Ruin Me With Lies, page 1
License Notes
0001127AUG25-ZON
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2025 by S. Ann Cole
All rights reserved.
Proofread by: Andrea Shacklee, THP Editing Services
Without limiting the rights under copyright(s) reserved, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Making or distributing copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
For permission requests, contact the publisher via email: authoranncole@gmail.com.
Visit my website at www.AnnCole.net
Dedication
For the flawed and the self-aware.
For the ones who know they are the problem and fight, every day, to be better.
For the ones who push away those who care, then feel abandoned. For the ones told they’re hard to love.
You’re not a bad person. You’re human. Only you know the battles you fight on the inside. As long as you keep showing up trying to be a better version of yourself, that’s all that matters.
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty–Seven
Chapter Thirty–Eight
Chapter Thirty–Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty–Six
Chapter Forty–Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty–Two
Chapter Fifty–Three
Connect With Ann
CONTENT CAUTION
The content ahead will expose readers to:
Violence and profanities
Off-page SA and trafficking
Self-annihilation
Choking/Strangulation
Secretive FMC (does not tell you, the reader, her motives/intentions) *
*This book may not be suitable for readers who get anxious or frustrated if the MCs keep secrets from them. I understand some dislike that kind of storytelling, but this story demanded its own pace.
Reader discretion advised.
PART ONE
Madness by Ruelle
CHAPTER ONE
Stefano
A LONG TIME AGO, the Bible gave me a choice: God, or money.
Naturally, I chose money.
There are moments when I regret that choice. Fleeting, razor-thin moments. Because when you kneel at the world’s altar, darkness isn’t just a shadow. It’s a predator. It clings to you, invades your every pore, owns you. And unless you learn how to master it, wield it, become it…it will devour you. Leave you mangled. Begging for the God you rejected.
And right now, as I stare down at the text on my screen, is one of those moments.
Santo: In Vegas. Need to meet. Urgent. JB urgent.
Just like that, my spectacular mood is up in smoke. I was riding high half an hour ago. Walked out of my private grooming suite sharp as a blade. Fresh trim, beard lined to perfection, neck loose from a deep-tissue beatdown. Hands handled, smooth as silk.
And now… “Shit.”
Oscar, my driver, catches my attention in the rearview mirror. “Everything good, boss?”
“Not a chance.”
There was a time when seeing “Guy” on my phone screen meant good news. But ever since “Guy” dropped his decade-long facade and revealed himself as Don Santo Luciani? His name’s the last thing I want to see on my screen. “Santo” brings me nothing but bad news and dire warnings. He’s a goddamn black cat.
An in-person meeting? Yeah, some shit’s about to go down.
But if that son of a bitch is here to dump ashes in my garden, he’ll have to wait.
I pocket my phone and step out of the car, straighten my jacket and cufflinks, then head inside the building, right up to Mayor Lucy Rainford’s office.
“You’re early.” She flicks her auburn hair over her shoulder and hits a button on her desk phone. “Renee, hold my calls.”
“I’m right on time.” I lock the door behind me and close the distance to her desk. “Did you get the signatures?”
She straightens from her chair, grabs a manila envelope, then sashays around the desk and perch that fine ass of hers on the edge. “I’m a woman of my word.”
I snatch the envelope and check the pages inside. Every signature’s right where it should be. “That you are.”
She tugs up her skirt, parts her tanned, toned legs, then grips my tie and pulls me in. “Time to pay up.”
When I was a boy, my papa told me: “With every warm body a man fucks, he leaves a sliver of his soul behind. Piece by piece. Until he wakes up empty. Soulless.”
Said it brings nothing but bad luck, misfortune, and an early grave.
Maybe it was bullshit. Maybe not.
But I chose to believe it. Chose to not have pieces of myself scattered in strangers. I’m greedy like that. Selfish like that.
Some men could fuck a hole in a wall and be just fine.
I’m not one of them.
If I’m going to be losing pieces of myself, it has to be for something more valuable than a fleeting orgasm. I’d rather go without than waste myself on a powerless pussy.
Pussy without power is a waste.
Sex, for me, is transactional. Sex is business. Always business.
I’ve got an irresistible appeal and a praised prowess, and I wield both like a weapon. My dick is its own currency. It speaks in the languages of high-level favors, leverage, blackmail…death.
And every time it’s used, a debt is owed. A price is paid. A power shift is sealed.
Since the mayor used her influence to secure me a big win, I’m more than motivated to take her on a euphoric trip to nirvana.
