Page 100

Isabella's breakdown in the office. Ruby's innocence in Paris, in Greenwich Village, her vulnerability, her resistance...

"At least Marcelo pays me!"

So that's it.

That's the truth.

Fabric ripped inside. Bodies slammed. A man panted and cursed.

My body moved before my brain caught up.

I kicked the door in.

The flimsy lock exploded, splinters flying, the metal door crashing into the interior wall with a deafening bang.

Green hundred-dollar bills covered the floor.

A blond man pinned Ruby against a sagging couch like a rabid dog, knees forcing her legs apart, hands tearing at her collar. Beneath him, Ruby—hair wild, face swollen, clothes shredded, eyes drowning in tears.

The blond bastard whipped his head toward me. "Who the fuck—"

I was already across the room.

My right hand locked around his throat like a vise. I ripped him off the couch, muscles bulging, and slammed him into the wall.

Plaster dust exploded.

His feet dangled. Eyes bulged. Fingers clawed uselessly at my forearm. His throat made wet, strangled sounds.

I squeezed tighter, pinning him to the wall, staring down at him.

Chad Wellington IV.

I knew him.

Ruby's ex. The piece of shit who'd hurt her once and come back for more.

Murder screamed through my veins. I could barely hold back. My fingers closed inch by inch, crushing his windpipe, his eyes rolling back.

Warm piss ran down his leg and splattered my shoes.

I didn't blink. Just kept squeezing.

One second before he blacked out, Ruby grabbed my arm.

I turned slightly. She flinched. Then those red, tear-soaked eyes looked up at me, pleading. "No, Marcelo, he's dying! Let him go!"

No. He deserves to die. He hurt you. I should send him to hell.

I wanted to say it. But looking into those tear-filled eyes, my jaw clenched.

"Fuck!" I snarled and hurled Chad toward the door like trash.

He hit the rusted hallway railing with a sickening crunch and tumbled down two steps.

He coughed violently, gulping moldy air, tears and snot mixing with floor grime. He clutched his bruised throat, eyes wild with terror as he looked up at me.

I stood in the doorway, one hand in my pocket, looking down at this pathetic dog.