Page 21 of Ruined

I rinse off, turning the water hotter until my skin burns red.

For now, we stay put. This place is secure—high-tech security system, reinforced doors, private elevator access. I have weapons stashed throughout the apartment. If Ivan's men find us, I'll be ready.

But I need more than just firepower. I need leverage. Something to make Ivan back off permanently.

I shut off the water and grab a towel, roughly drying myself. The mirror has fogged over completely, my reflection nothing but a blur. Fitting. I barely recognize myself in this situation.

For now, we stick to the original plan. Keep her safe. Keep her here. Figure out our next move.

And hope she doesn't try to kill me in my sleep.

Damiano would back me on this. I know it. If I tell him Ivan's men tried to take her—tried to hurt her—he'll understand why I stepped in. The Ferettis don't tolerate that kind of disrespect on their territory, especially not from the Russians.

But the timing is shit. Damiano just welcomed his daughter into the world. After everything the family's been through these past ten months, he deserves this moment of peace with his wife and baby. The family's been through hell. We all have. Damiano finally has something good in his life, something pure. I can't bring this mess to his doorstep. Not yet.

I'll handle it myself for now. Keep Evelyn safe. Figure out what Ivan wants with her. Then, when I have more information, I'll go to Damiano.

The water pounds against my back, each drop a reminder of the mess I've created. My fist connects with the tile wall before I even realize I've moved. Pain shoots up my arm, a welcome distraction from the chaos in my head.

The second I hear the shower running, I'm on my feet. My muscles protest after hours of tense sleep in an unfamiliar bed, but adrenaline pushes through the stiffness. I have minutes at most.

I scan the bedroom.

"Think, Evelyn," I whisper to myself, moving toward the bedroom door.

I turn the handle slowly, expecting resistance. It opens. He didn't lock it. Arrogance or oversight?

The hallway stretches before me, all sleek minimalism and shadows. The shower still runs, a steady backdrop to my racing heart. I pad forward on bare feet, my borrowed clothes hanging loose on my frame.

The living room opens up—spacious and sparse. A kitchen gleams with stainless steel to my right. I spot the front door immediately—heavy, reinforced metal with what looks like a keypad lock beside it.

No way I'm guessing that code.

I check my watch. Two minutes since the shower started.

The kitchen yields nothing useful—knives locked in a drawer that won't budge. Smart man. I scan for phones, computers, anything with which to contact Jessica. Nothing.

My eyes land on a small side table near the couch. A drawer. I slide it open silently, finding a sleek tablet inside. My fingers tremble as I power it on.

Password protected.

"Damn it," I hiss, replacing it exactly as I found it.

Three minutes now. The shower still runs.

I move to the windows in the living room—same as the bedroom, sealed tight. Thirty floors up means jumping isn't an option anyway.

There's a balcony door, glass like the rest but with a heavy lock. I try it, knowing it's futile. Locked from the inside with a key I don't have.

My heart hammers against my ribs as I sprint back toward the bedroom, scanning desperately for anything I missed. There's a closet I haven't checked. I slide it open, finding rows of dark clothing, all men's. I push aside hanging shirts, searching the back wall.

Nothing but smooth drywall.

I hurry back to the entrance door, my bare feet silent against the cold floor. The shower still runs—I have time. The keypad mocks me with its blinking light. I examine it closer this time, looking for smudges, worn buttons, anything to give me a clue.

Four digits. Standard. I notice slight wear on the 3, 7 and 9 keys. I try different combinations—3797, 7939, 9373—my fingers trembling with each attempt.

The pad flashes red. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

---