Page 47 of Jayson (Gatti Enforcers #3)

KEIRA

I t’s too dark.

The silence isn’t really silent—there’s this low, humming roar in my ears, like my own heartbeat’s trying to escape.

I sit with my knees tucked to my chest, arms wrapped around my legs so tight that my muscles burn. Jayson said not to move. Not to speak. To stay hidden is to stay safe.

But it’s hard to believe in safe when the air down here feels like it’s thickening with every breath. The trapdoor sealed over me like a coffin. No light. No sounds now—just the echo of gunshots that were … and the waiting.

Too much shooting. Too much shouting. It went on for too long.

He’s just one man. There was more of them than there were of him.

I close my eyes. Breathe in, then out. Except I can’t. The air’s not going anywhere. My chest keeps rising, falling faster, tighter. It’s like I’m drowning in it.

I try to count. One, two, three—and that’s when it hits. Not the fear of dying. I’ve made peace with that before. This is different. This is memory. And it’s stale and old and it hits me out of left field.

The Past

I was nine and I was crying too loud.

That’s what he said. That’s what made it happen.

His belt was already on the floor, but that wasn’t the punishment this time. No. He dragged me through the hall, past my room, past the kitchen, to the guest room closet.

“You want something to cry about, Keira?”

My mother was already gone by then—long gone. Not dead or buried. Just… gone.

She walked out one morning without looking back, leaving behind the scent of her rose perfume, her silence, and a daughter she didn’t have the guts to fight for. She left me with nothing. Just a ghost of a woman who chose her own survival over mine.

And I?

I was left to face the monsters alone. And to this day, I can’t stand the smell of roses.

There were no lullabies. No safe arms. No one to pull me from the dark when the door slammed shut and the real nightmares began.

Just me. Small. Shaking. Learning too early that sometimes the scariest thing in the house wasn’t under the bed—it was standing in the hallway with a belt and bad company.

And without her… there was no one left to stop him.

He opened the closet door. Pushed back the coats. Pulled out a plank of thin, warped wood behind them.

There was a hole in the drywall.

A hollow space between beams. Cobwebs. Dust. Mouse droppings.

He grabbed me by the hair. Shoved me through it.

I screamed. I screamed so loud I thought my throat would tear open.

But he was louder.

“Shut up or I’ll make you stop breathing altogether. ”

Then the wood slid back into place.

And it was black. So black.

My breath echoed inside the walls. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t stretch and it was impossible to sit up.

And the worst part? I didn’t know how long he’d leave me there. An hour. A day. Once, it was two .

The Present

I claw at the walls. My fingernails scrape against cold steel, leaving nothing but aching silence behind.

My chest jerks with every ragged breath. I can’t stop it. I can’t slow it down. The blackness is everywhere. Inside me. Around me.

The hole in the wall. The trapdoor. The sounds of boots outside that never meant safety.

It’s happening again.

And Jayson’s out there, bleeding. Dying.

And I’m here. Useless.

I sob. Ugly, gasping sobs that shake my whole body, my head thudding back against the wall as I curl tighter and tighter. Like maybe I’ll just disappear.

I taste salt. I taste fear. I taste him.

The ghost of a man who should’ve protected me. Who taught me how to shrink. How to disappear. How to fear the dark more than the monsters inside it.

Then—the latch scrapes.

Light spills through the trapdoor, blinding me. I flinch hard, pressing back into the wall like it will swallow me whole.

There’s a silhouette. A man with broad shoulders and disheveled hair, wearing a blood-soaked shirt. The man who did protect me.

“Keira.”

His voice. God, his voice.

I blink through tears. Choke on a sob. “J-Jayson? ”

His hand reaches for me, and I’m already climbing out, hands shaking so bad I nearly fall. I crawl into the open, gasping like I’ve been underwater for days. My knees hit the floor. My arms wrap around his waist, tight, frantic, as I bury my face against him.

He groans—he’s hurt—but he doesn’t let go of me.

His arms come around me. One hand cradles the back of my head. The other clutches me close, bloodied fingers splayed over my spine like he’s trying to shield me from the world.

“It’s over,” he murmurs into my hair. “I’ve got you. You’re safe now.”

I sob harder. Scream it into his chest. My whole body shakes against him.

And that’s when I notice we’re not alone.

A man stands a few feet back, bloodied, panting, one arm pressed to his ribs where a wound bleeds slow and deep.

