Page 110 of Ruin My Life

“Technically,” Chavez echoes, still unconvinced.

“There’ll be backlash,” I admit. “But Matthias won’t send an army. Not unless I botch the job or make it public. This has to be clean.”

Chavez still doesn’t look thrilled with the plan, but there’s a shift in his eyes. He doesn’t trust O’Doyle—but he trustsme.

“All right,” he says finally. “What can I do?”

I cross my arms, glancing toward the door. Brie’s exit flashes behind my eyes—her tight jaw, clipped words, fire she tried to swallow. She hates waiting. Hates not being the one holding the gun.

“Rest up,” I tell him. “Then rotate shifts with Monroe. I want one of you on Brie at all times.”

He nods and starts moving without hesitation.

“She won’t sit still once she gets wind of Xander’s location,” I add. “And when that happens, Monroe’s gonna need backup. She’ll barrel in before we’re ready if we don’t keep her grounded.”

Chavez gives a two-finger salute before disappearing down the hall, his boots echoing off the concrete floor.

Connor, still posted against the wall with his arms crossed, tilts his head toward me. His voice cuts through the quiet with leftover tension. “What’s that leave for me?”

I smirk.

“We’re going to go gather some intel the old-fashioned way.”

Connor’s eyes gleam. The scowl he’s been nursing since he heard Xander’s name finally twists into a grin.

“Fuck yeah.”

THERE’S A CERTAINthrillin the sound of bone shattering beneath your fist—especially when it belongs to a man who damn well deserves it.

I’ll be the first to admit I’ve missed this more than I probably should.

Since I built King’s Eye, most of my intel comes clean, quiet, controlled. These days, through blackmail, surveillance, and leverage, I usually know what I need before anyone even opens their mouth.

But this? This is different.

I cock my fist back and drive it into James Rierson’s nose. Another sickening crunch follows, cartilage snapping like dry twigs. Blood spatters across his mouth and chin, trails down his throat, and stains his shirt a deeper red.

He groans, sagging forward. The only thing keeping him upright is the rope binding his wrists and chest to the rusted chair at the center of this forgotten warehouse.

“Please,” he chokes out, blood dribbling from split lips. “I don’t know where Xander is. You have to believe me.”

“We don’thaveto do shit,” Connor snaps.

He grabs a fistful of James’s matted hair and yanks his head back, forcing him to look up. James’s face is a swollen mess—tears cutting streaks through the blood, his eyes nearly swollen shut.

I grab a towel off the floor and wipe my hands. Behind me, our tools are laid out on a tarp. They’re nothing fancy—just what you’d typically find in a trunk: a wrench, tire iron, jumper cables. There’s also a screwdriver and a tactical knife. Enough to send a message, if not carve it into someone’s spine.

We keep the SUV stocked. Always. Out of habit, not paranoia. And everything’s clean enough to pass if the cops ever grew a pair and started asking questions—which they won’t.

I crouch by the tools, dragging a finger across the metal, then glance back at our guest.

“Come on, James,” I say, like we’re old friends catching up over drinks. “You and Xander got real cozy after he and I had our little... falling out. I just want to know where he hangs his hat these days. Call it me feeling nostalgic.”

James tries to look at me—tries, but his face is too far gone. “I haven’t seen him in over a year,” he rasps. “He didn’t agree with the boss. Wanted to build a team. Said he’d take Kings back... come after you. Boss said he had a death wish.”

“Not wrong,” Connor’s tone sharpens as he wrenches James’s head farther back, twisting his spine until something pops in his neck. “And what happened after poor little Xander didn’t get what he wanted from daddy dearest?”

James gurgles, his eyes flaring with something volatile—rage, fear, maybe both.