Page 11 of Ruin My Life (Blood & Betrayal #1)

Damon

M Y HEAD POUNDS AS I LEAVE THE HOLDING cell, the heavy metal door clicking shut behind me like a loaded gun cocked at my back.

I don’t usually lose my composure. But hearing her— Brianna —casually name-drop Monroe and Chavez?

It hit a nerve I don’t like to admit still exists.

A nerve I thought I’d severed years ago.

She said their names like they belonged to her. Like she had every right to speak them into existence. And for a moment, it yanked me straight back to a darker time—a time I swore I’d never return to.

When everyone close to me was a target painted in blood.

She may be young, but she’s sharp as hell. Methodical. Calculated. And that makes her more than a hacker with attitude—it makes her a threat. A volatile one.

I should end it now. Eliminate the risk before it festers.

But I won’t.

Because I need more information.

Because the code I built my life around doesn’t bend for fear. I don’t kill to silence people—I kill to protect them.

That’s the story I’m telling myself, anyway.

But there’s something else, too.

When I looked into her eyes, I didn’t see fear. I saw fire.

Not the kind that burns everything down for sport. Hers is different—controlled. Purposeful.

The kind that only comes from loss. Loss so big it rewires you .

She doesn’t see me as the villain. She sees me as a barrier—between her and whatever justice she’s chasing.

And that leaves me with a question I can’t shake:

What makes a girl like Brianna Rosenberg start hunting the Songbirds?

The hallway outside the back room is narrow and dim, lit only by a flickering overhead tube light. Monroe, Chavez, and Connor are all crowded into the space, tension rolling off them in waves.

The cell we’ve got her locked in is in the back of The Speakeasy—past cold storage, beyond the reach of curious eyes. It’s hidden and secluded, but I don’t like bringing this kind of business back here. The Speakeasy is supposed to be a safe place, so we only use this room when we have to.

It’s after two in the morning now. The bar front will close in another hour or so, but there’s always someone working the overnight shift. Just in case a woman in need knocks on the side door—like Jennifer, a few nights ago.

I glance down at Connor’s hand. Blood seeps through the gauze he has wrapped around it, soaking through his palm.

“Call Dahlia,” I say. “Get that looked at.”

Connor shrugs. “It’s just a scratch.”

Monroe scoffs under his breath. “Yeah? I’ll tell that to the cleaners when they find your DNA all over the passenger seat, tonto del culo .”

Connor’s eyes snap to him, his jaw tight. “If you’ve got something to say, say it to me in English.”

Monroe doesn’t stand down. “Three of four in this room speak Spanish, tarado . Maybe it’s time you caught up.”

Chavez chuckles low in his throat, amused but trying not to show it. Connor shifts toward him, teeth bared like a dog ready to bite.

Before he does something stupid, I press a firm hand to his chest, holding him back.

“Enough,” I say calmly but firmly.

Connor bristles, but he steps back. He knows when I’ve made my decision, it’s final. He also knows I’m not doing this to shame him. I’m doing it to protect him—from himself, mostly.

“Fine,” he mutters. “But don’t let them have all the fun. Once I’m stitched, I’m coming back.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less,” I reply, watching him stalk off down the hallway.

Once he disappears through the bar’s rear corridor, boots echoing against the concrete, I turn to Monroe and Chavez. They’re both steady. Focused.

“Chavez, stay here. Keep eyes on her.”

Without hesitation, he takes position near the door, shoulders squared.

He’s the youngest in my inner circle—just twenty-one—but he’s earned more trust than men twice his age. Loyal to the core.

I’d bleed for him. He already has for me.

I nod toward Monroe. “Let’s see what Lee’s got.”

Monroe and I head down the hall toward the office. The air back here always smells like dust and resentment—like the walls remember every fucked-up thing we've planned in this space.

I twist my key in the lock and push the door open.

Lee’s exactly where we left him—hunched over his monitor, posture shot to hell, fingers dancing across the keyboard like he’s trying to hack time itself.

He glances up when we step in, eyes bruised with purplish smudges left behind by stress. He tries to rub them away, like that ever works.

“Any luck?” he asks.

I lean against the edge of the desk, arms crossed. “Was about to ask you the same. But judging by your face, I’ve got my answer.”

Lee exhales through his nose. “Found pieces. Nothing solid yet.” He clicks a few keys, a few windows closing on-screen.

“She grew up in Staten Island. Dad was some mid-tier movie director while her mom ran a charity for nature conservation. They had money—nice house, private school. A quiet life. Until six months ago. ”

Six months.

“What happened six months ago?” I ask, though I already know I won’t like the answer.

“Her parents were killed in a home invasion.”

My jaw tightens.

That lines up.

Suddenly, this isn’t just a hacker-for-hire problem. This is something deeper. Grief that turned to obsession. The kind of grief that rewires a person.

“She thinks the Songbirds were involved,” I murmur. “That’s why she’s hunting them.”

Lee nods. “Makes sense. Cops opened the investigation, then closed it just as fast. Went cold after a month.”

Someone killed her family. And I’d bet my life it was the same two masked men she posted about on that underground forum—the ones she’s been chasing like ghosts.

This isn’t about me.

Not yet.

She’s not just scraping data for cash. She’s clawing for answers. For justice. And someone likely promised her those answers in exchange for information on me.

