Page 77 of Her Ruin

The winners were the ones who earned the most. Not every winner was the one who won the fight. Very quickly, I was earning more than my handlers were. I had an eye for a good deal. I didn’t get emotionally involved. Taking a dive didn’t fuck with my pride. My eyes were on the prize, and that prize was the fat envelope of cash at the end of the night.

My dad decided to reinvent himself as a realtor. I watched and learned. He and Mom got back together, and in that time, I learned how to flip houses. I bought shitholes, did a quick renovation, and charged an extortionate rent, and I was making more than I ever did in the fight clubs.

It was where I first started laundering money for people who knew I was good at business.

But money laundering needs a cash business, and nothing was more dependent on cash than bars and clubs. I dipped my toes into the nightlife scene with strip clubs. But they came with too many risks. The girls could bring messy problems, the patrons even worse, and they were watched constantly by the cops.

I recognized Julian purely by chance as he exited a high-rise office in Chicago. After some careful surveillance, I learned he was an architect, and through my own machinations, I set up a “coincidental” run-in with him at an art gallery. The owner “sold” paintings that never existed, but it had receipts and legit paperwork that was hard to disprove.

I also had a few connections at city hall who let me know when buildings were going up for auction. I bought them, flipped them with Julian’s help, and sold or rented them. My connections needed their money cleaned, and it was only in the last three or four years that I turned to nightclubs.

The trick was to make it the best. Make it desirable. Offer what no one else was. Exclusivity always came at a price.

Which was where Rye came in. He’d been my “on the ground” man for the strip clubs, and despite his kicked coke habit, he knew how to throw a party.

On paper, I was a legitimate businessman with many varied investments.

Luxure was still one of the top-end clubs in Chicago. Elixir was its sister club. Set outside the scrutiny that came with being in the city, Elixir was proving to be everything I knew it could be. My clients had continued service with more freedom.

I just needed to ensure I was controlling the flow. My sideline, for my own entertainment, was being the middleman innegotiations. I was as calm and collected as I always had been, and they all trusted me with their secrets.

Information was right up there with control. You controlled the information, you controlled it all.

In the circles that mattered, I was still as crooked as they were. They knew me. They’d watched me grow. They respected my discretion, and in return, I was granted access to their inner sanctums—the whispered deals in dim back rooms, the unspoken agreements sealed with a nod and a handshake. I was their confidant, their partner in crime, even if they didn’t fully understand it.

Every secret I uncovered and every supposedly silent conversation I overheard only increased my value. In a world where loyalty was as fleeting as the flicker of a streetlamp and truth was often more dangerous than a lie, knowledge was my most potent weapon. I reveled in that power, the delicious irony of being one of them—crooked, cunning, and ruthless—while standing apart because I coordinated it all.

That was my talent: balancing on the razor’s edge between legitimacy and the underworld, a tightrope walk that kept me one step ahead of everyone else.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

My phone buzzed as I poured myself a glass of Scotch. My head was fuzzy from the short amount of sleep. I didn’t spend nights fucking women. I rarely had time to indulge, and when I did, it was an hour or two of enjoyment and then back to work. Isla had been different. I wasn’t ready to explore that as memories of her softness threatened to crowd my mind.

I read the message on my phone, scowling as the cold certainty of my empire wrapped around me once more.

Under the counter was a burner phone, and I called Rye. You could never be too careful.

“One of Mercutio’s guys fucked up a delivery,” I told him sharply.

Rye recognized my tone. “What’s needed?”

“Storage.” I waited until he finished cursing. “We need to move now. It’s not fucking with tonight’s event.”

“I’m coming down.”

I downed the Scotch and poured one for Rye. He was down a few minutes later, his temper riding him.

“How thefuckdo we move this dead weight in broad daylight in Gracemont?” he hissed as he joined me at the bar, downing his Scotch in one smooth gulp like I had.

“Carefully and with minimal attention.”

He shot me a look. “I filled the freezers with ice.”

“Handy.”

His look turned to a glare. “The ice is fortonight. It’s not for crates of fucking coke or whatever the fuck they need stored.”

“Yeah, well, now it’s for today.” I cursed under my breath as I realized my car keys were still in the apartment upstairs. “I left the keys in the loft.”

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