Page 1 of Jayson
1
JAYSON
They say blood makes you family.
But blood’s the first thing spilled when loyalty is tested.
I was nine the first time I watched someone die. In a cold alley with piss on the pavement. My father’s knife slid across a man’s throat. The man gargled, choking on his own lungs, and my father wiped the blade clean on his jeans before he looked at me with dead eyes and said,
“Don’t cry. Unless you want to end up beside him.”
I didn’t cry.
I didn’t breathe wrong for the next ten years. Because family? That’s just a word people use when they’ve never had to watch it betray them. Rip them open. Leave them behind.
I always knew I’d be a killer. Some people are built for violence. Others are born from it. And me? I was sculpted in blood.
The first time I held a gun, it felt like coming home. The weight. The chill of the steel. The silence before the shot. I didn’t feel fear. I felt peace. Because the world finally made sense.
And now?
I’m the Moreno family’s most prized weapon.
Funny. I spent years swearing I’d never become my father. And yet here I am—standing in his shadow, only colder.
The revolving doors of the Columbia Tower hiss closed behind me.
Seattle’s tallest building—polished steel, black glass, and more power than most people know what to do with.
The elevator requires no input. It already knows where I’m going. Top floor. Dante Accardi. Mr. Seattle. They call himThe Saint. Because he used to be a priest. Now he gives death his blessing before he signs the order.
When the doors open, I don’t knock. I don’t need to. They part for me like I was expected the moment I left the womb.
Dante stands by the window, the city before him, like he owns it. And in a way, he does.
He’s dressed in a blue suit worth more than my car. Silver cufflinks. Gold Rolex. Everything about him is polished and precise—like a holy man who prays with a knife instead of a rosary.
He turns. Looks at me with cool calculation. Smiles like the city’s fate is already decided.
“We have a problem,” he says. His voice is smooth, unbothered. “And I’ve been told you’re my best fixer.”
That’s a lie. I’m not his best anything. But you don’t correct Dante Accardi. You nod. You listen. And if you’re lucky, you leave with your life.
He walks toward me—calm, unhurried. Hands in his pockets. Shoes shining like mirrors. We’ve crossed paths before. Briefly. Peripherally. But this? This is different. This is personal.
He extends his hand. I take it. Then he places his other hand over mine—locks me in. Not a greeting; a statement.
I own this moment. I own you.
“Mayor Bishop,” he says.
I nod once. I know the name. Everyone does. Polished. Powerful. Press darling. But underneath the façade? Filth. The kind that slips out of trafficking charges with a clean suit and a public apology.
Accardi hasn’t forgotten.
“Slippery bastard,” he mutters. “The system failed. So now we fix it. Quietly. No mess. No witnesses.”
He doesn’t need to say more. I know exactly what this job requires. One shot. No mistakes. In and out like smoke.I cannot fuck this up.
