Page 296 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

QUINN

The new Blood and Ink looks nothing like the old one, but that’s not a bad thing. The floors are freshly stained, the walls a deep red that makes the place feel intimate without being claustrophobic.

I lean against the counter, surveying my home away from home. It’s smaller than what my father built, but it’s mine. Ours. And it’s just the beginning.

“We’ve got Hendricks on board for the new supply route,” Kendrick says, tapping a map spread out on the counter. His finger traces a line from Canada down through Michigan. “He’ll move our shit through his territory for a twenty percent cut.”

“Fifteen,” Nico counters, his eyes sharp. “Hendricks is desperate after Malcolm’s operation imploded. He needs new partners more than we need him.”

I nod, agreeing with Nico’s assessment. In the weeks since Malcolm’s death, the power structure of Detroit’s underworld has shifted dramatically. The vacuum left by his organization and Elliot’s has created opportunities for those quick enough to seize them.

And we’ve been very fucking quick.

“Tell Hendricks fifteen or we walk,” I instruct Kendrick. “Make it clear we’re doing him a favor by not just taking over his territory outright.”

Kendrick grins, looking like a predator scenting blood. “Will do.”

I glance around the room at the mix of faces—Carnage and Enigma members who would have been at each other’s throats not so long ago. Now they work together like they’ve been doing it for years.

Atlas stands in the corner, deep in conversation with Hudson and two former Enigma lieutenants. His face is serious as he explains something, gesturing with his hands. The bruises on his face have faded to barely visible yellowish smudges, and his body language is relaxed and confident.

Killian sits at one of the empty tattoo stations, watching and listening.

He doesn’t participate much in the discussions, but I know he’s taking in every word and cataloging every detail.

His shoulder is healing well—he can lift his arm above his head now without wincing. The bullet wound is just another scar.

“What about the territory on the east side?” a former Enigma member asks. “The Twisted Tyrants are still holding it.”

I exchange a glance with Nico. “Not for long,” he says. “Zoey has lost most of her people already. Those who haven’t come back to us have scattered.”

“She’s barely holding on to what she has,” I add. “We’ll start pushing from the north, and we’ll squeeze her out block by block.”

There’s a murmur of approval from around the room. The Twisted Tyrants have been a thorn in our side for too long, and everyone is eager to finally put an end to Zoey’s fucking delusions of grandeur.

“We move next week,” Atlas calls from across the room, joining the conversation. “Hudson, you’ll take point with Damon. Non-lethal force unless they escalate first.”

Hudson nods, his expression serious. “Understood.”

“We want the territory, not a war,” Nico clarifies. “Most of Zoey’s people are looking for a reason to bail anyway. If we give them an easy out, I think they’ll take it.”

I watch the room, noting the mix of reactions. Some of the more bloodthirsty members look disappointed, but most nod in understanding. We’re not just reclaiming territory—we’re rebuilding. Redefining what Carnage and Enigma mean when they’re united as one.

“Any other business?” I ask.

When no one speaks up, I nod. “That’s it for today, then. Let’s make some fucking money.”

The meeting breaks up, with some people walking toward the door while others continue their conversations in low murmurs. I feel a surge of pride watching them go, knowing we’re stronger together than we ever were apart.

Nico slides an arm around my waist and presses a kiss to my temple. “Not a bad crew we’re building here. We should be able to poach a few more from Zoe before it’s all said and done, but we can afford to be picky.”

I lean into him, savoring the solid warmth of his body against mine. “I agree. And we’re just getting started.”

My phone rings, cutting through the relative peace and quiet. I pull the phone from my pocket, and my stomach does a small flip when I see the name on the screen.

Cassandra.

For a split second, dread washes over me—an automatic reflex to any contact from a member of the Dark Lotus Syndicate. Then I remember that the Syndicate is gone. Malcolm is dead. Elliot is dead. I’m free.

“Are you okay?” Nico asks, noticing my hesitation.

“Yeah,” I nod, steadying myself. “It’s Cassandra.”

I swipe to answer, putting the phone to my ear. “Quinn speaking.”

“Quinn.” Cassandra’s voice is as controlled as ever, betraying nothing of her thoughts or emotions. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”

“Just restocking needles,” I tell her, leaning against the counter. “What can I do for you?”