But who the hell has enough insider knowledge to know who she is, what she’s capable of—and still be bold enough to send her after me ?

I’ve made enemies. Plenty. But they all fall into one of two categories: the Songbirds—who know better than to breathe near me. And the rich bastards I’ve exposed through King’s Eye—who are too detached from reality to get their own hands dirty.

Two worlds that almost never cross.

Unless someone’s playing both.

“It’s a reach,” I mutter aloud, “but I can’t rule out that one of O’Doyle’s people went rogue. Some of his guys have crossed my lines before.”

“Maybe they hired The Black Rose to take you out,” Lee suggests, his tired eyes flicking to me. “Smart enough to know they can’t touch you themselves. ”

I nod slowly, letting the theory settle.

It’s plausible. But something still doesn’t fit.

“She’s not the type to kill for someone else,” I say. “That forum post? ‘Information for information.’ She’s bartering. Not following orders. The kills are personal. Pre-planned.”

Lee’s quiet a moment, just staring at me.

“You admire her,” he finally says.

I don’t answer.

Because maybe I do.

Not for what she’s done—but for why she’s doing it.

She’s breaking every rule for answers. For revenge. And somehow, she’s still standing.

I know what it costs to hold that kind of fire and not let it consume you.

“She’s more dangerous than we thought,” I say. “Not because she’s reckless—but because she’s willing to sacrifice everything to finish what she started. Whoever hired her? That’s who we need to focus on.”

Lee nods and drags a hand over the back of his neck. “If I can get access to her personal network, I might be able to trace whoever she’s been talking to. But it’d be a hell of a lot easier if I had the actual device she used.”

I glance at Monroe. “Up for another trip to her apartment?”

He just shrugs. “Should be easier the second time.”

Lee rises from his chair, his joints cracking like gunshots in the quiet room. He groans under his breath but tries not to make it obvious. “I’ll go with him,” he says. “Make sure we get what we need.”

I smirk. “You sure your joints can survive the walk to the car?”

Lee flips me off lazily as he stretches.

He and I are closest in age—twenty-six and twenty-seven respectively—but you’d never guess it looking at us side by side.

Monroe’s the oldest, Connor just behind him, and Chavez is still the youngest in the crew. But Lee’s got the worst physical stamina of us all .

Poor desk posture. Chronic caffeine dependence. He also only joins us in the gym once a week, if we’re lucky.

Still, I’d trust his brain over any weapon.

And right now, that brain is our best shot at figuring out what the hell we’re up against.

“She’s got serious security, no doubt,” Lee says. “I’ll have a better shot at cracking through it on-site.”

I nod, the plan forming faster than I can speak it. “All right. I’ll stay here. Hold the night shift while you two are gone.”

They move toward the door, Monroe already grabbing gear from the lockers in the hall. But Lee pauses, half-turned back toward me.

“What’s the plan once we find out who hired her?”

I lean against the desk, fingers drumming a slow, steady rhythm against the wood.

The answer should come easily. But it doesn’t.

Because the truth is… I still don’t know what the hell I’m going to do with her.

Brianna Rosenberg knows too much. She’s pulled apart layers of my operation that no one outside my inner circle should even know exists. If she ever decided to open her mouth, even once, the fallout wouldn’t be small.

Everything I’ve built—King’s Eye, The Speakeasy, the safety net we’ve wrapped around this part of Brooklyn— gone .

With everything she took, I also have no doubt that she knows more about me now than my entire inner circle.

One wrong whisper, and it all burns.

She’s a risk I should’ve put down the moment I found her.

But I didn’t. And I know I won’t.

My jaw tightens as I drag a hand down my face, trying to clear the fog. But instead of clarity, I catch something soft—unexpected.

A lingering scent. Something floral.

Roses .

I lower my hand slowly. It’s the same one I had tangled in her hair earlier .

It’s faint but impossible to ignore—rose petals and something else. Something warm. Soft. Stubborn.

Her .

I exhale through my nose, annoyed that I noticed— more annoyed that I keep noticing. That I remember— too clearly—the silk of her hair. The way her breath hitched when I leaned in. The way her eyes didn’t look away even when I dared the to.

And that’s the problem.

No matter how many reasons I can list for why she has to go… there’s one louder truth humming beneath all of them.

I don’t want to let her go.

It isn’t just what she knows. It’s who she is. The defiance in her stare. The venom in her voice. The fact that she didn’t cower when anyone else would’ve begged.

She’s fire wrapped in silk. A rose blooming through concrete.

And just like every dangerous thing in life, I can’t help but want to touch her—just to see what’ll happen. To find out if her thorns will cut me deep and bleed me dry.

“Take some cameras with you,” I say finally, trying to sound steadier than I feel. “We’ll treat this like a warning. And we’ll keep eyes on her after.”

Monroe glances at me over his shoulder. One brow raised.

“And if she decides to fuck you over?”

His voice is calm. But it’s a challenge. He’s not really asking. He wants to know where my line is drawn.

I meet his gaze. “Then we get rid of her,” I say. “Same as anyone else.”

He doesn’t move. But his eyes narrow like they can see the truth under the lie.

Bullshit , they say silently.

And maybe it is.

Because I already know—I’m not going to treat her like anyone else.

Not now. Not after that look in her eyes. Not after the scent of her has branded itself onto my fucking skin .

And that makes her more dangerous than any Songbird ever was.

Not just to me.

To everything.