Page 49 of Jayson (Gatti Enforcers #3)

JAYSON

T he faucet runs slow, the water lukewarm and steady as it trickles into the porcelain basin.

My palms press against the cool edge of the vanity, head bowed, spine bowed further.

I splash my face once. Twice. Then just let the water drip from my chin like it might wash something more permanent away.

The man in the mirror looks older than I remember.

Lines carved into his brow. A shadow under his eyes that sleep can’t fix. The kind of wear that doesn’t come from age, but from what time did to him.

I run a finger across the edge of my jaw, over the scar near my temple, then press into the frown lines deepening between my brows.

I used to feel nothing. For a decade, I operated like a machine. Orders. Blood. Silence. Rinse. Repeat. It wasn’t personal—it was survival. But now? Now, there’s an ache. Now, things matter. Because she matters.

Keira.

And the thought of losing her—of her choosing to leave, or of this world taking her away like it takes everything else good—does something to my insides I don’t know how to name.

I stare at my own reflection for longer than is reasonable. My gaze locked with the version of myself that she sees. I wonder if she sees the same man I do. Or if, somehow, she’s seeing someone better. Someone salvageable.

The phone buzzes on the vanity beside me, breaking the trance. I glance down.

Kanyan

Round Table. Coffee’s on.

Of course he’s awake. Kanyan De Scarzi runs on two hours of sleep and pure force of will—like rest is a weakness and exhaustion should be grateful just to exist in his shadow.

I dry my face, grab a plain black T-shirt, pull on jeans, and slip my boots on by the door.

The house is still. Mostly dark, save for the soft glow of a hallway light.

The Moreno estate is old but not cold—modern in all the right ways, but with that echo of legacy in the walls.

Expensive wood. Clean lines. Heavy silence.

I pass the library. The doors are closed. The scent of old paper and expensive ink wafts through the crack.

I don’t stop.

Down the stairs, across the wide marble-floored hallway. Outside, the chill is soft, barely biting. A storm passed last night. You can smell it in the leaves.

The Round Table isn’t a literal round table, though it used to be.

Now it’s a converted corner room with plush seating, panoramic views of the property, and the kind of coffee machine that costs more than a small car.

It’s a place the brothers use to talk when things need to be said without bloodshed.

Kanyan’s already there.

Showered, fresh clothes, sleeves rolled up. Always with the rolled sleeves. Forearms covered in ink. Watch on his wrist. Fingers tapping a rhythm I recognize from years in the field—it’s the count of a man always aware of exits.

He doesn’t look up when I walk in. Just gestures to the cup across from him.

“Black. Like your soul,” he says, deadpan.

I sit. Sip. Let the silence do its thing before he breaks it.

“You ever think about how you got here?” he asks suddenly.

I blink. “Like… existentially?”

“No,” he says. “I mean specifically. How you ended up at this table. Sitting in this house. In this life.”

I glance at him. “Mason.”

“Exactly,” Kanyan says, nodding. “Mason brought you to me. Pulled you out of Brando’s stable and said, ‘This one’s different. This one’s got a spine. A code. Don’t waste him.’”

He leans back, eyes narrowing just slightly. “I thought he was full of shit. But you proved me wrong. Again and again.”

I don’t answer. Just sip the coffee. Let it burn down my throat.

“I’m proud of what you’ve become, Jayson,” Kanyan says. “Not just the weapon. The man.”

It hits deeper than I’m ready for—like hearing something from a father I never realized I’d been waiting on my whole damn life.

“I need to keep you close,” he continues. “This place isn’t just headquarters anymore. It’s something else.”

He watches me. Not pushing, but not quite inviting either.

“I want you to move in permanently,” he says. “If that’s what you want.”

I swallow. “I was thinking of staying with my grandmother.”

Kanyan smiles at that. Almost fond.

“Ah, yes. Nina.” He chuckles low. “She told me to offer. She has no issue with you moving in here. Said, and I quote, ‘He’ll be safer with you boys. And you know how to make him eat his vegetables.’”

My brows lift. “You two talk like that?”

“We’ve done business together a long time.”

I pause. “How long?”

He shrugs, but there’s weight in his answer. “Long enough.”

The wheels in my head start turning. I think about the packages she used to have delivered. The trips she never explained. The time she told me, “ You don’t want to know how deep the roots go. Just trust that I made sure you could survive whatever tries to bury you.”

