Page 6 of Ruin My Life (Blood & Betrayal #1)

Damon

I F N EW Y ORK IS A KINGDOM, THEN K INGS County is the castle I stole—ripped straight from the grimy talons of its former rulers: the Songbirds.

Roaches, really. Let them in once, and they infest everything.

They multiply in the dark. Hide beneath your floorboards. Pretend to be something they’re not.

I learned that the hard way.

But their reign over this borough? It’s over. Has been for the last two years.

The only Songbirds left in Kings now are the ones perched along the trees in Bensonhurst Park—vermin in their own right, sure, but those ones? They’re easy to deal with. Toss a few seeds, and they’ll scatter.

Since I took control, Kings has become one of the safest places in New York. Outside of maybe Staten Island, you won’t find a neighbourhood more secure.

Is it perfect? No.

Crime never dies. Not where humanity thrives. But I intend to maintain the peace I built—with my own hands, and with my own rules. Unlike the cops, I’m willing to get my hands dirty to keep the innocent safe.

Like right now, as two members of my inner circle and I roll into the parking lot of a run-down motel near Brownsville.

We’re here for a man named Oswald Pietro.

I could report him to the cops .

I could share every one of his wife’s reports—about how he beats her when the market dips and carves the date into her skin when he turns a profit.

But the cops? They’ll see his net worth and look the other way.

No one wants to tangle with a man who can buy the judge three times over. Not unless they catch him mid-swing with a bloody knife in hand.

That’s where I come in.

When the system fails, when the law looks the other way—they come to me .

Do I make problems disappear?

Yeah.

Does that make me a murderer?

Maybe.

Am I wrong for it?

If protecting people makes me wrong, then I don’t want to be right.

Monroe parks the SUV in a tight space near the rental office. Connor and I came straight from a meeting—some boring pitch about expanding my security company out of state—so we’re still dressed like we belong in a boardroom.

Black slacks. Dress shirts. I kept my matching suit jacket, but Connor ditched his for a navy trench coat, trying to brace against the early winter chill.

Monroe’s the only one dressed for action—black athletic long-sleeve, fitted cargo pants, and combat boots that make no sound when he moves.

Together, we look like we could be members of the New York mafia.

That suits me just fine. Men like Oswald should feel the instinct to run when they see us.

Not that running would do them any good.

On paper, I’m a successful entrepreneur—owner of one of the most exclusive security companies in the state: The King’s Eye.

We install high-end surveillance systems for the rich, the paranoid, and the morally bankrupt. Selling to them is easier than handing a bottle to a starving infant. They can’t resist something they think only they can afford.

The systems aren’t revolutionary. Not really. But they serve a greater purpose.

They give us access. A front-row seat to everything that happens behind locked doors.

If my team flags something—domestic violence, criminal abuse, anything that puts innocent people at risk—we don’t call the cops.

We pay them a visit.

My circle is tight. Connor, my second-in-command. Monroe and Chavez on security. Lee handles intel and the digital side of things. Together, we use King’s Eye to take down the worst of the worst.

We watch them. Correct them. And cut them down when necessary.

Some of our visits end with a warning. Sometimes with a hefty, guilt-ridden donation to a local shelter or clinic—whatever it takes to offset the damage they’ve done.

But the worst of them?

The ones cutting up their wives. Beating their children. Selling bodies. Lives. Souls.

They don’t get warnings.

They don’t get second chances.

I believe in redemption. But not everyone deserves it.

While King’s Eye protects the elite, my bar— The Speakeasy —takes care of everyone else. Funded by King’s Eye, hidden in plain sight, it’s a safe haven where people can come when they’re ready to escape.

Victims of misuse, abuse, fear. It’s a place where they can breathe. Where they can find a way out— any way out—and make sure what happened to them doesn’t happen to anyone else.

That’s the job I’ve wanted since I was a Songbird.

Since I watched good people suffer for no reason—punished just for being dealt a losing hand in life .

I know what it’s like to feel trapped. To hang onto hope like it’s your last heartbeat, praying for something to finally change .

My goal is to make that hope real.

Monroe holds the door to the rental office open, and the overhead bell gives a half-hearted chime as we step inside. The woman behind the front desk straightens, blinking up at us with tired eyes.

