His Wicked Ruin (Preview)
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Chapter One
Dante
I shouldn’t be here.
The bass from the club floor vibrates through the walls. But back here, in the storage room that doubles as my office when I need privacy, the only sound is Adrian Morelli’s ragged breathing.
I adjust my cufflinks—platinum, understated—and take my time crossing the concrete floor. My three-piece Tom Ford fits like it was painted on, because it was made for me, and the slight give of Italian leather beneath my feet reminds me that everything in my world has its place. Order. Control. Precision.
And if I know one thing it’s that Adrian doesn’t fit anymore.
He’s zip-tied to a metal chair, flanked by two of my men who know better than to speak unless I ask them a direct question. I can see the sweat that darkens his collar. His usually slicked hair hangs limp across his forehead, and his breath—Christ, his breath carries that sour-sweet stink of bottom-shelf whiskey that makes my jaw lock.
I hate drunks.
The smell alone drags me back to places I’ve spent a decade burying, but I shove it down and let the cold settle in my chest where it belongs. Emotion is a liability. Sentiment gets you killed. My father taught me that, even if he learned it too late.
“Adrian.” I stop three feet away, hands in my pockets, my voice even. “Do you know why you’re here?”
His head jerks up, bloodshot eyes struggling to focus. “Dante, listen, I can explain—”
“I didn’t ask for an explanation. I asked if you know why you’re here.”
He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. “The money. I know. I just need a little more time—”
“You had time.” I pull out my phone, scroll through the ledger Rafe sent me this morning. “March nineteenth. We forgave fifty-three thousand because you’d worked with us for six years. You cried. You promised it would never happen again and that you would return them. Do you remember?”
“Yes, but—”
“April twenty-second. You were back at the tables. May eleventh, you borrowed from a loan shark in Brooklyn. June third, you missed a payment to us. And last week—” I look up, let him see the flatness in my stare, “—you placed a thirty-thousand-dollar bet on a basketball game. With our money.”
“I was going to win it back—”
“But you didn’t.”
The silence stretches and one of my men shifts his weight. I don’t look at him, but I know he’s wondering if I’m going to draw this out or end it quickly. Even they can’t always predict me, and I like it that way.
Predictability gets you killed in my world. It’s why I vary my methods deliberately. Sometimes I’m surgical and quick. Other times I let fear do the heavy lifting, let a man’s imagination run wild with what I might do. Sometimes I’m generous when they expect violence. Sometimes I’m brutal when they expect mercy.
A man who can’t anticipate your next move can’t prepare a defense, can’t plot against you, can’t find your weaknesses. My men respect me more because they never know which Dante they’ll get when they walk into a room. It’s not cruelty for cruelty’s sake—it’s strategy. And that respect, that uncertainty, keeps them sharp. Keeps them loyal. Keeps them alive. And most importantly—keeps me alive.
Adrian’s breathing picks up. “Please. I’ll get it. I swear to God, I’ll get every cent—”
“You have nothing left to get it with.” I slide my phone back into my pocket, then smooth my jacket. “I’ve seen your accounts. Your credit’s torched. Your car’s leased. Your apartment’s two months behind. You’re a financial corpse, Adrian. You just haven’t stopped moving yet.”
His face crumples. For a second I think he might cry, and the disgust rises sharp in my throat.
“One day,” I say, my tone unchanged. “You have twenty-four hours to bring me eighty-seven thousand dollars, or you die. No extensions. No negotiations.”
“I don’t have it!” His voice cracks, desperation bleeding through. “Dante, please, I’ve been loyal—”
“Loyal?” The word tastes bitter. “You stole from me. You lied. You gambled with money that wasn’t yours and lost. That’s not loyalty, that’s suicide.”
I nod to Marco, the man on Adrian’s left. He steps forward, produces a pair of pliers from his jacket, and Adrian’s eyes go wide.
“Wait—wait, no, please—”
“You want more time?” I ask, almost conversational. “Then you need to understand what happens when you waste mine.”
Marco grabs Adrian’s hand, wrenches it flat against the armrest. Adrian thrashes, but the zip ties hold, and my other guy—Sal, built like a fridge—clamps a hand on his shoulder to keep him still.
“Please don’t—”
The pliers close around his left pinky nail.