I look at Kanyan. He sees it.

“Whatever you’re thinking,” he says calmly, “your grandmother has always had your best interests at heart. Even when it meant blood. Even when it meant secrets.”

The coffee tastes bitter suddenly.

“You’re part of this family now, whether you want to admit it or not,” Kanyan adds. “We look after our own. And Keira?” He leans forward, voice low but steady. “She’s not just a girl. She’s your girl. You don’t have the luxury of being detached anymore.”

I meet his gaze.

“I know.”

He nods once. That’s enough.

We sit for a few more minutes, sipping quietly.

The sun breaks through the clouds outside, splashing gold across the floor.

The day’s starting. More things will need fixing.

More blood will be spilled. But for now, there’s this—two men who’ve been broken and built back again, trying to figure out what to protect next.

And maybe, just maybe, who they want to become when the killing stops.

Kanyan leans forward again, bracing his elbows on the table. His coffee cup is nearly empty, but he doesn’t reach for a refill. His voice drops a notch, quiet but firm—the tone he uses when it’s not just business. When it’s personal.

“There’s something wrong,” he says.

I stiffen. “With what?”

“Not what. Who.” He locks eyes with me. “Keira.”

The name alone has me straightening in my chair, every muscle in my back going taut. “What about her?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches me. Measuring the way I react. Then he speaks carefully, deliberately. “I’ve seen trauma, Jayson. Enough to know when someone’s walking around with a minefield inside them. And she’s got layers we haven’t even scratched yet.”

I clench my jaw, but I don’t interrupt. He’s not wrong. I’ve seen it too—those glassy-eyed silences. The way she tenses at sudden noise. The way her hands shake when she thinks no one’s watching.

“She’s holding something in,” he continues. “Something big. And I don’t think she even knows it’s there. That’s the part that worries me.”

I nod slowly. I’ve felt it. The ghost of something still festering inside her.

“She talks in riddles sometimes,” I admit. “About memories that don’t add up. She flinches at names she doesn’t recognize but reacts to like they’re fire.”

Kanyan leans back, arms folding across his chest, his expression unreadable but no less intense. “What if she’s been conditioned not to remember? Or worse—what if someone’s made her forget?”

The air in the room shifts. It’s colder now.

“I don’t want to hurt her,” I say.

“This isn’t about hurting her,” Kanyan replies. “It’s about helping her heal. And sometimes that means ripping the bandage off. Letting the wound breathe. ”

I look away. Out the window. The sun’s creeping over the treetops now, soft gold spilling over the grass. It should be beautiful. But my chest aches.

“She’s just starting to feel safe,” I say. “I don’t want to take that from her.”

“You won’t,” he says. “Not if you’re honest. Not if you’re present.”

A beat passes.

Then he adds, “There’s one more thing.”

I brace.

“I think we should show her a picture of Maddox.”

The words hit like a gut punch. I set my cup down too hard. The ceramic clinks against the saucer.

“No,” I say immediately. “Absolutely not.”

Kanyan doesn’t move. “She might know him. She might remember something.”

“She might fall apart,” I snap. “You didn’t see her after the nightmares. After she woke up shaking and couldn’t say why. She’s on the edge, Kanyan. I’m not pushing her over it.”

He’s silent for a long stretch.

Then he says, softer this time, “What if she’s already over it, Jayson? What if we’re just keeping her in free fall, pretending the ground isn’t coming?”

That silences me. Because he’s not wrong.

Keira’s not okay. Not fully. One day, she will be, but she’s not there yet.

And there’s a part of me that’s terrified I can’t save her—not because I don’t want to, but because I’m the wrong kind of man to catch someone like her when they fall.

I don’t know how to be soft in the right places. I’ve only ever known how to fight.

“I don’t want to be the one who breaks her,” I say, quieter now.

Kanyan reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded printout. Doesn’t hand it to me. Just sets it on the table between us, face down.

“Then don’t be the one who makes her break,” he says. “Be the one who helps her put the pieces back together.”

I stare at the photo. At the paper. At the choice I have to make-a choice I’ll have to live with for the rest of my life.

Kanyan rises, finishes his coffee, and heads toward the door.

But before he disappears, he says one last thing:

“She’s not your weakness, Jayson. She’s your reason.”

And then I’m alone again. Just me. And the photo still lying face down on the table.