The air in here is cold. Both in terms of vibe and temperature. Sterile white walls, grey tile floors—like the waiting room of a budget dental clinic.

But the filth says otherwise.

Grime-streaked baseboards. A slumped leather couch sits in the corner, probably older than all of us. Ceiling tiles are stained yellow with water damage, cracked in various places like bones after a bad fall.

The space heater under her desk glows faint orange. Her hands hover above it, fingers red at the tips.

I step up to the tall counter and rest my forearms along the edge. My voice is smooth. Calm. Measured.

“Hi, Lilly,” I say, reading her name tag. “I need a favour.”

She blinks at me, a little startled.

“Can you tell me what room Oswald Pietro is staying in?”

Her gaze flits to Monroe by the door, stoic as a statue, scanning every shadow with sharp brown eyes.

Then to Connor—leaning casually against the far wall, arms crossed, his mirrored aviators hiding the gleaming russet beneath.

With that shaved head and square jaw, he looks like a tanned John Travolta—recent movie era, not from his prime.

I told him that once. He took it as a compliment.

“I’m not really supposed to give out customer information,” Lilly says cautiously. “Not without permission.”

“I get that,” I say, nodding. “Rules are rules.”

I reach into my jacket and pull out a business card, laying it gently on the counter .

“If your boss gives you trouble, tell him to call me. Actually—have him call me anyway, so I can ask why he hasn’t turned the damn heat on for you.”

Her brows rise slightly.

I glance at the thermostat behind her—locked in a clear plexiglass case.

I nod once toward it.

Monroe moves without hesitation. He walks over, flips his pocketknife, and smashes the lock with the handle. The plexiglass box swings open, and he cranks the heat up to something more humane.

Lilly stares.

Then—just barely—she smiles.

She takes the business card and places it beside her monitor, then types something into her ancient beige keyboard. “Mr. Pietro is in Room 209,” she says. “Last door on the second floor.”

“Appreciate it.” I nod once. “Enjoy the heat.”

I give her a wink and head for the door.

The metal stairs creak beneath our weight as we climb to the second floor, the wind scraping past rusted railings and flickering hallway lights.

As we pass each closed door, a sound cuts through the cold—quiet at first, then clearer.

A woman’s cry.

Not sadness.

Pain .

I quicken my pace, my leather shoes hitting the concrete faster with each step until we reach Room 209.

A Do Not Disturb sign sways from the brass handle like a bad joke.

Her crying fractures again, interrupted by the sharp bark of a man’s voice—Oswald’s. A slurred command to shut up and stay still .

I slam my fist against the door.

The yelling stops. Only the faint whimpering remains.

“Can’t you read the sign?” Oswald snaps from the other side, his voice thick with arrogance .

Connor leans in beside me, speaking smoother than I’ve ever heard him. “Apologies, Mr. Pietro. We’re with the front desk. There’s an issue with your credit card that needs your attention.”

Footsteps shuffle closer before the door cracks open.

He’s wrapped in a yellow motel robe, holding a credit card like a peace offering. “Here, try this—”

Then his eyes land on me.

And the colour drains from his face.

His gaze flicks between Monroe, Connor, and me—calculating the odds and already knowing it’s over.

His throat bobs with a hard swallow.

I chuckle under my breath. It’s always satisfying, that exact second when fear blooms.

“The motel has a strict policy against cutting up your wife on the premises,” I say coolly, like he left his car in a no-parking zone.

I draw my gun from the back of my belt, flick off the safety, and press the barrel against his forehead. He stumbles back into the room, hands up, words tripping out of his mouth.

Connor and Monroe slip in behind me, closing the door and trapping him inside.

“There’s been a— a misunderstanding ,” Oswald stammers.

His voice shakes, and his knees start to follow.

“I didn’t—It’s not—”

My eyes shift to the bed.

Jennifer Pietro lies curled under the thin motel sheets, her cheeks streaked with mascara tears. A dark red bloom soaks through the fabric near her thigh.

A switchblade rests on the mattress beside her.

Blood-stained. Fresh.

Tsk, tsk, tsk. I click my tongue, shaking my head. “You’re a terrible liar, Oswald. Lucky for you, you’re not the one bleeding. Though if you were, I doubt anyone would buy your side of the story.”

“ Please, Mr. King — ”

BANG!