Adrian screams before Marco even pulls. The sound is shrill and ugly, and when the nail tears free, blood wells up fast, dripping onto the chair, onto the floor. The stench of copper mixes with the whiskey on his breath and I take a step back, keeping my expression neutral even as my stomach turns.
Not from the blood, I’ve seen worse than that. Done worse.
It’s the drunk, pathetic whimpering that gets under my skin.
“Stop—stop, please, I’ll do anything—”
“Anything?” I arch a brow, pulling a handkerchief from my pocket to wipe a fleck of blood from my shoe. “You just told me you have nothing.”
“I’ll work! I’ll do jobs, I’ll—whatever you need, just give me two weeks, please—”
“Two weeks.” I laugh, low and humorless, wondering if this idiot actually understands the trouble he’s in. “What are you going to do in two weeks, Adrian? Win the lottery?”
His phone buzzes on the table beside me, screen lighting up. The vibration cuts through his sobs, and I glance down.
The name Bianca flashes across the display, accompanied by a photo.
I pick it up.
She’s smiling in the picture—really smiling, the kind that reaches her eyes. Hazel-green, I think, though the lighting makes it hard to tell. Long chestnut hair pulled over one shoulder, a simple blouse, nothing flashy. She looks warm. Genuine. The kind of woman who probably bakes cookies for her neighbors and remembers birthdays.
The kind of woman who has no business being anywhere near a man like Adrian Morelli.
“Who’s this?” I ask, turning the phone toward him.
His face goes pale. “That’s—that’s my girlfriend. Please don’t—”
“How long have you been together?”
“Three years. Dante, she has nothing to do with this—”
“Three years.” I study the photo again, something cold and calculating clicking into place in the back of my mind. “And you’ve been gambling the whole time?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Does she know what you do? Who you work for?”
“No.” His voice drops to a whisper. “She thinks I’m just an accountant.”
Of course, she does.
I set the phone down, cross my arms. Marco sets the pliers down, waiting for orders. Adrian’s hand is still bleeding, but he’s stopped screaming, reduced to pathetic whimpering and shaking.
“I can settle this another way,” Adrian blurts out suddenly, voice cracking. “I can repay you. Just not with money.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You just told me you have nothing left, boy, don’t fucking play with me.”
“I have something.” He’s talking fast now, desperate. “Something valuable. My girlfriend.”
The room goes quiet.
I tilt my head, studying him. “Your girlfriend.”
“Yes. Bianca. You can have her. As collateral. She’s—she’s worth more than the debt, I swear.”
No hesitation. The offer comes out smooth, rehearsed almost, like he’s been holding it in reserve this whole time. No stumbling over the words. No visible guilt.
I wait for the backtrack. The moment where he realizes what he just said and tries to take it back. Because his offer is mad. Ridiculous.
But it doesn’t come.
I set the phone down carefully, adjust my cufflinks. “You’re telling me that instead of bringing me my money, you want to give me a living and breathing woman.”
“She’s not just any woman,” Adrian says quickly, desperately. “She’s loyal. She’ll listen. And she’s—” He swallows. “She’s almost a virgin. Never been with anyone but me. That’s worth something, right?”
Marco makes a sound low in his throat, and I don’t have to look to know he’s disgusted.
I am too.
But I’m also intrigued.
Not because of what Adrian’s offering—I’m not some trafficking animal who trades in women like currency. But because this pathetic waste of oxygen just showed me exactly who he is, and in doing so, made me very, very curious about the woman he’s throwing away.
“And how exactly do you plan to deliver her?” I ask, circling back to the practical. “What’s stopping her from running the moment you bring her to me?”
Adrian’s face goes even paler, if that’s possible. “She won’t run.”
“You seem very confident about that.”
“I am.” He’s talking faster now, desperate to close this deal. “I’ve been paying her mother’s medical bills. Cancer. Stage four. Expensive treatment at St. Catherine’s. Without me, her mother loses everything—the care, the medication, all of it.”
There it is. The leverage.
“So, she’s tied to you,” I say slowly.
“Exactly. She won’t run because she can’t afford to. Her mother’s life depends on those payments.” He’s almost smiling now, thinking he’s made a brilliant play. “Bring her here, tell her the situation, and she’ll cooperate. She has no choice.”