His eyes are locked on me. And there’s something dangerous in them. It’s not pity; it’s fury. It’s not directed at me, but for me.

His gaze roams my face, the bruises, the panic, the wildness in my eyes. He sees the pieces. The past clinging to my skin like trauma.

Something in his jaw ticks. His mouth opens slightly like he might ask—but he doesn’t. Because he knows. He doesn’t know details. But he knows pain. And whatever he sees in me right now is enough.

It makes his hand curl tighter around the gun at his side. Makes his stance shift—like if my tormentor walked in this very second, he would put a bullet in his heart without blinking.

Jayson feels it too. The weight of what I’m not saying.

He presses his lips to my temple.

“You’re safe with me,” he whispers. “You’re safe with me. With us. ”

I nod. But the tears keep falling. My nails dig into his back. I can’t stop. I’m not sure I’ll ever stop.

But I’m out. I’m seen. And for the first time in my life… I’m not alone.

They say trauma is a loop. Today it’s a carousel I can’t step off.

Because I’m so damn angry. It’s not a loud kind of angry. It’s not the screaming, throwing-things-at-the-wall kind. It’s quiet. Thick. Like tar in my chest.

I’m angry that Jayson’s hands are cut and bruised—and I secretly love those bruises. Because they mean he’s alive. Because every split knuckle and torn tendon says he chose to fight for me. Chose me over caution. Over mercy. Over reason.

I’m angry that men I never met bled out on antique hardwood just because I exist. Because someone put a price on me. Because some twisted person in this world decided I was a threat to his secrets.

I’m angry that I still can’t remember exactly what happened in my past. I have whole years that are a blur. Only the sound. The thud of footsteps. The lock clicking. The silence that came after, like the air itself held its breath for what would follow.

I’m angry that guilt tastes like rust and it sticks to the back of my throat no matter how much tea Lula gently presses into my palms. Her hands are warm. Her eyes too kind. But even honeyed chamomile can’t scrub away the blood I didn’t spill but somehow still taste.

Mostly I’m angry that I’m starting to understand why Jayson never flinches when violence introduces itself. Because after last night, part of me doesn’t flinch either.

Kanyan didn’t leave us there in the wreckage of the fire.

Still bleeding, bandaged, stiff, he stood like a man who’d never learned how to fall. And when he looked at Jayson, something passed between them—wordless, heavy, familial.

Then his eyes shifted to me. And stayed there. Long enough that I had to look away.

“I want you both at my house,” he said, voice gravel and command. “Lula wants to meet you.”

Jayson started to argue. I could see it in the twitch of his jaw, the way his shoulders squared, ready to deflect. But Kanyan didn’t let him.

“She’s not okay, Jay,” he said. “And you’re not either. Maddox will keep trying to get to Keira, and I’m not risking your safety again.”

He looked at me when he said it. Not like I was broken. Like I was worthy of protection. And maybe that’s what made me say yes. That’s what made me tug at Jayson’s shirt and tell him that it was okay-that we could lean into his boss and take the help he was offering.

Kanyan keeps a beautiful home with his wife, Lula. It smells like cinnamon and old books. There are blankets on every couch. The fire never goes out. It’s the kind of place that doesn’t ask questions, only offers a soft place to lay your head. It’s warm and soft and feels like home.

There’s a scar above Kanyan’s left eyebrow that splits when he smiles. I caught him watching me again, as I sat curled on the armchair with a blanket draped over my knees and one of Lula’s cups clutched in both hands like a shield.

He didn’t ask. He didn’t pity me either.

He just watched. Like he was trying to figure out how many monsters still lived under my skin—and how many he’d have to kill to make room for peace.

I’m glad that Jayson works with a man who has a moral compass and would do everything in his power to protect those close to him.

It’s quiet here. Built like a fortress, it’s safer than anywhere I’ve ever been. And somehow… that terrifies me more than the gunfire.

Because for the first time in my life, the world’s not actively trying to eat me alive. And I don’t know who I am when I’m not running.

But Jayson’s here. And his bruised hands still reach for mine in the middle of the night. So I hold them. Even when they ache. Even when they bleed. Because maybe that’s the price I pay to sleep safe.

Maybe safety isn’t soft. Maybe it’s blood and grit and a house full of people who’ve seen hell… and still choose to stay by your side.