Page 32 of Ruin
The first time, a year ago, I was terrified. Shaking in heels I couldn't walk in, following a man I didn't understand into a place that smelled like leather and blood and something chemical I couldn't name.
And a few days ago, I walked in like I owned it.
Tonight I walk in like I'm about to take it.
The main room of Hell has been reconfigured.
The usual furniture is pushed to the walls, replaced by a long table that seats twenty.
Black cloth, black candles, crystal glasses filled with whiskey and wine.
It looks like a dinner party designed by someone who reads too much Machiavelli.
They're already seated—twenty men. A few women.
One of them I recognize. The dark-haired woman from the bar at Purgatory, the one Cassius called Natalia when we went down to Hell.
She's seated halfway down the table, arms crossed, watching me with that same measuring look. Like she's still deciding what I am.
All of them turning to look at us as we enter, and the silence that falls is the kind you could drown in.
Heavy. Expectant. Charged.
I know some of them from the briefing files Vincent gave me yesterday.
Dock captains, district managers, the heads of various revenue streams that feed into Cassius' empire.
Lionel is at the far end, arms folded, face like a cliff.
The twins flank the door behind us.
Vincent stands at the head of the table, the only person not seated, the only person who doesn't look surprised to see me.
Every pair of eyes in the room drops to the collar. Then back to my face. Then to Cassius. Then back to me.
I let them look.
Cassius pulls out my chair. Right-hand side of the head of the table. His seat is at the head. Vincent stands to the left. The positioning is deliberate. Everything with Cassius is deliberate.
I sit and cross my legs.
The slit of the dress falls open, showing the full length of my thigh.
I don't adjust it.
Cassius remains standing.
He buttons his suit jacket with one hand, a gesture so practiced it's almost mechanical, and looks at the table the way a general looks at a battlefield.
"For those who haven't met her," he says. "Selene Deveraux."
No title. No explanation. Just the name, delivered with the same weight he'd use to announce a new territory acquisition.
A man halfway down the table leans forward.
Big, thick-necked, a scar running from his temple to his jawline.
I recognize him from the files.
