Yours to Ruin

Song: Maneater - Nelly Furtado

Cherry

I wipe the blood splatter off my forehead, feeling nothing but disgust. A pool of blood spreads beneath him, slowly disappearing into the cracks of the asphalt. His gun lies inches from his outstretched hand, his fingers still twitching beside it. A single bullet hole marks the center of his forehead.

As always, the nauseating scent of copper and iron hangs thick in the night air. A scent I know all too well.

How many has it been now? 980? 990?

No. If I count all the men that I backed into corners, driving them to put the barrels into their own mouths, this marks one thousand kills.

Letting out a shaky breath, I pull my signature card from where it's tucked into my bra: a dark red ace of spades, stamped with a single, blood-red cherry right in the center of the suit.

"Good riddance." I drop the card onto his chest before sliding my hand down to hitch up the slit of my crimson dress, exposing just enough skin to reach the leather holster snug against my thigh. I tuck my gun inside, smooth the fabric back into place, and step out of the alleyway, blending into the shadows of the night.

It's like this every single time. I pull the trigger, feel a fleeting second of relief, and then the crushing weight of what I've just done settles in. The blood, the cold, clammy feeling of death on my hands... it's revolting.

My stomach twists into tight knots, and I force a slow inhale, fighting to control my ragged breathing.

He was scum. His hands were dirty. He trafficked women, smuggled drugs, and tore many lives apart. The world was objectively a better place without him. He'll never hurt anyone else again, and that's because of me.

I whisper the words to myself, trying to justify the fact that I took his life. To justify the fact that I've claimed the lives of nine hundred ninety-nine others, just as I did his. That what I've done was necessary. But the truth is, they were merely sacrifices for my own vendetta. If I stand any chance of surviving when I finally face that monster, I have to do everything in my power to make sure I'm the best at this job. The absolute best. Without question.

Still, the adrenaline coursing from the heinous act screams beneath my skin, and I desperately need something to take the edge off. A cold glass of wine will do.

I don't know this corner of Brooklyn well. It's shady, predictably so. But whenever I accept a contract, I thoroughly map out the area. Memorizing escape routes, identifying potential threats, locating police stations, you name it. Because of that prep work, I know there's a club nearby. To the untrained eye, it looks like a standard, high-end NYC nightclub. But I know better. The city's underworld breathes through places like this. Inside, there will be men laundering money, negotiating territory, and perhaps enjoying the company of strippers while they do it.

Neon lights reflect across the rain-slicked pavement as the bass from the club thumps heavily through the concrete. By the time I reach the entrance, the metallic scent of blood on my skin is drowned out by expensive perfume, cigarette smoke, and top-shelf liquor.

I peel the half-mask from my face and slip it into my clutch. Sucking in a deep breath, I hold my head high and toss my wavy hair over my shoulder. It bounces along with the sway of my hips and the rhythmic clack of my red, six-inch YSL stilettos.

It's remarkably easy to pretend. To slip into the skin of the woman I know as Cherry and become someone dangerous, captivating, and absolutely untouchable. When I'm Cherry, I own whatever room I walk into. I'm the woman men stare at, the one they think they can have, completely unaware that I'm the most lethal thing in the building. Seduction, power, control—it all belongs to me. As that cold confidence settles into my veins, I prowl through the club doors.

At the bar, a group of college-aged girls giggle over margaritas, swapping stories about their latest hookups. The good, the bad, and the ugly—literally. One of them shoves her phone onto the counter, sending the group into a fit of breathless laughter. "He's actually serious?" the blonde wheezes. "I swear that's the worst one I've ever gotten," another snorts, nearly spilling her drink.

The ghost of a smile tugs at my lips before vanishing just as quickly. Must be nice. To have your biggest concern be unsolicited dick pics instead of a trail of dead bodies. To laugh so loudly that the entire bar turns to look. To trust the people beside you enough to hand over your phone without even thinking twice. That kind of life was never in the cards for me.

Ironically, I've spent the last seven years chasing normalcy. Until I graduated college two years ago, I was quite literally living a double life. Sitting through lectures by day and executing sick fucks by night. I kept telling myself I could survive as both Ava Blaze and Cherry, but with every passing year, the line between them only got harder to see.

My best friend, Ciara, might be the only reason I still hold on to any semblance of self. We've been inseparable since high school, united by our mutual hatred of the reigning queen bee, Rachel Anderson. Ciara's only two years older than me, but she's always played the role of my protector. She's sunshine in human form. Loud, outgoing, overwhelmingly kind, and the type of person who can charm an entire room with just a smile.

Then there's me. Her polar opposite. I'd much rather fade into the dark with a blank canvas to keep me company. But her light and my shadow have always found a way to balance each other out.

