Page 101
In the dim hallway light, the family signet ring on my left ring finger—black metal coiled with a viper—gleamed cold.
Chad's scattered pupils contracted to pinpoints when he saw it.
"You... Moretti..."
His face went chalk-white. All the blood drained from his oxygen-starved cheeks. He looked like he'd seen a demon crawl from hell itself. Shaking violently, he scrambled backward on hands and knees, leaving bloody streaks on the slick stairs.
"You're the one who controls the New York underworld! The mob boss who kills without blinking!"
He rolled toward the stairwell, voice shrill with hysteria, echoing through the empty building.
"Ruby! You're fucking insane! He's a mafia don! He's got hundreds of bodies on him! You slept with a monster... your whole family's gonna end up in the East River! You're all fucking crazy!!"
He didn't even grab his designer shoe by the door. He half-crawled, half-fell down the stairs in his piss-soaked pants, knocking over two trash cans, clattering into the rainy night.
His shadow disappeared. The hallway went silent except for the broken door creaking in the draft.
I turned back, stepping over splinters and torn fabric.
Ruby sat collapsed on the filthy carpet beside the couch, hands clutching her shredded sweatshirt, curled into a tiny ball. Her face was swollen, five finger marks blazing red across her cheek, dried blood crusted at the corner of her mouth.
When she looked up at me, those amber eyes held no relief. No warmth I'd once craved.
Only fear.
Naked, pure, bone-deep fear.
She trembled violently, teeth chattering audibly in the silent room, instinctively scooting backward as if I might snap her neck next.
I looked down at her. At the hundred-dollar bills scattered around her.
"So what if I slept with him for money... at least Marcelo pays me! I NEED money!!"
Those words were poisoned barbs driving deep into my heart, shredding whatever concern and panic had driven me here.
From the Paris fitting room to dancing by the Seine. From that dim Greenwich Village restaurant to this moldy Hoboken apartment...
I thought I'd pulled a thorny but proud wild rose from the mud.
Turns out, to her, this was just a transaction. She needed money. I had plenty to burn.
Even after Isabella's truth came out, after the tender mask was ripped away, all she could say was "he gives me fistfuls of cash."
Fury and betrayal surged through my chest, nearly consuming me.
I closed my eyes hard. When I opened them, my expression was calm.
I unbuttoned my suit jacket and pulled out my black embossed checkbook.
I uncapped my Montblanc. The pen scratched across the security paper—cold, dry, final.
Amount: Five Hundred Thousand Dollars ($500,000.00).
Payee: Ruby Caldwell.
The tearing sound was a verdict.
I stepped forward, looking down at the woman trembling on the carpet. I flicked my wrist. The thin paper spun through the air and landed on her, sliding onto the muddy carpet.
