Page 3 of Ruined By Blood (Feretti Syndicate #2)

I drain my whiskey and signal the bartender for another. Saturday nights at the casino mean I'm stuck here playing host while Damiano gets his weekend off with Zoe. Lucky bastard. He's probably wrapped around his wife right now, forgetting the world exists beyond their penthouse walls.

Meanwhile, I'm trapped in this glittering cesspool, schmoozing with degenerates who think money makes them untouchable.

"Mr. Feretti." A nasal voice cuts through my brooding. I turn to find Harold Pemberton, some oil executive with more cash than sense, approaching with his usual sycophantic smile. "Wonderful establishment you have here. The renovations really elevated the ambiance."

"Pemberton." I keep my voice flat, uninterested. The man's been trying to buy his way into our good graces for months, throwing around investment opportunities like confetti. "Enjoying your evening?"

"Immensely. Though I was hoping we might discuss that petroleum transport venture I mentioned last month." He leans closer, whiskey heavy on his breath. "The profit margins are extraordinary."

I crack my knuckles, the sharp pops making him flinch. "Not interested."

His face reddens. "Perhaps if you understood the full scope?—"

"I said no." The words come out deadly quiet. "Walk away, Harold."

He scrambles back like a kicked dog, mumbling apologies as he disappears into the crowd. Good. One less parasite to deal with.

The casino floor pulses with Saturday night energy—slot machines chiming, cards shuffling, champagne glasses clinking. Wealthy fucks celebrating their excess while I babysit their egos. The air reeks of desperation, and bad decisions.

I move through the crowd, nodding at familiar faces, keeping my expression neutral as associates and wannabes try to catch my attention.

A senator's wife bats her eyelashes at me from the roulette table.

A tech mogul raises his glass in greeting.

A pharmaceutical heiress "accidentally" brushes against my arm.

All of them wanting something. Access. Protection. A piece of the Feretti name .

My phone buzzes—a text from Damiano. All good there?

Peachy, I reply. Enjoying your night off.

Thanks for covering. Owe you one.

He owes me more than one, but that's what family does. We sacrifice so others can breathe easy, even if it means drowning in bullshit conversations and fake smiles.

I'm scanning the crowd when familiar fingers trail down my arm. I don't need to turn around to know who it is.

"Enzo." Victoria Ashford's voice purrs behind me, silk and honey. "You've been avoiding my calls."

I face her slowly, taking in the sight. Platinum blonde hair swept into an elegant updo, green dress, and those green eyes that once looked stunning beneath me. Two months ago, to be exact. After the Marconi wedding reception, when too much champagne and her persistent flirting led to sex.

"Victoria." I keep my tone neutral, professional. "Enjoying the casino?"

She steps closer, invading my personal space with practiced ease. "I was hoping we could talk. Privately." Her fingers trace the lapel of my jacket. "It's been too long."

The woman knows how to work her assets—I'll give her that. Her lips painted the perfect shade of red, and she's positioned herself so anyone watching would assume we're intimate. But all I feel is mild irritation.

"Nothing to talk about." I remove her hand from my jacket, not roughly but firmly. "That night was what it was."

Her smile falters for a split second before returning full force. "Come now, we had such incredible chemistry."

I remember. She was enthusiastic, knew what she wanted, and didn't expect cuddling afterward. A perfect arrangement for one night. But that's all it was—physical release without complications.

"I remember." My voice stays flat. "I also remember you leaving at three a.m. Clean break, no strings. That's how we both wanted it."

"Maybe I've changed my mind." She leans closer, her breath warm against my ear. "Maybe I want to explore what we started."

"I haven't changed mine." I step back, putting distance between us. "Find someone else to explore with, Victoria."

She stares at me for a long moment, probably calculating whether to push harder or retreat. Smart money's on retreat. Victoria might be spoiled, but she's not stupid.

Victoria's smile tightens. "Your loss, Feretti."

She turns on her heel, hips swaying dramatically as she melts back into the casino crowd. I exhale slowly, watching her go. Women like Victoria are beautiful hurricanes—exhilarating to experience but destructive if you let them linger.

The casino suddenly feels too crowded, too loud, the recycled air thick with perfume and desperation.

My skin itches with the need to escape. I head for the ground floor balcony, the only place in this place where I can breathe without someone trying to sell me something or fuck their way into my good graces.

The night air hits me like salvation when I push through the glass doors. The balcony overlooks the gardens and fountain that separate the casino from the adjoining hotel. I loosen my tie and inhale deeply, letting the cool air clear my head.

"Hiding from your admirers?" Noah's voice comes from behind me.

I don't turn around. "Don't you have something to kill? "

Noah chuckles, moving to stand beside me at the railing. "Just finished checking the perimeter. Noticed you beating a hasty retreat."