I study him for a long moment. The casual way he’s using a dying woman as collateral. The ease with which he’s manipulating someone who presumably loves him.
He’s even more worthless than I thought.
But he’s also handed me exactly what I need.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” I say, my voice flat. “You’re going to walk out of here. You’re going to go home, pack a bag, and disappear for a while. Maybe leave the state. I don’t care. But your debt doesn’t disappear with you.”
“I know, I—”
“It transfers to her.”
His face pales. “What?”
“You heard me. Bianca now owes me eighty-seven thousand dollars. And since I’m betting she doesn’t have that kind of money, she’ll be working it off. However, I see fit.”
“But—”
“You offered her, Adrian. I’m accepting.” I lean forward, let him see the flatness in my stare. “And if you ever come near her again, if you so much as text her, I’ll cut off more than a fingernail. We clear?”
He stares at me, mouth opening and closing, the full weight of what he’s done finally sinking in.
Too late.
“Sal, cut him loose.”
The zip ties snap. Adrian stumbles to his feet, cradling his bleeding hand against his chest. He looks at me, then at the phone still sitting on the table, and for half a second, I think he might actually try to take it back.
“Go,” I say quietly.
He goes.
The door slams behind him, and the room feels cleaner without him in it.
Marco picks up a rag, starts wiping blood off the pliers. “You really taking his girl, boss?”
“I am.”
“You think she knows what she’s walking into?”
I look at the phone again. At Bianca’s smiling face, frozen in a moment of happiness that’s about to shatter.
“No,” I say. “But she will.”
Because Adrian Morelli just sold her to the devil, and I always collect what I’m owed.
Chapter Two
Bianca
The last bell rings at 3:15, and the hallway explodes with the sound of twenty-three second-graders who’ve been sitting still for six hours too long. Loud doesn’t even begin to cover it.
I gather my papers, slide them into my tote bag, and step into the chaos. Backpacks scrape against lockers. Shoes squeak on linoleum. Someone’s already crying because they can’t find their lunchbox, and I make a mental note to check the lost and found before I leave.
“Miss Mancini!”
I turn to find Emma Rodriguez clutching a drawing, her gap-toothed smile wide enough to split her face. “I made this for you!”
It’s a crayon masterpiece—stick figures holding hands under a bright yellow sun, one labelled “Miss M” in wobbly letters.
“It’s beautiful, Emma.” I crouch down to her level, accepting the paper like it’s worth a million dollars. “I’m going to hang it right on my desk. Thank you, sweetheart.”
She beams, then races off to join her mother at the door.
I watch her go, feeling that familiar warmth settle in my chest. This is why I teach. Not for the paycheck—God knows the paycheck is barely enough to survive on—but for moments like this. For the chance to be the stable, caring presence these kids deserve.
The presence I never had.
“Miss Mancini?”
Alex Martinez stands at my elbow, backpack dangling from one shoulder, eyes fixed on the floor. He’s small for seven, with dark hair that always needs cutting and a jacket two sizes too big.
“Hey, buddy.” I rest a hand on his shoulder. “You all set?”
He nods but doesn’t move.
I glance at the clock. His mom works until six most nights, and the after-school program doesn’t start until four. That leaves him forty-five minutes to kill, and I know he hates waiting alone in the cafeteria.
“What do you usually do before the program starts?” I ask gently.
His eyes drop to the floor. “I’m not going to the program this year.”
“Oh?” I keep my voice casual, not wanting to embarrass him. “How come?”
“Mom can’t afford it.” He says it matter-of-factly, like he’s used to hearing it. “She said maybe next semester if she picks up more shifts.”
My heart squeezes.
“Well then,” I say, straightening up. “Want to help me organize the supply closet?” I ask.
His face lights up. “Really?”
“Really. I could use an extra set of hands.”
We spend the next half hour sorting through construction paper and glue sticks while Alex tells me about the book he’s reading. He’s smart—too smart for his own good sometimes. The kind of kid who notices everything and feels too much.
The kind of kid I used to be. He reminds me so much of myself it hurts sometimes.
When his mom finally arrives, breathless and apologetic, I walk them both to the door. Alex waves until they disappear around the corner, and I feel that familiar ache in my chest.
