Page 5 of Ruin My Life (Blood & Betrayal #1)

Brie

Six Months Later

E DDIE R IVIERA IS A DECENT LOOKING MAN , especially when he’s dressed to impress in a crisp white button-up and a black paisley jacket. His skin is the colour of toasted caramel, offset by dark hair and deep chocolate eyes. He looks exactly like his photo—same smug grin, same hungry stare.

Made him easy to spot in the hotel lounge.

A few drinks. Some coy glances from across a velvet loveseat. A slow drag of my finger along the rim of my glass. That’s all it took before he invited me up to his room.

Exactly what I wanted.

Exactly what I needed.

His hand hasn’t left my waist since we left the bar, and he’s been making good use of the elevator’s solitude—nipping at my throat, teasing the ties of my halter dress.

I let him.

I laugh softly, pressing my body against his chest like we’re two lovers lost in the heat of it.

The elevator dings, sliding open to a quiet hallway.

He swipes his keycard at the first door to our left, then holds it open. “After you,” he purrs.

“Such a gentleman,” I hum, setting my coat on the dresser as I walk inside.

“Always, baby.”

He hooks the Do Not Disturb sign onto the handle before closing the door behind us.

In seconds, his hands are on me again—rough palms gliding over my hips, pulling me into the hard line of his body .

I turn in his grasp, fingers curling around the collar of his shirt. “I want to be in charge,” I whisper, my lips brushing his ear. “Is that okay?”

He hesitates.

His grin flickers like he’s unsure.

“I don’t know… I’m usually the one in charge.”

I kiss down the curve of his neck, feel the low growl rumble in his chest. “I promise we’ll have fun,” I say. “Make an exception. Just for me?”

He breathes out a laugh. “Okay. Just for you.”

I smile sweetly.

He has no idea.

I toss back the thin hotel bedding and guide him onto the mattress, watching him sink into the sheets like a willing sacrifice.

“Scoot back,” I instruct, voice syrupy sweet. “Headboard.”

He obeys, eyes gleaming.

I climb onto the bed, straddling his hips. With slow, practiced movements, I gather the top sheet, twisting the corners into makeshift restraints. I tie his wrists to the headboard—tight enough to hold him.

He grins like a man who thinks he’s getting lucky.

Poor, ignorant bastard.

I trail my nails down his chest and stomach, then rip open his shirt in one swift motion, exposing his abs and tattoos.

“You know,” I murmur, dragging my fingers over his skin, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you all night.”

His eyes darken, still drunk on lust. “Oh yeah? What’s that, baby?”

His gaze rakes over me—from my red lips to the silky black dress pooled around my thighs.

I shift slightly, hiking the skirt higher, inch by inch.

Then his face changes.

The lust drains from his eyes.

His breath catches.

The moment he sees the pistol strapped to my thigh, his expression curdles—from desire to dread.

Good.

I smile. Slow. Dangerous.

The kind of grin a spider wears as it descends on something trapped in its web.

With one hand, I draw the pistol and rest it against his chest, tracing the same path my fingers just made.

His pulse stutters.

“Tell me, Eddie…”

My voice is soft. Almost loving.

“Why did the Songbirds kill my family?”

The flirtation drains from Eddie’s voice in an instant. He sinks into the mattress, eyes locked on the gun. “It wasn’t me! I don’t know anything about that, I swear!”

“Oh, I know it wasn’t you,” I reply, my smile still intact. “But surely you have some idea… hm ?”

I rise to my feet, watching him writhe against the makeshift restraints as I pull my phone from the pocket of my coat.

A few swipes, and I find the image. I lean over him and shove it into his face—a grainy security still from my parents’ house.

The devils in red masks.

“You recognize either of them?”

“They’re wearing masks ,” he sputters, eyes wide, head shaking like a broken toy. “How do you even know it’s one of us?”

I zoom in on the lean one’s chest—just enough to expose the edge of the winged tattoo.

“Doesn’t this look familiar?” I ask, tilting the phone for effect before pointing the gun at the matching songbird inked on Eddie’s left pec.

He stares at it, frozen, then swallows hard. “A lot of guys have those. There’s too many to name.”

I sigh, straddling him again.

The gun settles against his tattoo, pressing into his sternum.

“You won’t believe how much time I have, Eddie.”

He tugs at the bindings, panic setting in. “All I do is rough people up! I swear—I don’t know anyone who kills for them! ”

My eyes drift, unimpressed.

I trace the barrel lazily along his collarbone. “ Rough people up is such a docile way to describe torture and assault ,” I murmur, my voice detached. “I know everything about you. I know you joined the Songbirds for money—to get your mom out of your dad’s house.”

Eddie’s breath hitches.

“I know they offered you something better than running.”

His whimper is pathetic. It curls the corners of my mouth.

“I don’t blame you for killing your dad,” I continue, tapping the gun firmly against his chest. “He was a bastard to you and your mother. But…”

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“It’s what you did for them after that that matters. All the fingers you cut off people who couldn’t pay. All the innocence you sold for fear and profit.”

Tears break free from his eyes, trailing down his temples and soaking into the pillow.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes. “Please—I can change . I can turn it around.”