"Victoria Ashford." I crack my knuckles, a habit that irritates Damiano but helps me think. "She's persistent."

"The blonde from the Marconi wedding?" Noah raises an eyebrow. "Thought you handled that."

"So did I."

We stand in comfortable silence, two men accustomed to violence finding peace in the quiet. Noah doesn't do small talk, which is why I tolerate him more than most. He understands the value of silence.

With a smirk, he slips back inside, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the distant sounds of the city.

The peace lasts exactly thirty-seven seconds before a scream shatters the night—sharp, terrified, and unmistakably female. It comes from the gardens below.

I don't hesitate. Drawing my gun from its shoulder holster, I vault over the balcony railing. The drop is fifteen feet, but I land with practiced ease, knees bending to absorb the impact. I scan the darkness, gun raised, every sense heightened.

Another cry, weaker this time, guides me toward the eastern edge of the garden. I move silently between hedges and statues, following the sound.

Behind the fountain, partially hidden by ornamental bushes, I find a crumpled form on the ground—a woman, her body curled into itself like a wounded animal.

FUCK.

Blood.

That's all I see at first—a spreading crimson stain against red fabric. The woman from the bar lies crumpled behind the fountain, her dress hiked up indecently around her thighs, one hand clutching weakly at her ribcage.

I'm at her side in seconds, my gun already drawn. The garden lies eerily silent now, but whoever did this could still be watching.

"Can you hear me?" I ask, keeping my voice low as I crouch beside her.

No response. Her chest rises and falls shallowly—alive, at least. I press my fingers against her neck, feeling for a pulse. It flutters beneath my touch, weak but steady.

I pull out my phone, keeping my gun trained on the surrounding darkness. Noah answers on the first ring.

"I need you at the south garden. Now. Bring the car around back."

"Problem?" His voice is instantly alert.

"Woman down. Injured. Bleeding." I keep my words clipped, efficient. "Hurry."

While I wait, I shrug off my jacket, carefully draping it over her exposed legs. Her skin is cold to the touch. Shock, probably. My eyes scan the shadows between the sculpted hedges, watching for any movement.

I don't holster my weapon. Instead, I position myself between her and the open garden, becoming a shield. The thick scent of roses mingles with the metallic tang of blood as I keep guard.

Her eyelids flutter briefly, a small moan escaping her lips, but she doesn't wake. Up close, I can see the delicate features of her face, the gentle curve of her neck where it meets her shoulder.

A low whistle cuts through the night, barely audible. Noah's signal. I don't lower my guard—this place taught me long ago that safety is an illusion bought with vigilance.

"Here," I murmur, loud enough for only him to hear .

Noah materializes from the shadows, moving with that silent precision that earned him his reputation. His eyes flick from me to the woman, then scan the perimeter.

"Fuck," he breathes, crouching beside me. "What happened?"

"Don't know yet." I holster my weapon, assessing the best way to move her. "Watch our backs. I need to get her out of here."

I slide one arm beneath her knees, the other supporting her shoulders. Her body weighs almost nothing as I lift her against my chest. The front of her dress is soaked with blood, warm and sticky against my shirt.

"South exit," Noah says, already moving ahead to clear our path. "Car's waiting."

The woman stirs in my arms as we cross the garden. Her eyes flutter open—deep blue, unfocused with pain. When they lock onto my face, raw terror floods them.

"No," she gasps, struggling weakly against my hold. "Please, not back to him."

"Easy," I tell her, tightening my grip to prevent her falling. "You're safe now."

Her fingers clutch at my shirt, surprisingly strong for someone losing this much blood. "Don't take me back," she begs, tears spilling down her pale cheeks. "He'll kill me this time."

"Who?" I demand, slowing my pace.

Her eyes start to roll back, consciousness slipping away. "Please..."

"Stay with me," I growl, but it's too late. Her head lolls against my shoulder as she goes limp again.

Noah holds the alley door open, glancing back at the unconscious woman. "Said anything useful?"

"Just begging not to be taken back to someone." I duck through the doorway, careful not to jostle her. "Whoever 'he' is, she thinks he'll kill her."

The black Escalade waits at the end of the alley, engine running. I slide into the backseat with her still cradled in my arms, her blood staining the leather beneath us.

"Hospital?" Noah asks, slipping behind the wheel.

I look down at the woman's face, pale as moonlight against the crimson of her dress. Something about her vulnerability stirs a protective instinct I rarely allow myself to feel.

"No. Take us to the mansion. And call Dr. Romano to be there."

Guilt claws at my chest, sharp and unrelenting. I saw her discomfort at the bar—the way fear shadowed her eyes, the tension in her shoulders. She'd been silently begging for help, and I let her walk away with that bastard.

I should have stopped her.

The car takes a sharp turn, throwing us slightly to the side. I tighten my grip, shielding her from the impact.