Twice the win for me. Because Lucy Rainford? She’s a fucking bombshell.
~
AN HOUR LATER, Santo Luciani saunters into my office.
A year ago, he was a brownnoser in suspenders and bowtie. A disguise so good we never saw the mafia don underneath. Now that mask is off, he’s all Italian cut suits, wing tips, and menace.
“Aw, you came all this way just for me? I’m flattered,” I say. “Let me guess, I made the naughty list again?”
“Narcissistic as always. No, I’m not in Vegas just for you.” He unbuttons his jacket and lowers into the armchair across from my desk. “But yes, you’re in deep shit.”
See what I mean? This fucker never brings good news. “Of course I am.”
We belong to THE O, the most powerful secret organization in existence. And lately, Santo has become the head honcho’s new favorite. Which is why he’s the one delivering this message.
“The short of it all? You’re on Black.”
Translation: I’m on the kill list. “Well, fuck. I’m all out of strikes, huh?”
“All out.” He leans back. “JB’s done with you. Thinks you’re irreverent, reckless, and a constant pain in the ass. Her exact words were, ‘He’s an insolent mongrel.’”
I let out a whistle. “Ooh. Be honest, she’s into me, isn’t she?”
He stares back at me. Stiff, stolid, impassive.
Man, I miss the old “Guy.” He was less of a tightass.
I’ve never been good at being controlled or following the rules. But no matter how high you climb, how much power you hold, there’s always someone more powerful. Someone to answer to.
Even if it’s death itself. The ultimate boss.
Fate accepted, I rock back in my chair, fingers laced behind my head. “How long do I have to get my affairs in order?”
There’s something else going on. THE O doesn’t do death warnings. When they decide you’re done, that’s it. That I’m even getting a heads-up about it is highly unusual.
“You were supposed to be assassinated last night.” His tone is flat, detached. “But…don’t ask me what changed. All I know is, she called it off. Decided to throw you one last chance.”
What? Who the fuck interfered with my death? I’ve been looking forward to its glory for a while now. “Who said I wanted a chance?”
Santo blinks at me like he doesn’t understand the question.
Right. Not many people are as welcoming of “the big end” as I am.
Santo continues, “They’re putting hot coals under your feet.”
Of course. We’re all JB’s little playthings, dancing to the beat of her drum. “What does she want? Me on my knees, begging? Because that’s never happening.”
He shakes his head. “Not her style.”
Wouldn’t know what her style is. I’ve never met the woman in person. Have only ever seen her face once, when she randomly video-called me to tell me I’m a pain in the ass. Cold, curt, threatening, she made it clear that if not for my familial ties to their East Coast kingmaker, Torin Garza, she would’ve buried me a long time ago.
People in power hate what they can’t control. Despise those who stand unflinching and untamed.
I should know.
“What is her style, then?”
He scratches his jaw. “How loyal is this city to you?”
“I rule with fear, not benevolence. Outside of the people closest to me, I’m convinced of no one’s ‘loyalty.’”
“Hm.” He tilts his head. “Not as narcissistic as I thought. That’s good.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Because that loyalty is about to be tested. While you were busy grinding down the patience of the strongest ally you could ever have, someone’s been moving against you. Right here. In your city. Right under your nose.”
He lets that settle for a beat, then adds, “They’ve already locked in four strong allies who have agreed to back them when the time comes. And because of your unrelenting defiance? THE O let it happen.”
He checks his watch. “Now, JB’s stipulation: Uncover this person’s identity, their allies, and take them all out. Prove to her that this city is yours. You fail, then you don’t deserve this city. Or your life.”
Translation: she decided a clean assassination would be too dignified for me. A disgraceful fall at the hands of my own city, however? Savage. Wickedly cruel.
She’s got me right where she wants me.
This isn’t the first time power-hungry ingrates have tried to take me down. But here’s the thing about being hand-picked as king of a territory, no one can move me except the one who crowned me. Having THE O’s protection makes me bulletproof, invulnerable. Without it? Things could get…wild.
“And my protection? Is that gone?”
“Your protection is still in place. For now,” Santo replies. “My personal advice, though? Don’t trust it or rely on it. JB wants to punish you, so there’s a very high chance she will allow random cracks in the shield.”
“A simple point-blank execution would’ve been nice,” I grumble.