The shot is clean. His voice dies the moment the bullet tears through his skull.

His head snaps back, and blood fans across my cheek.

He hits the floor with a soft thud . Dead weight.

When I turn back, Connor’s already with Jennifer, easing her into a robe. He wraps a towel around her thigh, gentle but efficient.

“Do you need an ambulance?” I ask, my voice softer now.

Jennifer’s eyes—strikingly blue despite the swelling around them—flick to mine.

She shakes her head and gives a weary smile. “I’ve dealt with worse,” she whispers. “Thank you for coming.”

“Thank you for calling. Do you have a safe place to go?”

She nods slowly. “My sister lives in Kensington. She’s been begging me to stay with her. Now that he’s gone… I think I’ll finally say yes.”

“Good.”

Connor helps her up with careful hands.

“Connor will call you a cab—on me,” I say. “And if you ever need anything… You know where to find me.”

Tears still glimmer behind her smile. “Thank you, Mr. King.”

“No formalities,” I say, offering a gentler smile. “Just call me Damon.”

Once Jennifer is dressed and safely in a cab, we stick around long enough for the cleanup crew to finish their work.

They’re good— very good—and paid well enough not to ask questions.

I made the mistake once of inquiring where they disposed of the bodies. One of them casually mentioned a pig farm in New Jersey.

I haven’t asked any other questions since.

In just under an hour, Oswald’s wrapped in trash bags and loaded into the trunk of their car. Room 209 is scrubbed clean.

No blood. No body. No trace we were ever here.

By the time we slide back into the SUV, the night feels like it’s already behind us. Monroe takes the wheel. I claim shotgun. Connor stretches across the backseat, clapping each of us on the shoulder with that casual swagger only he could pull off.

“Job well done, boys,” he says. “Let’s grab Chinese on the way back. We earned it.”

“If we ate every time we finished a job,” Monroe mutters, “we’d each weigh three hundred pounds.”

Connor rolls his eyes. “Worth it.”

Knowing them, they’ll probably argue the whole drive back to The Speakeasy if I don’t butt in.

But I don’t engage. Not this time.

Because my phone buzzes in my pocket.

And when I see the name on the screen, the calm I’ve felt since I put a bullet in Oswald disappears.

Connor and Monroe fall silent the second I answer.

“O’Doyle,” I greet flatly. “To what do I owe this displeasure?”

Matthias O’Doyle’s voice is as smooth as it is venomous.

“You tell me, Damon. I thought we had an understanding—my guys keep out of Kings, and you don’t fuck with them.”

“We do. And?”

“Then why are my Songbirds showing up dead in Queens ?”

I still.

I haven’t killed any Songbirds lately, certainly not outside Kings. The deal between Matthias and me has held firm for over the last two years.

My grip on the phone tightens, but I keep my voice level. “I’m not involved. You know me—I’d sign the body.”

“Right,” he scoffs. “So, either you’re lying or someone’s doing your dirty work for you. Either way, I’m not going to sit back and watch you chip away at my flock. I find out it’s you? I retaliate. Don’t think I won’t.”

He hangs up before I can respond.

I lower the phone slowly, jaw clenched.

“What the hell was that?” Connor asks, shifting forward in his seat .

“Someone’s been killing Songbirds in Queens,” I say. “O’Doyle thinks it’s me.”

For a moment, the SUV is dead quiet. Even Connor doesn’t have a joke locked and loaded.

And I can’t exactly blame O’Doyle. I would be my own first suspect too.

But it’s not me.

So who the hell is it?

“Maybe Lee can look into it,” Connor offers. “If someone’s picking off Songbirds, there’s bound to be some camera footage. Or chatter on the dark web. Something .”

I nod, already planning the call in my head.

But before I can even raise my phone, it buzzes again. A new message flashes across the screen.

And suddenly, my blood goes cold.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me .

I stare at the message.

Reread it.

Hope I misread the first time.

I didn’t.

“God damn it,” I grit, slamming my fist against the armrest.

“ Carajo!” Monroe jerks the wheel slightly, startled by my outburst. “What the fuck happened?”

I don’t answer right away.

I’m still staring at the message, rage crawling up my spine like a live wire.

“My network,” I finally say. “Someone just hacked into my private fucking network .”