Page 10 of Watch Me Burn

AARON

I adjust my bow tie for the third time in five minutes, jaw clenched tight as I scan the ballroom of the Waldorf Astoria. It’s been transformed into some kind of fairy tale—if fairy tales featured sharks in tailored suits circling for fresh blood.

This feels like walking straight into one of my nightmares.

Speaking of nightmares, mine is here somewhere. I can feel her presence like static electricity before a storm, raising every hair on my arms. She’s likely got eyes on me, probably planning my next psychological torture.

“There’s our host.” Tristan nods toward a distinguished man in his sixties who’s working the room near the entrance, all smiles and firm handshakes.

“Thomas Donovan,” I confirm, watching the real estate king charm another group of potential victims. “Clean reputation despite his very well-known connections to Mortelle.”

“Money laundering with a smile and a charity tax write-off. We should be best friends.” Tristan lifts two champagne flutes from a passing waiter, handing one to me with that sardonic grin. “Drink up. We’re going to need the liquid courage.”

We make our obligatory rounds, shaking hands with potential clients and nodding politely at competitors who’d probably celebrate our deaths with expensive scotch. The whole time, I feel eyes on me like laser sights, assessing, cataloging my every move.

When I finally spot her across the room, it hits like a physical blow to the chest.

Caterina wears a blood-red gown that clings like sin and pools around her feet like a crime scene.

Her platinum hair catches the chandelier light, silver against sun-warmed skin, hiding a heart made of ice.

Every inch of her is sculpted to seduce and destroy—architectural beauty with clean lines and lethal intent.

I hate how she looks at me across this crowded room. Hate the way my body reacts, like some Pavlovian response I can’t control.

Want her dead. Still want her.

The actual fuck, Jackson.

I can’t help but notice the curve of her lips when she smiles at some oblivious fool, the light freckles dusting her nose—details that should seem innocent but only highlight how dangerous she truly is.

Her hazel eyes shift between green and amber like an apex predator adjusting to different lighting.

Caterina’s beauty is tactical. Clean lines and perfect proportions designed for maximum effect. Everything about her is a weapon. Her height, the flush on her cheeks, those long legs that command attention—all tools she uses to her advantage.

That’s her method for hunting men. Beauty and intelligence mask lethal intent.

I watch her laugh at something her companion says, head thrown back, throat exposed. From anyone else, it would be a casual gesture. From Caterina, it’s pure arrogance, showing vulnerability when we both know she’s completely untouchable.

She turns, eyes locking with mine. Her posture doesn’t change, not a hint of surprise or tension. But something passes between us like an electric current. Recognition. Challenge. Maybe even satisfaction.

I’m her favorite prey.

Giovanni Mortelle catches his daughter’s stare and follows it directly to me. His smile could freeze hell.

“I think we’ve been noticed,” Tristan whispers, his usual humor notably absent.

“Looks that way.”

A waiter appears at my elbow, discrete as a shadow and twice as ominous. “Mr. Jackson, Mr. Barlow. Mr. Mortelle requests your company in the private lounge.” He gestures toward a side door guarded by two men who aren’t even pretending to be anything other than enforcers.

I exchange a glance with Tristan, who looks uncharacteristically pale. His face has gone the color of ash, and that’s when real fear hits me. I’ve never seen Tristan this rattled before, not even when we were starting out and one bad deal could have ruined us.

If he’s this scared, the drive must contain something that could end more than just our business partnership.

“After you,” I say, forcing confidence into my voice.

The private lounge is drenched in old-world power—mahogany panels, buttery leather, and enough top-shelf liquor to drown a small city. Giovanni Mortelle sits at the center of it all like a king holding court, and we’re about to find out if we’re guests or sacrificial offerings.

Caterina stands by the windows, watching us enter with those unsettling eyes. She looks like a beautiful statue carved from marble and malice.

“Gentlemen,” Mortelle greets us, his accent faintly Italian despite decades building his American empire. “Thank you for accepting my invitation.”

“Did we?” I reply before I can stop myself.

Mortelle laughs, but the sound has all the warmth of a morgue in winter. “Direct. I appreciate that in a man, Mr. Jackson.” He gestures to the seats across from him. “Please, sit.”

The leather chairs feel like quicksand, pulling us down toward whatever fresh hell he’s prepared.

This is where we die.

