Page 81 of Ruin
The Russians know about me.
They know about Cassius.
They're at the courthouse, asking about old cases, which means they're tracing the same connections I traced.
And if they find what I found, if they piece together my parents’ murder and Cassius’ involvement, they won't just use it as leverage against him.
They'll use it as leverage against me, and anyone connected to me becomes collateral.
Michelle at the DA's office, who pulled those files as a favor.
Judge Hart, who took me in and raised me alongside his own daughter.
Emilia, who just hugged me goodbye without knowing she's standing in a blast radius.
I park in my building's lot and sit behind the wheel without cutting the engine.
The car idles while the radio plays something soft and meaningless.
My hands are still on the wheel and my knuckles are white.
I should warn them.
Should call Michelle and tell her to bury those files.
Should call Judge Hart and tell him to take Emilia on a long vacation somewhere the Bratva doesn't operate.
But warning them means explaining, and explaining means unraveling, and the thread that connects all of it leads straight back to Cassius.
To me.
To the locked collar under my sweater and the gun on my nightstand and the man I let walk out of my apartment last night when I should have pulled the trigger.
Inside, the apartment is exactly as I left it.
Evidence wall.
Shattered glass I still haven't cleaned up, the fragments catching light in the hallway like something spilled and frozen mid-splash.
The gun, catching the afternoon light on the nightstand like a dare.
I make coffee I won't drink, stand at the kitchen counter and watch the pot fill and think about the last time I stood here, the night I put the pieces together.
The wine I poured and dumped.
The files I spread across the floor.
The moment my father's handwriting blurred through tears I refused to shed.
That was days ago.
Days since the world rearranged itself around a truth that had been there the entire time, hiding in plain sight, wearing expensive suits and smelling like sandalwood.
I pour the coffee into a mug that isn't my father's, because his is in pieces in the bathroom trash.
Take one sip. It tastes like nothing.
Everything tastes like nothing lately, food reduced to texture and temperature, my body going through the motions of sustenance while the rest of me operates on something less tangible.
