Page 47 of Ruin My Life

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That’s the story I’m telling myself, anyway.

But there’s something else, too.

When I looked into her eyes, I didn’t see fear. I saw fire.

Not the kind that burns everything down for sport. Hers is different—controlled. Purposeful.

The kind that only comes from loss. Loss so big it rewires you.

She doesn’t see me as the villain. She sees me as a barrier—between her and whatever justice she’s chasing.

And that leaves me with a question I can’t shake:

What makes a girl like Brianna Rosenberg start hunting the Songbirds?

The hallway outside the back room is narrow and dim, lit only by a flickering overhead tube light. Monroe, Chavez, and Connor are all crowded into the space, tension rolling off them in waves.

The cell we’ve got her locked in is in the back of The Speakeasy—past cold storage, beyond the reach of curious eyes. It’s hidden and secluded, but I don’t like bringing this kind of business back here. The Speakeasy is supposed to be a safe place, so we only use this room when we have to.

It’s after two in the morning now. The bar front will close in another hour or so, but there’s always someone working the overnight shift. Just in case a woman in need knocks on the side door—like Jennifer, a few nights ago.

I glance down at Connor’s hand. Blood seeps through the gauze he has wrapped around it, soaking through his palm.

“Call Dahlia,” I say. “Get that looked at.”

Connor shrugs. “It’s just a scratch.”

Monroe scoffs under his breath. “Yeah? I’ll tell that to the cleaners when they find your DNA all over the passenger seat,tonto del culo.”

Connor’s eyes snap to him, his jaw tight. “If you’ve got something to say, say it to me in English.”

Monroe doesn’t stand down. “Three of four in this room speak Spanish,tarado. Maybe it’s time you caught up.”

Chavez chuckles low in his throat, amused but trying not to show it. Connor shifts toward him, teeth bared like a dog ready to bite.

Before he does something stupid, I press a firm hand to his chest, holding him back.

“Enough,” I say calmly but firmly.

Connor bristles, but he steps back. He knows when I’ve made my decision, it’s final. He also knows I’m not doing thisto shame him. I’m doing it to protect him—from himself, mostly.

“Fine,” he mutters. “But don’t let them have all the fun. Once I’m stitched, I’m coming back.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less,” I reply, watching him stalk off down the hallway.

Once he disappears through the bar’s rear corridor, boots echoing against the concrete, I turn to Monroe and Chavez. They’re both steady. Focused.

“Chavez, stay here. Keep eyes on her.”

Without hesitation, he takes position near the door, shoulders squared.

He’s the youngest in my inner circle—just twenty-one—but he’s earned more trust than men twice his age. Loyal to the core.

I’d bleed for him. He already has for me.

I nod toward Monroe. “Let’s see what Lee’s got.”

Monroe and I head down the hall toward the office. The air back here always smells like dust and resentment—like the walls remember every fucked-up thing we've planned in this space.