I want to give these kids everything. Stability. Safety. The kind of childhood where they don’t have to worry about whether the adults in their lives will show up.
But I can barely keep my own life together.
My phone buzzes as I’m locking the classroom door.
St. Catherine’s Medical Center flashes across the screen and my stomach drops.
“Hello?”
“Miss Mancini?” The voice is professional, clipped and makes the hair on my neck stand straight. “This is Sharon from billing at St. Catherine’s. I’m calling about your mother’s account. Is it a good time?”
I press the phone tighter to my ear, already walking toward the parking lot. “Yes, I can speak. Is she okay?”
“She’s fine,” I feel a huge weight falling off my chest. Mom’s fine. “But we haven’t received this month’s payment yet, and I wanted to check in. Is everything all right on your end?”
The breath I’ve been holding releases in a rush. One of my biggest fears is that someday they will call me and tell me the news no child wants to hear, no matter the age. That they’re mom is gone.
“Yes, I’m so sorry. My—my partner handles the payments. I’ll check with him and call you back today.”
“Perfect. We just want to make sure there are no issues with—”
“Miss Mancini!”
I turn to see Alex’s mom rushing back toward me, waving. She mouths thank you and blows a kiss before disappearing again.
I manage a smile, but my heart is racing.
“—coverage,” Sharon finishes. “Just give us a call when you can.”
“I will. Thank you.”
I hang up and lean against my car, fingers automatically finding the gold cross pendant at my throat. Mom gave it to me when I was ten, told me it was a promise that she’d always be there.
Even when she’s not.
Even when cancer is eating her alive and the only thing keeping her in that hospital bed is money I don’t have.
I close my eyes, take a breath, and try to remember the last time Adrian actually answered a question about finances without getting defensive. Why the hell is he delaying the payment?
“Bianca.”
The voice cuts through my thoughts like a knife, and I jerk upright.
Adrian is leaning against the passenger side of my car, arms crossed, looking like he hasn’t slept in days. His suit—usually crisp and tailored—is wrinkled. His tie is loose. And his eyes…
God, his eyes are glassy and unfocused in a way that makes my skin crawl.
“Adrian?” I glance around the parking lot, suddenly aware that a few teachers are still loading up their cars and my boyfriend looks like the local drunk. “What are you doing here?”
He pushes off the car, takes a step toward me. “Came to see my girl.”
The smell hits me before he does—whiskey, sharp and sour. It’s 3:30 in the afternoon and he reeks like he’s been marinating in it.
“You’re drunk.” I take a step back, keeping distance between us. “You need to go home.”
“I’m fine.” He reaches for me, fingers closing around my wrist. “Just wanted to surprise you.”
His grip is too tight. Not painful yet, but firm enough that I’d have to yank to get free.
“Adrian.” I keep my voice low, aware of the lingering eyes. “Let go.”
Instead, he pulls me closer, his other hand sliding to my waist. “Come on, baby. Give me a kiss.”
I turn my face away just as his lips brush my cheek. “Not here. Not like this.”
“Why not?” His words slur together. “I’m your boyfriend, aren’t I?”
Mrs. Chen from fourth grade is watching now, concern etched across her face. The last thing I need is the school administration getting involved in my personal life. I force myself to relax, to soften my tone even as anger burns in my chest. “You are. But I’m not kissing a drunk man in front of my students’ parents. So let go, and we can talk.”
Something flickers in his eyes—hurt, maybe, or shame—and his grip loosens.
I pull my wrist free, rubbing the red marks his fingers left behind.
“The clinic called,” I say, tucking my hands into my pockets so he can’t see them shake. “About Mom’s payment. They said it hasn’t gone through.”
Adrian’s jaw tightens. “Yeah. That’s actually one of the things I wanted to talk to you about.”
My stomach flips. “What do you mean?”
“Not here.” He gestures toward his car—a black sedan that’s parked crooked across two spaces. “Come on. I have a surprise for you.”
“Adrian, I don’t—”
“Please.” The word comes out raw, desperate. “Just trust me. I need you to come with me. It’s important.”
I look at his car, then back at him. At the way he’s swaying slightly on his feet. At the panic lurking beneath the alcohol haze.
Every instinct I have is screaming at me to say no. To get in my own car and drive away.