“I’ve heard that before,” I reply, tilting my head as my voice goes cold. “ Once a Songbird, always a Songbird .”

I press the other pillow against his face, then bury the muzzle of the gun deep into the fabric until I can feel the shape of his skull beneath it.

He screams, like anyone might hear him.

BANG!

His body jerks once, then goes limp beneath me.

I lift the pillow slowly.

Red blooms across the cotton.

His eyes are open but empty.

I press two fingers to his throat.

Nothing.

Just to be sure, I hold the pulse point for five long seconds.

Then I climb off him.

I spend a few minutes scanning the bed, searching the tangle of sheets for the bullet casing. When I find it, I tuck it into my coat pocket, smooth the bed the best I can, and then exhale.

I slip my trench coat on, fingers brushing against the hard line of the pistol now holstered again at my thigh.

As I step out into the hallway, I leave the Do Not Disturb sign hooked on the handle. My hands sink into my pockets as I make my way to the elevator.

I should feel good right now. Lighter. Satisfied.

I just took another Songbird off the street. Probably saved a few people from getting “roughed up,” as Eddie liked to call it.

But all I feel is... nothing .

Eddie was just another name. Another dead end. One more body in an ocean of bodies—

And I’m still no closer to finding the men who matter.

The ones who tore my family apart.

In the last few months, a handful of people have reached out—most claiming to know something about the men in the photos I’ve been chasing.

None of them panned out.

All I’ve managed to confirm is that the tattoo on the lean guy’s chest likely marks him as a high-ranking member of the Songbirds. Some lower-tier thugs have it too—meant to intimidate, to mimic status—but that hasn’t gotten me any closer to the truth.

Every lead has ended the same way.

A different Songbird.

A different alias.

A different dead end.

Some matched the description. Others, like Eddie, were rumoured to have ties. But no one knows anything .

Or at least, no one’s talking.

And the stockier guy? The one with the green eyes and black ponytail? A fucking ghost.

No one even knows if he exists .

At first, all I wanted was information. Answers. But the deeper I’ve dug, the clearer it's become—information costs blood .

The second word spreads that someone’s sniffing around, the Songbirds get jumpy. And when they get jumpy, people die.

So I stopped waiting for answers.

I started taking them.

The gun I bought for protection? It's become a tool. A lever. A lockpick. A trigger for the truth.

Every Songbird I've tracked down is dirty. None of them are innocent. They're all part of the same disease

Murderers.

Rapists.

Traffickers.

Debt collectors.

Loan sharks with wings—that’s what most people call them.

They used to rule a majority of the southeastern boroughs of New York. But over the last two years, they’ve shifted—out of Kings, deeper into Queens.

I rented a tiny apartment near the border. Started scouting. Started planning.

This isn’t the life I wanted. But it’s the life I need to live.

For Amie.

The elevator doors slide open, and I step inside, hitting the button for the ground floor. It hums quietly, descending from the fourteenth.

I lean back against the cool metal wall, watching the numbers blink overhead. Then my phone buzzes—sharp and urgent—in my coat pocket.

I pull it out, expecting the same greedy car dealership asking about my Dad’s car collection, or the slimy property developer who keeps hounding me about my parents’ house.

He wants to tear it down—build some soulless McMansion on the lot. I’ve told him no a dozen times, but he’s persistent.

Only…

it’s not him.

It’s an unknown number .

And the message hits me like a punch to the chest. Unknown: I know who you’re looking for, Rose.

Rose— my name on the forum.

I go still. Every muscle locks tight.

No one from the forum should have my number. All my communications go through encrypted channels. I’ve taken every precaution.

Whoever this is…

They breached something.

Me:

Who is this? Unknown: Someone with information. That’s all that matters right now.

Me:

The kind of information you have matters.

I’m not chasing another dead end.

A photo follows.

Grainy. Distant. But clear enough.

A lean man stands behind a red Mustang in what looks like a garage. He’s wearing a ribbed white tank top and dark jeans with oil stains.

His skin’s more tanned now—like he’s spent every day of summer in the sun. His blonde hair has grown out from the buzz cut in the security footage.

But it’s there.

The songbird tattoo—arching across his chest, just visible above the tank top’s scooping neckline.

His face is perfectly hidden behind the open hood of the car. Whoever took this photo knew exactly what they were doing.

Just enough detail to confirm the match.

Not enough to expose him.

Enough to bait me .

I screenshot the image and save it before I even take another breath.

It’s the first real sign of either of them in six months. But it feels too neat. Too controlled. Like cheese set carefully inside a mousetrap.

Still… I can’t bring myself not to take it.

Me:

What do you want in exchange? Unknown: A very simple request for The Black Rose. Hack into Damon King’s network and report back everything you find. If the info is adequate in three days, I’ll tell you what I know.

Damon King.

The name isn’t unfamiliar. I’ve come across it once or twice in my research—always in red. Always flagged.

The Songbirds’ biggest threat.

Their enemy. Their rival.

Whoever this person is… they’re either a traitor to the Songbirds, or they want to use me to destroy the only man who's ever stood against them.

Either way, I don’t care.

All that matters is the man in that photo.

Me:

Deal.

I’ll have what you need in three days.