“They’ve also barred Red Cage—and that includes me—from helping you,” Santo adds. “So here’s my last piece of advice: assemble a tight team, with people you trust implicitly. Get yourself a tech expert. Restrict all details to that team. Consider everyone else your enemy. Stay sharp. Stay smart. Good hunting and good luck.”
With that, he stands, buttons his jacket, and walks out.
Goddamn black cat Santo.
CHAPTER TWO
Raya
VIVIENNE TAKES A SLOW drag from her cigarette, her gaze sweeping over us in the foyer. Her kimono flutters around her ankles, curlers slipping from her muddy-brown hair. “For Christ’s sake, ladies, look alive if you want them to choose you.”
The women straighten, backs arching, postures sharpening.
Vivienne’s eyes land on me. She gives me a slow once over, then sighs. Resigned, dismissive.
She had rejected me at first. Said I looked “too American”—whatever that means—and the Castellos didn’t take American girls. Too much trouble. Not worth it.
Only after I offered to triple her fee did she relent, but still warned me that the likelihood of me getting chosen would be low.
Of the five women here with me, three are Latina, one Asian, and one Romanian.
Louisa edges closer to me. In the week and a half that I’ve been here, she’s the one I’ve clicked with the most. She’s a prattler. Talks enough for the both of us. Just the way I like it. “Don’t worry, Raya. We will make it in.”
Outside, engines sing and tires crunch over gravel.
Vivienne swings the door open and shuffles out.
A minute later, she returns, cigarette pinched between her bony fingers. “Come, come now.” She waves us forward. “Stop standing around like useless furniture.”
We file out onto the front steps, where two stalwart, tattooed men are waiting. One by one, they size us up.
The taller one, a spiderweb inked across his neck, stops on me and grunts. Disapproving. “Tryna be slick sneaking in an American, Viv?”
“She isn’t,” Vivienne says around a puff of smoke.
“Like fuck she isn’t.”
Vivienne sighs. “She’s—”
“My mom’s American-German-Romanian. My dad’s Russian-French-Scandinavian,” I speak up, thickening my accent for effect. “And I’ve spent my entire life living everywhere but America.”
The man narrows his eyes. I’m aware I just broke their rule—speak only when spoken to—but this is my best way in. I can’t be left behind over some nonsense prejudice.
“What accent is that?” he asks.
“A mixture of all the places I’ve lived. But mostly French. I spend the most time there.”
He studies me for a moment longer, then jerks his chin. “Take off the jacket. Let me see you.”
I shrug it off, turning in a slow three-sixty. Unlike the others, I’m not busty, curvy, or soft in all the right places. I’m lean, toned, athletic. Not the tempting, sin-encouraging type of body that turn heads at first glance. Which I knew, coming in, would be a strike against me.
The Castellos want bombshells. Sex on legs. Women who’ll keep patrons coming back night after night just to leer at the smokeshows serving their drinks and cigars. I’m anything but that.
The man makes an unimpressed grunt. “You got some striking eyes and a nice pair of tits, but that’s about it.” He turns to the others. “You, you, you, and you, let’s go.”
Shitshitshit. I need to get into that villa, dammit.
Lousia offers me a deflated, apologetic look. “I’m so sorry, Raya.”
“Don’t be. I’ll be fine. Go.”
She squeezes me in a quick hug before jogging down the steps with the others toward the two haphazardly parked Broncos.
In a last-ditch effort, I grab the man’s jacket to stall him.
He stops, looks down at my hand, then up at me, a warning in his glare.
I quickly drop my hand. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—” I step back, out of his space. “Aesthetically, I know I’m not what you’re looking for. But I can be useful elsewhere.” My words rush out, urgent. “I speak five languages. I’m good with numbers. A whiz with tech, hacking, all that. I have selective eidetic memory. I can see things once and recall every detail. Well…when my brain cooperates. This also means I know random stuff about everything.” I search his face. “There must be somewhere I’ll be of good use….?”
“You know ‘bout weapons, too? How to handle a sniper rifle?” he challenges. “How to shoot someone right between the eyes? Hand-to-hand combat? Torture and interrogation skills? Tactical operations?”
Can’t answer that… “N-no, no, I don’t. I wouldn’t need your p-protection if I did.”
“Women who are too smart are dangerous. They can’t be trusted. The dumber you are, the better.” He looks me over again, his cold eyes lingering on my cleavage. “If we ever need a smart-ass bitch, we’ll find you.”
He turns and leaves. And there goes Luca Fontana. An Upperman in the Castellos organization. A blood relative. And, apparently, an asshole.
