Ruin & Rule

I didn’t believe my words. My age only condemned me to live longer inside these shit-stained walls.

Wallstreet’s eyes narrowed. “What makes you think I lost it all?”

“The newspaper articles. Magazines.”

He shook his head. “You said so yourself… my bookkeeping skills are impeccable. Don’t you think I hid things? Only gave up what I could afford to lose?”

My heart slowed—it always did when something huge attracted my attention. I could sit in a room with no food or distractions for days while chewing on an elusive equation.

My voice dropped, hiding my eagerness. “Gonna share with me?”

Wallstreet leaned closer, his voice dropping. “That depends on you.”

“Me?”

“I know as much about you as you do about me. I know what you want when you get out of here, and I also know you don’t stand a chance unless you somehow manage to afford a lawyer who gets you a parole hearing before you’re fucking seventy.” He sighed. “We both know that won’t happen. Not after what your father made you do. Not to mention the testimony he submitted painting you as the villain.”

My hands clenched; my heart thundered in my ears.

“Yes, Officer. I saw the whole thing. He’s no son of mine. I loved the Price family as if they were flesh and blood.”

Handcuffs settled icy-cold and final around my wrists. My heart didn’t beat and nerves didn’t clog my blood. Ever since my father had dragged me into Cleo’s house, I’d been dead inside. Destined to hell for what I’d done.

I’d obeyed my father because of threats he’d made toward the girl I loved with all my soul. I’d agreed to do what he wanted to protect her. To prevent her from being raped and murdered right before my eyes.

And this was how he repaid my loyalty.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself, Arthur Killian, before we take you into custody?”

I looked down at the floor, my hair reeking of smoke, my hands covered in the charred remains of Cleo’s house. I’d combed through the wreckage once it had burned to the ground and cooled.

I hadn’t found her body, but I’d found the ring I’d given her.

I wanted to break down and fucking cry.

My father growled, “Of course he has something to say. Don’t you, Killian? Tell them. Tell them the truth.”

I hunched into myself. Even now, even after he’d already destroyed my life, he was intent on hammering the nails into my coffin.

“Well, son. What do you have to tell us?” the officer asked, shaking me.

“Killian, admit to it,” my father hissed. “Tell them what a fucking murderer you are.”

There was nothing left to fight for.

She was dead.

I would follow her as soon as I could find a way.

“I killed them,” I whispered.

“What was that?” The officer leaned closer.

Gathering every inch of betrayal and hatred from my soul, I bellowed, “I fucking killed them. I murdered Paul and Sandra Price. Are you happy? Is that what you want to hear?”

The officer shook his head sadly. “No, son, that wasn’t what I wanted to hear at all.”

The last thing I heard as they stuffed me into the back of a cop cruiser was my father chuckling with accomplishment.

He’d used his youngest son to dispatch the president of Dagger Rose, all so he could take it over himself.

He’d sentenced me to a life of eternal misery, all for fucking greed.

And for that I hoped the devil would tear out his heart and eat it for fucking breakfast.

I forced the memories away—to stay locked and barricaded. If I didn’t, I’d go insane with anger. My eyes returned to Wallstreet’s neck, starting a new calculation on how long it would take me to rip out his voice box so I didn’t have to listen to him anymore.

Wallstreet looked around, dropping his voice to a murmur. “I have a proposition for you.”

My eyes narrowed. Suspicion laced my blood. I didn’t say a word, letting him dig the trench he obviously thought I was stupid enough to enter.

“You have a head for numbers. You graduated top of your class in both physics and university-level math. You turned a work experience week at the local stock market into a trending explosion of blue-chip stocks by going bearish on the trade. You’re a natural, Arthur, and that’s a rare and beautiful thing.”

I rolled my eyes. “You read my résumé. How thoughtful.”

He snapped, “I’m serious.”

My eyes flashed. “And I’m serious when I said my name is Killian. Arthur died the moment he was betrayed and thrown away to rot in this godforsaken place.”

“We’ll come back to that.” Wallstreet looked over my shoulder before glancing back at me. “It brings me to my next point. What else do you know about me?”

Ah, the darker part of his history. The part where the police tried to trip him up. The amount of warrants served to him as the president of a motorcycle crew was insane. They’d tried to bring him down again and again. But nothing ever stuck.

Not until his bitch of a Club whore got jealous and threw him to the law.

“You want me to outline it, or are you happy to take my nod that I know about the Corrupts, its perfect history, and your iron-fist control?”

He snarled, anger siphoning through him like liquid fire. “Iron-fist control, my ass. It’s out of fucking control.” He stopped himself, dragging a hand through his hair again. He smiled. “Sorry, that was uncalled-for. What I meant to say was, the past few years the man I left in charge has decided not to follow my explicit instructions. He’s taken my vision and ruined it.”