Page 123 of Ruined

The phone rings once, twice. Noah's voicemail picks up.

"Noah, someone's in the house," I whisper urgently. "I think it's?—"

The bedroom door crashes open.

A man stands in the doorway, his face hidden beneath a black ski mask. But I don't need to see his face to know who sent him. The gun in his hand points directly at my chest, unwavering.

"Evelyn Anderson," he says, his accent thick with Russian vowels. "Ivan Volkov sends his regards from hell."

The phone slips from my fingers, Noah's name still illuminated on the screen.

CHAPTER 36

Ipush the Ducati harder than I should, the engine screaming beneath me as I weave through traffic. My phone vibrates in my pocket. Without slowing down I tap my earpiece.

"What?" I bark.

"Boss, it's Franco. A black sedan just pulled up. Two men getting out. They're not looking friendly."

Fuck. I'm still two minutes away.

"Hold position. Don't engage unless they make a move on the house."

"Too late. They're approaching the front door. Looks like they're—shit, they're going in."

My chest burns where the bullet tore through me days ago but I ignore it. Pain is just information. Useless right now.

"Neutralize them. I'm almost there."

I cut through an alley, nearly clipping a dumpster. The bike slides sideways as I take the corner too fast but I manage to control it, accelerating again. Evelyn's face flashes in my mind. Not afraid. Not broken. Standing up to her father like she was born to do it.

No one's taking her from me. No one.

I screech to a halt in front of the Anderson house, leaving the bike running as I jump off. My gun is already in my hand. The front door hangs open.

Inside, Franco stands over a man, blood dripping from his knuckles.

"One man went upstairs," Franco yells.

A woman's scream tears through the house from the second floor. Evelyn.

I don't think. I move.

Taking the stairs three at a time I disregard the fire in my chest. The stitches are probably tearing but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters except getting to her.

Another scream, closer now. Down the hallway. Third door.

I hear a man's voice, thick with a Russian accent: "Ivan's brother sends his regards."

Fuck waiting. Fuck planning. I kick the door open, gun raised.

I burst into the room, adrenaline pumping through my veins. Time slows down as I take in the scene—Evelyn backed against the wall, Jessica huddled on the bed, and a masked man pointing a gun at them.

My vision narrows, focusing on the threat. Without hesitation I adjust my aim and fire.

The shot is precise, hitting the intruder’s right hand. His gun clatters to the floor as he howls in pain, blood spraying across the carpet. He clutches his mangled hand to his chest, his eyes widening as he registers my presence.

"You fucking—" he starts, but I'm already closing the distance between us.

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