There’s a brief pause, and I can almost see her weighing her words. “I was hoping we could meet. There are some matters we should discuss… in person.”

My grip on the phone tightens, and I catch Nico’s eye. He raises an eyebrow in question, and I give a small shrug. “What kind of matters?”

“Nothing threatening,” she assures me. “I just want to tie up loose ends.”

Cassandra has never been my enemy, exactly. She stuck up for me when Owen blamed me for Imogen’s death. She fought alongside us against Malcolm and Elliot. She risked her life right along with the rest of us.

Whatever she wants to discuss, it’s better to hear her out than to leave potential loose ends dangling.

“When and where?” I ask.

“Tomorrow evening? Say seven o’clock?” she suggests. “There’s a restaurant called The Reserve on 8th Street. Neutral territory, public enough to be safe, private enough to talk freely.”

I know the place—upscale but not pretentious, with private booths that offer discretion without isolation. A good choice for a meeting like this.

“Not Noctura?” I ask, unable to keep the sarcasm from my voice.

She laughs softly. “I think we’ve all had enough of Noctura for a lifetime, don’t you?”

She’s not wrong. Just the thought of that place evokes a visceral reaction in my gut. I’d be happy never to set foot in it again.

“Seven works,” I tell her. “Just me, or…?”

“Bring your men if you’d like,” she says, and I can hear the shrug in her voice. “This isn’t an ambush, Quinn. Just a conversation.”

“We’ll be there,” I say. Not because I think I need protection, but because we’re a unit now. Where I go, they go. What I face, they face.

“Perfect. Until tomorrow, then.”

I end the call and slip the phone back into my pocket. Three sets of eyes are fixed on me, waiting for an explanation.

“Cassandra wants to meet,” I tell them. “Tomorrow evening at The Reserve.”

“What does she want?” Nico asks.

I shrug. “She says she wants to tie up loose ends. Nothing threatening.”

“And you believe her?” Atlas asks, the skepticism clear in his tone.

I consider it for a moment. “Yeah, I do. She could have made a move against us by now if that was her plan. And she fought with us, not against us, when it mattered.”

Killian nods. “We’ll go with you.”

It’s not a question or an offer—it’s a statement of fact. They’ll be there, whether I want them to be or not. But the thing is, I do want them there. I always want them there.

“I already told her we’d be there,” I say with a small smile. “All of us.”

Some of the tension leaves Nico’s shoulders. “Good.”

The Reserve lives up to its name—understated elegance with dark wood paneling and leather booths tucked away for privacy. The kind of place where important people make important deals over expensive whiskey without too many prying eyes or ears around.

We arrive a few minutes early, but Cassandra and Owen are already there, seated at a corner booth with drinks in front of them. My pulse quickens at the sight of them together, a reflex from days when a summons from the Dark Lotus Syndicate meant nothing but trouble.

“Relax,” Nico murmurs, his hand at the small of my back. “We outnumber them.”

“And we’re better armed,” Killian adds quietly, his eyes scanning the restaurant with practiced precision.

Atlas says nothing, but he shifts slightly, positioning himself between me and the rest of the room.

Even here, even now, they’re protecting me.

There was a time when it would have annoyed me—I’m proud of the fact that I can handle my own shit—but instead, it just makes me feel…

cherished. Protected in a way that doesn’t diminish my strength.

Cassandra rises as we approach, extending her hand. “Quinn. Thank you for coming.”

I shake her hand in return. “Cassandra. Owen.” I nod to him, and he inclines his head.

We slide into the booth, and the server materializes instantly with menus and water. We order drinks, and then there’s that awkward moment of silence as we size each other up.

“So,” I say, never one to beat around the bush. “What’s this about?”

Cassandra and Owen exchange a look, some unspoken communication passing between them. It’s Cassandra who speaks.

“Before we went up against Malcolm,” she begins. “Imogen and I had a conversation. A contingency plan, of sorts.”

My stomach tightens at the mention of Imogen. Her death still feels too raw.

“She told me that if anything happened to her, she wanted me to take over her business interests. To continue her legacy.” Cassandra takes a sip of her drink, her eyes never leaving mine. “I had told her the same. We agreed to look out for each other, even in death.”