I tell her everything. Or, at least, I used to—right up until that night. After that, the truth got too risky to share, and the lies became a shield. She knows Ava, but Cherry has to stay hidden in the shadows where she belongs. Still, she never stops showing up. Even now, drowning in endless hospital shifts as a resident physician, she somehow always finds time for our weekly brunch. Though, no matter how hard she tries to pull me back to reality, there are still parts of me I've buried too deep for anyone to reach. I swear, ever since that fucking night, I have felt utterly alone.

Ugh! Where is the damn bartender?

I need the rich taste of Merlot to drown out these thoughts for the night.

Finally, he approaches me, pulling himself away from a conversation he clearly got dragged into. "What can I get ya?" he asks, his hands busy mixing another round for the girls beside me. His gaze lingers on me for a second too long before darting back to his shaker.

"Wine—"

"Red or white?"

I lean in, a sly grin tugging at my lips. "Do I look like a white wine type of woman to you?"

His rosy cheeks flush, and he stumbles over his words. "I... uh, suppose not... ahem—"

"Merlot is fine," I interrupt, letting him off the hook with a soft laugh.

It's satisfying, toying with men. Whether it's flirty banter or purposely getting under their skin, their reactions are always amusing. Maybe it's an ego thing, or perhaps deep down, I just want the validation to hide how much I despise this fucked-up life of mine.

Seven years.

I've been running on autopilot for seven damn years.

Every single day is a carbon copy of the last. Wake up—but never well-rested. Chug coffee. Dig through records. Check in with Ciara. Train until my muscles burn. Execute a target. Wash away the blood. Attempt to sleep. Then get up and do it all again.

Somewhere along the way, the repetition hollowed me out, leaving nothing but an empty shell. The only thing keeping me going is the raw hatred burning in my chest. Even now, whenever I close my eyes, I see them. I see those pale, ice-blue eyes staring back at me, the left one framed by a nasty scar. The skin around them had crinkled at the corners, telling me he was smiling beneath that mask. Smiling as he slaughtered—

Breathe.

Every life I take brings me one step closer to my goal. Every passing day closes the distance to my sweet revenge. And when I finally catch him? I'm going to relish every second of taking his life, exactly the way he took theirs.

"Hellooo?"

A raspy voice snaps me out of my thoughts. I set the wine glass down, adjusting the mask of indifference on my face before glancing at the lean man sliding onto the stool beside me. His hair is slicked back beneath a thick layer of gel, highlighting a wrinkled forehead and dull amber eyes.

I'm unimpressed. The first thing I notice is the excessive, over-the-top bling on his neck and the massive watch on his wrist. I can tell it's fake and that he's overcompensating, trying to give the illusion that he's well-off. He isn't fooling me.

"You're gorgeous, you know that?" he purrs, leaning a little too close. "Let me buy you a drink."

"I have one," I scoff. Ignoring him entirely, I look past his shoulder, noticing a dimly lit VIP lounge in the corner.

Now that is a man with money.

Not because he's dripping in designer labels or drowning in jewelry like the idiot trying to flirt with me. In fact, it's the exact opposite. There's something almost pristine about him. He has the kind of presence that makes you instinctively straighten your posture without knowing why.

His black suit is tailored to absolute perfection, framing broad shoulders and a powerful, athletic frame. A silver Rolex peeks out from beneath his cuff, right where dark ink creeps up his wrist, disappearing under his sleeve before climbing up the side of his neck. Three men sit at his table, yet he's the only one worth listening to. He doesn't say a word. Still, their attention lingers on him, desperately waiting for a nod, a shift in posture—any sign of approval. It's the purest form of authority. The kind you can't fake, and you certainly can't buy.

My eyes drift higher, taking in dark hair, sharp features, and a jawline that looks carved from granite. Even from across the crowded room, there's something intimidating about him.

Cold. Calculated. Dangerous.

An unexpected shiver races down my spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake. I've spent years navigating a world of criminals, killers, and monsters. I know how to spot an apex predator. And if my instincts are right, there's only one man alive who carries this kind of terrifying yet magnetic presence. The problem is, nobody actually knows what he looks like. Unless, of course, he wants you to.

Almost like... a ghost.

Suddenly, those dark, unreadable eyes cut straight through the crowd and land directly on me. My body freezes, my chest tightening as though I've forgotten how to breathe. There's a coldness to his stare, one that I've never felt before, yet somehow it burns everywhere it touches. My instincts tell me this isn't an ordinary man and that I should leave, but something keeps me planted in my seat. The sheer force of his gaze holds me there. Just who the hell is he?

Fuck.

Could it be?

What are the odds? A big shot in New York doesn't move unnoticed. There would be whispers, talk making its way through the streets, something I would've heard by now. Instead, there's nothing. Just silence. The kind that can only mean one thing: Fear.

I'm looking directly at the puppeteer behind the biggest underground organization on the East Coast.

Ryder Black.

Ryder Black, 32.