Page 7 of Ruin
Somewhere between my first criminal law seminar and the night I learned to read a room the way a predator reads a herd, I put her in the ground and didn't mourn.
Peter spots me first.
He's leaning against the wall near the private elevator, arms crossed, that scar through his eyebrow catching the light.
"He know I'm here?" I ask.
"He's known since your car crossed Fifth."
"Of course he has."
Peter's eyes move over me.
Not sexual—assessing. Cataloging the differences. The designer dress. The confident posture. The way I'm not shaking.
"You look…different," he says.
"Iamdifferent."
He almost smiles. Almost. "Elevator's waiting."
I step inside.
The button for Hell is unmarked.
My fingers find it without looking.
Muscle memory.
The doors close and the music fades as I descend, the sound replaced by something heavier.
The air thickens, grows warm, and my heart rate kicks up in a way that has nothing to do with fear.
Not anymore.
The doors to Hell open, and I walk in like I own the damn place.
Same blood-red lighting. Same soundproof walls that swallow screams and secrets. Same labyrinth of rooms branching off the main corridor, each one holding a different kind of darkness behind its door.
I see it differently now.
A year ago, this place terrified me.
Now I see infrastructure.
Power, organized and monetized.
I spent twelve months learning exactly how to wield that.
His door is at the end of the corridor.
Heavy, dark, and I sure as hell don't knock.
Cassius Wolfe is in his chair—that leather monstrosity that looks like it was carved from something predatory—whiskey in one hand and nothing on his face that suggests he's been waiting a year for this moment.
Charcoal suit. Jacket off. Sleeves rolled to his forearms, showing the scars on his knuckles. Black hair pushed back. Steel-gray eyes that track me from the doorway to the center of the room with the precision of a scope finding its target.
He doesn't stand.
