Page 113 of Jayson
He’ll come fast. Ugly. No finesse. Just blood and panic and cleanup crews.
He’ll try to take her. Or silence her. Whichever bullet buys him more time. But he’ll have to go through me first. And that doesn’t end with me on the floor. That ends with me standing over his broken body, watching the light drain out of his eyes. Because I don’t just protect what’s mine. I protect ours. The Gatti name. The Moreno seat. The blood we’ve bled together to keepthis empire standing. I’ve buried threats before. I’ll do it again. With bare hands, if I have to.
So if Maddox wants war? He better bring a shovel. Because the moment he touches Jayson’s girl… He won’t just be starting a fight. He’ll be digging his own fucking grave.
The first call rings.No answer.
The second buzzes in my ear longer. Still nothing.
By the fourth, I’m standing in the middle of my office like I forgot how to move—just staring at the screen, heart a dead weight against my ribs. The sun hasn’t cracked over the skyline yet, but light’s bleeding in, pale and useless.
Jayson doesn’t miss calls. Ever. Not from me.
Not when I use that line.
Something’s wrong. Not paranoia. Instinct. That ugly, low hum that starts in the back of your skull when the air shifts and you know—know—the world’s about to tilt sideways.
I swipe to dial again, but stop. Time’s already bleeding out.
Instead, I hit Mason’s name.
He picks up on the second ring, voice thick but alert. “Boss?”
“I can’t get Jayson.” My voice is sharp. There’s no time for pleasantries.
Silence. Then, “Where was he last?”
“His estate. You and Saxon, mobilize. I’m heading out now.”
“You want us to wait for you?”
“No. I want you to move like hell’s chasing you.”
I hang up before he can ask more questions and punch Scar’s number next. I hate using him like a last resort. But we’re already past protocol.
“Talk,” Scar grunts, and that one word tells me he knows.
“This Maddox fucker might’ve made a move. Jayson’s not answering. I’m en route.”
“You need hands?”
“I need the damn cavalry.”
“You’ve got them.”
He ends the call before I can, and that’s fine. He’s not sentimental. But he’ll show up. They all will.
I throw on a jacket, grab two spare clips, a suppressed sidearm, and a shotgun I haven’t touched since Colombia. My Glock’s already holstered at my back. My vest rides tight. Familiar. Comforting.
44
JAYSON
Keira’s body is warm against mine, her back pressed to my chest. My arm is hooked loosely around her waist, fingers splayed against the silk of her skin like I’m afraid she’ll disappear if I let go. I breathe her in—vanilla, skin, a soft lavender scent that clings to her like a fucking halo. I should sleep. God knows I need it. But sleep feels like a privilege lately, and I’m not sure I can afford to close my eyes and miss a moment of her heartbeat.
Keira shifts in her sleep, ass brushing my thigh, and I swear under my breath. Not from arousal—though God knows that’s a given—but from the way my chest aches. This is intimacy, and it terrifies me more than a bullet ever could.
Her body is so soft. Not just the skin, not just the curves that fold perfectly into mine, but the way she lets me hold her. Like I’m not a fucking monster. Like I’m someone she trusts to keep her safe.
