Page 125 of The Ruin I Chose

“My men will be rescuing the kids once Lorenzo is out,” Martin added.

I nodded, studying my Glock before tucking it in the back of my trousers. Santino picked up a knife and a gun.

Martin had already packed—like he’d been waiting for this day his whole life.

The drive was quiet. I closed my eyes and saw Roxanne—hair dancing in the wind, laughing, circling me like gravity. Her mouth on mine. Her hands on my skin. Her fingers brushing my lips.

I missed her like oxygen. Without her, everything felt hollow. But this was essential—it had to end. If my story with Roxanne was meant to continue, Lorenzo’s had to end.

We arrived by nine. Ronnie’s men had already infiltrated the club—some as security, some as customers.

The heavy doors of the club opened into loud bass beats of music. The strip club reeked of sweat, perfume, and desperation. Bloodlust clung to the walls. It was the kind of place where men disappeared, and no one blinked. Red lights strobed like seizures while girls danced with dead eyes.

The door to the private room where Lorenzo was being serviced was guarded by only one stupid chink. Martin slit his throat before he could blink. One clean slice and arterial spray hit the wall like a red signature—Martin’s calling card.

Lorenzo lounged in a velvet booth, pants down, head thrown back. The bastard looked like a king of filth, ruling from a throne of velvet and vice. A woman knelt between his legs, gagging.

“Just like that,” he moaned. “Perfect little slut, aren’t you?”

The poor woman choked. Santino pulled her away and slipped her cash. Lorenzo laughed, still with his pants down.

“Marcello, figghiu miu, thanks for letting an old man finish.”

“Shut it, or it gets blown off,” Santino said, pointing the gun at his flaccid cock.

Lorenzo zipped up, still smirking. I punched him hard, straight to the nose. Bone crunched under my knuckles, warm blood spraying across his jaw like war paint. Santino tied his hands behind his back, walking him out of the room and club. The chase was over. The reckoning had begun.

As we stepped out, we were ambushed. Bullets flew. Bodies dropped. The street turned into a shooting gallery—metal, screams, blood misting the air.

Martin grabbed Lorenzo and held tight.

“Don’t let him get away,” I shouted over the gunfire.

Muzzle flashes split the dark—white, blinding. Glass shattered. Ronnie returned fire. A body hit the pavement hard enough to rattle bones. Martin took down two. Someone screamed, then stopped. The air stank of cordite, panic and the copper tang of blood. Santino dragged me behind a car for cover.

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Santino snapped, pointing to my bleeding arm.

I had barely noticed the bullet that grazed my arm.

“It’s a flesh wound,” I replied, flexing my arm. “Let’s finish this.”

We opened fire, answering shot for body. As soon as we heard sirens wailing, we jumped into a car and sped off.

Ronnie had connections at Port Klang.

The warehouse was dim—concrete walls, rusted beams, the scent of salt and oil thick in the air. Lorenzo sat on a steel chair, wrists bound, blood crusted on his lip. His nose was broken. A tooth missing. Ronnie paced in front of him, voice low, deliberate.

“Where are the other warehouses?”

Santino leaned against the wall, silent. His fingers toyed with the blade—slow, rhythmic. He didn’t speak. But his eyes never left Lorenzo. Lorenzo laughed, blood bubbling at the edge of his mouth.

“Sta lassannu sti fimmineddi fari u so spassu? Affrontami, finocchiu.”

(You’re letting these pussies have their fun? Face me, faggot.)

His voice carried that old Sicilian arrogance—men like him rotted from the inside out. I didn’t respond. Instead, I pulled out my phone and texted Roxanne.

Her words steadied my hand. Anchored the monster inside me, barely. My chest tightened. She was my anchor. My reason.