“I’ll be equally direct,” Mortelle continues, folding his hands. “Your company’s recent difficulties have not escaped my notice.”

“Difficulties you personally engineered,” Tristan pipes up.

“Business is business. But we have a more pressing matter to discuss. A certain piece of property that belongs to me.”

I keep my face carefully neutral. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”

“No?” Mortelle’s smile is terrifying. “Perhaps my daughter can refresh your memory. Caterina, tesoro .”

She moves from the window like liquid mercury, every step graceful and measured. Up close, her perfume is intoxicating—something expensive and subtle that makes me think of hidden blades and scarves used for strangling.

She’s forever ruined sharp objects for me. Now apparently she’s ruining expensive perfume too.

Fucking psychopath.

“They have a drive,” she says, her voice cool and professional. “Information about certain business interests. Enough to cause substantial difficulties for everyone involved.”

“That drive contains information that could dismantle my entire empire,” Mortelle says slowly, each word weighted. “Information that cannot be allowed to surface. Ever.”

“Stolen information,” Caterina adds with the faintest hint of accusation.

“Insurance. Against exactly this kind of situation,” Tristan counters.

Oh, so we’re done pretending we don’t know what this is about? Would have been nice if Tristan and I had coordinated our strategy before walking into the lion’s den, but here we are.

Mortelle clasps his hands together, slow and deliberate—a calculated power move designed to draw out the silence and make us squirm. It’s an old tactic. One meant to shift the weight of the room, to force us to speak first, to hand him control without realizing we’ve done it.

But Tristan and I don’t fall for it.

We’ve both sat at too many tables like this, across from men who built empires on fear and silence. Men who mistake quiet for dominance. The truth is, power isn’t in the pause, it’s in how you hold yourself through it.

Only guilty or scared men fill the quiet with nervous laughter or restless movements. They look down. They shift in their seats. They flinch before the blow comes.

But not us.

“Let me be crystal clear. I want what’s mine returned to me. Tonight.”

“And if we refuse?” I ask, though I already know the answer will involve words like ‘unfortunate accidents’ and ‘missing persons reports.’

“Then this becomes a very different conversation.” Mortelle’s eyes harden. “One involving my associates who specialize in retrieving lost property and resolving personnel issues. They’re not as diplomatic as I am.”

The threat we knew was coming finally lands, heavy and suffocating in the air between us.

“We don’t have it with us,” Tristan says finally, like that’s going to somehow improve our situation.

“Of course you don’t. I’m not an amateur, Mr. Barlow.

” Mortelle sounds almost disappointed in us.

“If I thought a bullet to each of your heads could solve this problem, gentlemen, you’d already be feeding fish in the Hudson.

But your clever insurance policy makes this situation far more complicated. ”

I glance at Caterina, who’s watching me with those unnerving golden eyes. There’s something there I can’t quite identify yet—some kind of need I can’t put my finger on yet.

To destroy me, probably.

What is her sick fascination? This twisted obsession she’s developed? Is it because I witnessed her at her absolute worst and didn’t break? Does she get off on having that kind of power over someone?

“I could have you both imprisoned indefinitely,” Mortelle continues conversationally.

“But that would be wasteful. You’ve built an impressive business model, despite your questionable judgment in insurance policies.

And Tristan’s financial portfolio has been quite useful to my operations over the years.

It would cause significant headaches for me to replace you both. ”

We don’t bother interrupting him. When a man like Mortelle is explaining why he hasn’t killed you yet, you listen.

He pauses, letting the silence stretch until it becomes uncomfortable.

“However, there is another solution.”

Every muscle in my body tenses, waiting for whatever fresh purgatory he’s about to propose.

“Maybe we could establish some mutual trust here. Reconsider those rate increases, trust that we won’t do anything stupid with the information on that drive—” Tristan suggests.

Mortelle doesn’t even blink. “Marriage.”

What did he say? I must have misheard him.

“I’m sorry, what? How would marriage resolve anything?” Tristan asks, while my brain tries to catch up and fails.

“My daughter needs a husband.” Mortelle gestures toward Caterina, who has gone statue-still. “You need protection from your enemies. A mutually beneficial arrangement.”

“No fucking way.” I can’t help but laugh.

Tristan coughs but thankfully, Caterina shares my rage.

“I don’t need a fucking husband,” Caterina snaps, the first crack in her perfect composure.