But Mom’s payment didn’t go through. And Adrian is the one who’s supposed to handle it. And if I don’t figure out what’s going on, she could lose her spot at St. Catherine’s.
“Fine.” I grab my tote bag from my car. “But you’re not driving. Give me the keys.”
“I’m fine to—”
“Keys, Adrian. Now.”
He fishes them out of his pocket and drops them into my palm, muttering something under his breath that I choose to ignore.
The drive starts normal enough. Adrian slouches in the passenger seat, eyes closed, one hand pressed to his temple like he’s fighting off a headache. I keep both hands on the wheel and try to ignore the dread pooling in my gut.
“Where am I going?” I ask.
“Take the expressway toward Newark.”
“Newark? Why—”
“Just drive, Bianca. Please.”
So, I drive.
The neighborhoods get worse the farther we go. Pristine suburbs give way to strip malls, then to blocks of boarded-up buildings and chain-link fences. The sky seems darker here, like the sun gave up trying to reach this part of the city.
“Adrian, what’s going on?”
“Work stuff.” He doesn’t open his eyes. “I just need to take care of something.”
“You’re an accountant, not a drug dealer,” I murmur, but he doesn’t say a thing.
The silence stretches between us, heavy and suffocating. I glance at Adrian’s profile—jaw clenched, eyes still closed, that telltale vein pulsing at his temple that only appears when he’s stressed.
Or lying.
“What kind of work stuff?” I press, my fingers tightening on the wheel.
“Just some accounts that need clearing up. Nothing you need to worry about.”
But I am worried. Because in three years together, Adrian has never once brought me to a work meeting. Never introduced me to a single colleague. Never even mentioned specific clients by name.
I thought it was because he wanted to keep work and personal life separate. Professional boundaries and all that.
Now, driving through streets that look like they’ve given up on ever seeing better days, I’m wondering if there’s another reason entirely.
“Adrian, if you’re in some kind of trouble—”
“I’m handling it.” His voice is sharp, final. “Just trust me, okay?”
Trust him.
The words taste bitter in my mouth, but I swallow them down because what choice do I have?
I grip the steering wheel tighter, my fingers finding the cross pendant again. It’s a nervous habit I’ve had since childhood—whenever I’m scared or angry, I reach for it. Mom used to joke that I’d wear the gold smooth one day.
“Turn here,” Adrian says suddenly.
I follow his directions down a street lined with warehouses and auto shops, then into a parking lot in front of a sagging apartment complex that looks like it should’ve been condemned years ago.
“This is your surprise?” I can’t keep the edge out of my voice. “A slum in Newark?”
“Just come inside.” He’s already opening the door, stumbling slightly as he stands. “It’ll make sense. I promise.”
It won’t. I know it won’t. But I’m already here, and turning back now won’t answer any of my questions.
I kill the engine and follow him toward the building, praying I won’t have to put my teenage self-defense classes to use.
The hallway reeks of mildew and cigarette smoke. Paint peels from the walls in long strips, and the fluorescent lights overhead flicker like they’re trying to give up. Adrian leads me to the third door on the left, then pauses with his hand on the knob.
“Just… don’t freak out, okay?”
“Adrian—”
He opens the door.
The apartment is small and dim, curtains drawn against the afternoon light. Smoke hangs thick in the air—cigar smoke, expensive and cloying. There are men here. Four, maybe five, all standing or sitting in positions that feel deliberately casual.
And in the center of the room, standing by the window with his hands in his pockets and his suit so perfectly tailored it looks obscene in this place, is a man who makes my heart stop.
He’s tall. Like extremely tall. Dark hair. Blue eyes that cut through the smoke and the shadows and land on me with the precision of a scalpel.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
Just looks at me like he’s been expecting me.
Like he already knows exactly why I’m here.
“Adrian,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the blood rushing in my ears. “What did you do?”
But Adrian doesn’t answer.
And the man in the perfect suit smiles.
If you liked the preview, you can get the whole book here
if it’s over 415 pages i probably won’t read it though, only because books with page numbers in the 300 range are easiest because i don’t get annoyed lol
Totally understandable—reading preferences vary. I appreciate you sharing what works best for you! If you ever get the chance to read it, I’d love to know your thoughts 🖤