Page 63 of The Ruin I Chose

The sheets still carried her scent. It hit me like a fist—soft, sweet, merciless. The room still echoed with her laughter. The last time I came in here was the day she left. But after that night, I never stepped foot in here again.

I remembered how she’d collapsed from panic the night before she left. Antonio had rushed to help her. I watched her sleep. Watched her break. Her fear had gutted me more than any blade ever had. Her chest moving with every breath. The food I’d left on the nightstand was untouched.

The next morning, she left. Not before she left me the note.

“I barely knew her, but she looked at you with admiration. She hid the truth, yes. But so did you. You didn’t give her a chance. Just tell her—she’ll understand.”

Antonio told me once she left.

“It’s better this way,” I replied dryly.

I watched her blow a kiss into the air—towards me, towards the silence. I didn’t catch it. I didn’t deserve to. And I’ve been chasing it ever since.

My heart sank—not being able to hold her, wipe her tears, tell her it’s okay. But I was hurting too. I thought we had something going, something strong. I knew she felt it.

It may have just been ten days, but ten days were enough. Yet not enough.

I remember seeing the file once we returned from Palma.

There were pictures of her—of us. My stomach twisted; someone else had been watching what was mine.

This was Lorenzo’s doing. That sleazy bastard never showed his face—he worked in shadows. I had to get to the man who followed her.

Santino tracked him down in less than a week; he was at Port Nerra warehouse—bound, bleeding. But I wanted to finish the bastard myself.

A sleazy Bulgarian sat slumped in the chair—twitchy black eyes, busted lip. I walked up to the table, rolled up my sleeves, and picked up a nail clipper. Before he could speak, I clamped the clipper and ripped off his fingernail. His scream echoed off the concrete walls—raw, animalistic.

“Please… don’t kill me. I’ll tell you everything,” he said in a raspy voice.

I ripped out two more—slow, deliberate, watching him writhe.

“Who?”

“I don’t know her name.” He stuttered.

“Her?”

“Yes, tall, big boobs, great figure, brown hair.”

I knew exactly who he was talking about. I swung my fist. Again and again until I heard the wet crack of bone. His face was pulp—unrecognisable.

All my rage towards Lorenzo, towards myself, towards the goodbye I never got—came out in the blows. I wasn’t just punishing him. I was punishing the version of me that let Roxanne walk away with tears still wet on her cheeks.

“Where. Is. She?” I asked between punches to his ribs.

My voice didn’t sound like my own—it was cold steel and something broken underneath.

He whispered, “I saw her in Naples.”

I hadn’t killed in years. But this man made my blood boil. From what Santino found out, he sold his own daughters to Lorenzo. He had no right to live. I picked up the blade. Walked behind him, gripped his hair. Pressed steel to skin—slow, deliberate.

“I have family… please.” He begged.

“You sold them,” I replied.

My mercy died with that admission. His eyes widened as my blade dug into his neck. My hand moved from ear to ear, slicing deep. His jugular split open. Blood gushed, hot and fast, as he gagged and choked on it.

“Send Lorenzo a souvenir,” I told Santino, wiping my hands as I walked out.