I glance at Owen, who has been watching me with an unreadable expression. “And now?” I ask.

“Now,” Cassandra continues, “I’m doing what I promised. Taking over key parts of her organization and keeping them running. But it’s a lot for one person.” She leans forward slightly. “That’s where you two come in.”

She sets down her glass with a decisive click. “I have a proposal. The three of us—you, me, Owen—we continue the business. Not as the Dark Lotus Syndicate, but as something new. Something better.”

I blink, caught off guard. Of all the things I expected her to say, this wasn’t even on the fucking list.

“It can’t be like the Syndicate at all,” Owen says. “No blood debts. No one man or woman calling all the shots. No manipulation.”

“True partners,” Cassandra nods. “With equal voices, equal stakes, and equal benefits.”

I lean back in my seat, studying them both.

Cassandra’s proposal has caught me completely off guard.

A partnership with two of the most powerful players left in Detroit’s underworld.

No Malcolm forcing our hands, no Elliot stabbing us in the back.

Just business on a scale I’ve only dreamed about before now.

“Why me?” I ask, genuinely curious. “You two have been at this a lot longer than I have.”

Owen’s mouth quirks up at one corner. “Because you’re the one who brought Malcolm down. You proved you’re not just an upstart with a big mouth—you’re a force in your own right.”

I feel a surge of pride at that. He’s right—my men and I are a force, and together we control a significant portion of Detroit’s criminal operations. And our people are fiercely loyal, not just hired guns.

“What exactly would this partnership entail?” I ask, warming up to the idea.

Cassandra outlines the basics—shared resources, divided territories, mutual protection, combined networks. It’s a solid proposal, one that would make all of us stronger while reducing competition and conflict.

“No more Malcolm-style power plays,” Owen emphasizes. “We work together, or not at all.”

I’m stunned, honestly. Not just by the offer itself, but by how much I find myself considering it.

The power of belonging to a group isn’t lost on me—I’ve seen what Enigma and Carnage can accomplish together.

Extending that network and protection to include Cassandra’s and Owen’s operations could be enormous.

And this time, there would be no puppet master pulling the strings from behind the scenes. No one forcing their will on anyone else. Just adults making decisions together.

I glance at my men, seeking their input without having to ask for it aloud. Atlas gives me a subtle nod—he sees the potential. Killian’s face is impassive as always, but there’s no disapproval in his eyes. And Nico gives me that look. The one that says “it’s your call, and I’m with you either way.”

They’ll support me, whatever I decide.

I turn back to Cassandra and Owen. “I’m in,” I tell them, decision made. “But with one condition.”

Cassandra raises an eyebrow, waiting.

“My men have a seat at the table too,” I say firmly. “All three of them. They’re just as much a part of this as I am. They helped take Malcolm down, and they’ve earned their place.”

Pride gleams in their eyes as my words sink in.

Owen considers, tapping his finger against his glass. “And if there’s a split in your ranks? If you don’t all agree?”

I snort. “Then we figure it out among ourselves before we bring it to the table. But trust me, we’re pretty fucking good at working things out.”

Atlas makes a sound that might be a suppressed laugh. He knows exactly how we “work things out”—usually in bed, after thoroughly exhausting each other.

More negotiation follows—details about territories, about who controls what aspects of the business, about how often we’ll meet and how disputes will be resolved.

It’s surprisingly civil, even enjoyable.

There’s a clarity to negotiating with people who respect you, who see you as an equal rather than an obstacle or a tool.

Finally, Cassandra sits back, a satisfied expression on her face. “I think we have an agreement.”

Owen nods. “We’ll need a name. Something that represents what we’re building, but doesn’t carry the Syndicate’s baggage.”

“The Collective,” I suggest, the word feeling right on my tongue. Simple, direct, honest about what we are.

Cassandra’s lips curve into a smile. “The Collective,” she repeats. “I like it.”

We raise our glasses, sealing the deal with a toast. As I look around the table at my men, at Cassandra and Owen, I feel something I haven’t felt in a long time—hope. Not just for survival, but for something more. Something better.

We’ve torn down the old world. Now we get to build a new one.

And this time, we’re doing it right.