandra checks her watch for the third time in as many minutes. “He’s officially late.”

“Malcolm is never late,” Owen mutters, pacing near the window. “Something’s wrong.”

“Maybe he got held up in traffic,” Rafael suggests, but the tension in his voice betrays his own concern.

“Or maybe this whole thing was a mistake,” Elliot says. “We should?—”

The soft buzz of Imogen’s phone cuts him off. She checks it, keeping her expression carefully controlled. “He’s here. He just arrived at the front entrance.”

The atmosphere in the room shifts instantly, electrified with anticipation and fear. Hands move to weapons as bodies tense, ready for action.

“Remember,” I say quietly, making eye contact with each person in the room, “he can’t leave this room alive.”

Murmurs of agreement ripple through the group as we take our positions.

My palms are sweating, but I know in my heart that we’re doing the right thing.

Tonight, Malcolm pays for everything—for my mother’s death, for forcing me into marriage, for threatening the men I love.

For all the lives he’s ruined with his manipulations and schemes.

I stand behind the door with Nico at my side, both of us with our guns drawn but held low. Killian and Atlas position themselves on either side of the room, ready to block any escape attempt. The others spread out, appearing casual but alert, with their weapons concealed but still easy to access.

“He’s coming up now,” Imogen whispers, checking her phone again. “Alone.”

Seconds later, the door opens and Malcolm steps into the room, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit with his dark hair slicked back.

He takes two steps before registering that something is wrong, his eyes widening slightly as he scans the room and finds it filled with familiar faces but no sign of Ronan Kane.

Imogen shuts the door behind him with a soft click.

“What is this?” Malcolm asks, his voice deceptively calm despite the multiple guns now pointed at him.

“The end,” I say, stepping forward, my weapon aimed at his chest. “Your end.”

His eyes finds mine, and a flicker of understanding passes between us before his face settles back into that cold, unfeeling expression I’m so accustomed to seeing. “I see.”

“You had to know this day would come,” Cassandra says from her position on the couch. “No one can manipulate people forever without consequences.”

Malcolm’s jaw clenches, but he remains surprisingly composed for a man staring down the barrels of several guns. His eyes move around the room, taking in each face, each betrayal.

Then, unexpectedly, he smiles. “Elliot,” he says softly. “You were right.”

A feeling of dread bubbles up inside me as I turn slightly and watch Elliot rise from his chair.

“Every single one of them,” Malcolm continues in that too-quiet, too-calm voice. “Traitors.”

It happens so fast I barely have time to process it. Elliot’s arm comes up, gun in hand, and before anyone can react, he fires a single shot.

The sound is deafening in the enclosed space, the flash blinds me for a moment. I blink hard and see Imogen’s body crumple to the floor with a bullet hole in her forehead and her eyes wide with shock and betrayal.