Page 2 of His Savage Ruin
"Smith?" A voice calls from the hallway, and I stand smoothly, years of finishing school posture serving me well even here. Dr. Carter stands in the doorway to room three, and he's exactly what I expected—sleazy smile, receding hairline, and gold teeth that catch the fluorescent light. His white coat has seen better days, and there's a stain near the pocket that I choose not to identify.
"Doctor," I say, extending my hand with the kind of cool politeness that comes naturally after years of charity galas and political dinners. He takes it, his palm soft and damp.
"Come in, come in," he says, gesturing toward the examination room. It's cleaner than the waiting area, but not by much. "Please, have a seat."
I remain standing, my chin lifted in the way that used to make Lorenzo's eyes go dark with rage. Power pose, my mother called it, back when she was alive to give advice. Back before the Morettis decided the Ricci family had outlived their usefulness.
"That won't be necessary," I say. "We both know why I'm here, Doctor." The words taste bitter—I'd had to take an enormous risk calling him, speaking in careful euphemisms about 'documentation' and 'discretion.' "You know this isn't a medical consultation."
His smile falters for a moment, revealing something calculating underneath. "Of course, of course. Though I do usually recommend at least a brief examination, for authenticity's sake?—"
"No." The word cuts through the air like a blade. I let my smile turn sharp, the kind that used to make servant girls scatter when I was still naive enough to think I had power. "I'm not here for your medical expertise. I'm here for your flexible morals."
He actually laughs at that, a sound like gravel in a blender. "You're certainly more direct than most of my... patients."
"I find directness saves time," I say, setting my purse on his desk and opening it with deliberate care. The knife catches the light, and his eyes track the movement. Good. Let him wonder if I'm desperate enough to use it. "Time I don't have to waste on pretenses."
Inside my purse, beneath the knife and next to the compact mirror I never use, is a thick envelope. I remove it carefully, feeling the weight of necessity and desperation.
Fifteen thousand dollars in cash, money I'd scraped together from jewelry sales during my carefully orchestrated shopping trips, skimming from the household accounts, and a small emergency fund my mother had made me promise to keep hidden for exactly this kind of desperate moment.
I set the envelope on his desk, the bills making a soft sound against the scarred wood. "For this amount," I say, meeting his eyes steadily, "you've never seen me. You never will again. And the documentation you provide will be flawless."
Dr. Carter lifts the envelope, feeling its weight with the practiced touch of someone who's made this trade before. He doesn't count it, we both know I'm good for it, but he opens it enough to see the bills inside. Hundreds, mostly, because fifties and twenties would make the stack too thick.
"Understood," he says, tucking the envelope into his desk drawer. From the same drawer, he produces a manila envelope, sealed and official-looking. The clinic's letterhead is printedacross the top, the kind of detail that makes forgeries convincing. "Your results, Mrs... Smith."
I take the envelope, feeling the weight of my future inside. "Pregnancy test?"
"Positive." He settles back in his chair, looking pleased with himself. "Lab work confirms high hormone levels that match about ten weeks of pregnancy." He pauses, studying my face. "Congratulations."
"Thank you." I slip the envelope into my purse, next to the knife that's kept me safe and the phone that connects me to my cage. "This transaction is complete."
"Of course." But he doesn't look away, and something in his expression makes my skin crawl. "Though I do hope you'll remember where to find me, should you need any... future services."
I'm already moving toward the door, my heels clicking against the linoleum with sharp sounds. "Doctor, for both our sakes, I hope I never see you again."
The waiting room feels smaller now. I nod once to the receptionist, who still doesn't look up, and push through the sticky door.
The air outside tastes like freedom and fear in equal measure. I've done it—bought myself another month, maybe two, ofprotection under the Moretti umbrella. As long as they think I'm carrying Lorenzo's child, I'm valuable. Untouchable. But the moment they discover the truth...
I don't let myself finish that thought.
My car sits where I left it, a modest sedan that doesn't attract attention. I chose it specifically for that reason, the Maserati would have marked me as clearly as a neon sign in this neighborhood. As I walk toward it, my heels clicking against broken concrete, I feel eyes on me. The same sensation I've lived with for forty-five days, the weight of being watched.
The black sedan is still there. The newspaper man has moved closer, his position shifting just enough to keep me in sight. My fingers find the knife again, and I adjust my grip on my purse, making sure I can reach it quickly if needed.
I'm almost to my car when it happens.
Footsteps behind me, moving too fast, too determined. I spin, my hand already reaching for the knife, but I'm not fast enough. A hand clamps down on my shoulder, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and I jerk away with practiced desperation.
"Don't…" I start to say, but the word dies as a black SUV screeches around the corner, tires screaming against asphalt. The door flies open before it even stops moving, and hands—multiple hands—grab for me.
I twist, my body moving on instincts learned through months of survival, but there are too many of them. My fingers close around the knife's handle just as something sharp bites into my upper arm. A needle, I realize with crystal clarity, even as warmth spreads through my veins like honey.
"No," I whisper, but my voice sounds distant, hollow. The knife falls from suddenly numb fingers, clattering onto the concrete like a death knell. My legs give out, and I'm falling, the world tilting sideways as strong arms catch me.
The last thing I see before darkness swallows everything is the envelope from the clinic, scattered papers drifting across the dirty street like snow. Like the ashes of all my carefully laid plans.
