Page 59 of Jayson
And when the world finally goes quiet, that’s when you feel it most and you remember things you’ve worked hard to bury.
I think about the Morenos.
Not the name or the empire.
The people.
Mason Ironside—my handler, my shadow, my brother in every way that counts. A man with demons worse than mine, but still carrying the people he loves on his back like it’s his job.
He once pulled me out of a burning safehouse after I took a bullet to the leg. He didn’t even think twice about putting his own life on the line and storming that fire just to drag me out, all the while muttering, “Don’t be an asshole. If you die, I’ll have to train someone new.”
He never said the wordfriend. But that night, he didn’t have to.
Then there’s Kanyan De Scarzi—the man who could’ve broken me the day we met, but didn’t. He offered me a job before I’d even wiped the blood off my chin after a fist fight.
He didn’t ask about my past. He didn’t care who I was or who I used to be. He gave me a place to stand, and he’s the reason I stopped looking over my shoulder.
I used to think I’d never belong anywhere. That I was meant to drift—from one disaster to another. Just a ghost in someone else’s war.
But now?
Now I’d take a bullet for Mason without blinking. I’d kill for Kanyan before the order finished leaving his mouth.
If it came down to it, I’d lay my life down for both of them. Without hesitation. Because for the first time in years, I don’t feel like I’m standing on the outside looking in. And that changes everything. Because I finally feel like I’m part ofsomething that matters. Something that breathes and bleeds and makes me want to fight tooth and fucking nail to protect it. Even if it tears me apart. Even if I burn for it.
It’s not the blood that rattles me—I’ve spilled plenty. It’s the loyalty. Because once you’ve got something real—something worth bleeding for—the fear of losing it starts to hollow you out. And that fear? It sticks. It festers. It’s not dying I’m afraid of. It’s surviving without them.
Speaking of loyalty, I stare down at the screen of my phone, thumb grazing the blinking red dot that pulses like a heartbeat.
She thinks I trust her. And maybe I do—just enough to let her think she has freedom. But not enough to take my eyes off her. Not when the stakes are this high.
The morning the cops knocked on her door, I told myself to stay out of it. Let her handle it. Let her breathe. Instead, while she was answering their questions, I slipped out of the shadows and installed a tracker on her phone. Not out of malice, but out of survival.
If she ran, I needed to know. If someone came for her, I needed to be ahead of it. And if she decided to lie to me—well, I needed proof.
Today was supposed to be routine. She left for campus just like she promised she would. Lionel called to confirm drop-off.
Then he called back.
“She left,” he said. “Got into a cab about five minutes after I circled back. I followed at a distance until the taxi dropped her off.”
He gave me the address. The one I already knew by heart. The Bishop estate. Her father’s house. The one where I committed a murder.
I parktwo houses down and cut the engine, sitting in the silence, watching the windows like they might speak. The mansion looms ahead, tall and solemn, empty like a corpse that never got buried properly.
What the fuck are you doing here, Keira?
I step out, shut the door with a quiet finality, and walk the block like I’ve lived here all my life. Head up. Pace measured. Not hiding—just another ghost in designer clothes.
No one gives me a second glance. This neighborhood's the kind where the curtains stay drawn and the silence is lined with money. The kind of rich that doesn’t ask questions—because asking means getting involved.
And no one wants to get involved withthathouse. They avoid it like a virus. Because even the elite know—monsters need space to breathe.
The back door gives after a little finesse. It has a deadbolt and a cheap security system. Nothing a guy like me hasn’t cracked before.
Inside, the house breathes in silence. It’s a mausoleum of power gone stale. The air smells like old wealth and older lies—polished wood, leather-bound books, and a whisper of evil beneath the floorboards.
I move from room to room, slow and soundless. I know this layout. I walked it once, before I killed him, memorising every inch of the property to ensure every contingency.
