Page 51 of Ruin Me
Harry and Quentin are by my side in an instant, the unity of our presence a clear warning to anyone else who might think of causing trouble. Callum is speaking in low tones to some of the other guests, his calm manner obvious to the storm brewing beneath the surface.
The rest of Johnson’s crew have tensed up, their eyes darting between their cornered companion and us. But they know better than to escalate things—they’ve seen what happens when you fuck with The Crowned Syndicate.
Vogue’s hand brushes against mine briefly, and then she’s moving again as if nothing happened. Her resilience astounds me; she’s truly one of us now.
I shove the guy away from me, and we continueour patrol, eyes sharp and ready for any hint of discord. As the night progresses, we re-establish ourselves as the undeniable force within Crestmont University’s underworld. Each handshake, each whispered conversation stitches back together the fabric of our influence that had come undone.
But it’s not enough. It’s hearsay. We need our turf back in no uncertain terms.
As the night draws to a close and the last of the stragglers stagger out into the darkness, it’s clear that we’ve made a point, but we need more. The true test is yet to come. We gather around a table littered with discarded cards and empty glasses, the remnants of our reclaimed kingdom, and I pull Vogue closer, my arm around her waist.
“You okay, sweetheart?”
“Perfect,” she murmurs with a tired smile.
“This was a good start,” Cal states, flicking through a deck of cards. “But now it’s time to up the ante.”
“Fuck, yeah,” I mutter, eyes only on Vogue. The time is getting closer to when I will claim her body and soul.
I just hope she’s fucking ready for it, because that won’t stop me.
28
VOGUE
My eyes aregritty from exhaustion after the casino night last night. But I’m here, and I shuffle into the café near campus; my senses are alert. The aroma of coffee blends with the distant sound of milk steaming, and the low hum of conversation fills the space. I spot my contact, Alex, immediately seated at a table by the window, his gaze fixed on some point outside. His posture is relaxed, but there’s an undeniable tension about him. I can tell he’s ready for this meeting as much as I am. We connected last night, and this is a power move on my behalf that the guys aren’t aware of yet. I needed to feel him out first and make sure that it will lead somewhere. Sneaking out of the penthouse was no easy feat, but I’m here, and I’m ready.
“Morning, Alex,” I greet, sliding into the chair across from him. “Nice spot you’ve picked.”
“Morning, Vogue,” he replies, his eyes meeting mine. There’s a flicker of something in his gaze—respect, challenge, or perhaps both—before he speaks again. “I thought it best to meet on neutral ground for our discussion.”
“Smart thinking,” I nod, keeping my tone even. I don’t miss the way his eyes scan the room, just like I did moments before. Trust doesn’t come easy in our world, where we’re constantly sneaking around, being part of the mafia picture. It’s a delicate dance, one wrong move and everything could crumble.
We order coffees—black, no sugar—and that’s when we get down to business. “So, about this alliance,” I start, leaning forward. “The Crowned Syndicate needs your group’s commitment. We’re not here to play games.”
Alex stirs his coffee methodically, not looking up. “And you’ll offer what in return? Protection? Resources?”
“Both,” I say. “Plus, a cut from our operations on campus. Fair’s fair. You saw what last night did. It was big.”
His eyes lock onto mine, and I see the calculation behind them. “We need more than promises, Vogue. We’ve got our own interests to consider.”
“Understood.” I’m unflinching, though inside, I’m weighing every word. “Let’s talk numbers then, percentages. And exclusivity.”
“Exclusivity?” He raises an eyebrow. It’s a battle of wills now. “That’s asking a lot. What’s to stop us from making side deals?”
“Because you know we can offer you moresecurity than any random crew could,” I shoot back. “We have the muscle and the connections. You want in on that, you play by our rules.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The sound of the bustling café surrounds us—a backdrop to the silent stand-off at our table. Then, Alex leans back, folding his arms.
“Alright, let’s hear these terms of yours,” he says, a trace of respect threading through the scepticism in his voice. “But remember, we’re not just going to roll over.”
“Wouldn’t expect you to,” I reply, feeling the tension between us like a live wire. This game of tug-of-war isn’t just about striking a deal; it’s about laying out who holds the real power, and I intend to win.
Taking a slow sip of my coffee, bitter and scalding, I watch Alex’s crew from the corner of my eye. There’s a rhythm to their movements, a language in their glances I can’t ignore. Two guys at the far end of the table share a look that lingers too long, a silent conversation I’m not privy to. My gut tells me to dig deeper.
“Who are they?” I ask, nodding toward the pair without making it obvious. It’s all about subtlety in these games.
“Them?” Alex follows my gaze, casual as anything. “That’s Marcus and Jonah. Tech wizards. They could hack into Fort Knox if we asked nicely.”
