Page 33 of Watch Me Burn

AARON

I adjust my tie for the third time, scanning the ballroom like I’m mapping a war zone because tonight, that’s exactly what this is.

The Doyle family estate doesn’t bother with subtlety.

It’s pure opulence built on blood money.

Crystal chandeliers dangle like guillotines over a ballroom and there’s enough armed security to remind every guest exactly who runs this city.

This gala isn’t about charity, it’s a carefully orchestrated show of force.

A test wrapped in black-tie formality. An invitation we couldn’t decline… again.

Officially, it’s the Doyle Foundation’s annual fundraiser. Unofficially, it’s the Irish mafia’s way of reminding everyone, especially the Italians, that they’re not just surviving. They’re expanding and conquering ground that used to belong to others.

The Doyles host with practiced smiles. Politicians applaud like trained seals. And the real power plays happen in shadowed corners where handshakes seal death warrants.

Everyone in this room is here to prove something or expose someone.

We weren’t invited for diplomacy. We were invited to see if Caterina Mortelle still bleeds Italian blood.

And whether I’d bleed alongside her.

The whispers started the moment we walked through those doors.

Speculation about her pulling away from family loyalty.

Questions about us getting closer than anyone expected.

Theories about what we might know regarding the warehouse fire on Miller Street that left three men dead and a power vacuum in the drug trade.

It’s been four days since Caterina nearly bled out on concrete while I put a bullet between a man’s eyes to save her life. Four days of loaded silence, both of us pretending we hadn’t crossed a line that can never be uncrossed.

Now we’re standing side by side again, on display for a room full of enemies waiting for a single crack in our performance. They want to watch us tear each other apart for their entertainment.

And Mortelle? He’s probably counting on exactly that outcome.

But here’s what’s shifted in my head over the past few days.

Why should I hold Caterina’s past against her when this entire world is built on lies and blood money?

After what I witnessed that night, after seeing the depths of depravity we’re actually fighting against, I’m starting to understand her in ways I never thought possible.

Hell, maybe she’s been right all along.

Maybe traditional morality died a long time ago, and we’re all just trying to survive in the aftermath.

Or maybe you’re in deeper than you want to admit, Jackson.

After everything Caterina revealed that night, all the things I saw with my own eyes, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her.

The way she moves through violence like it’s choreography.

The weight she carries without complaint.

The people she’s been quietly eliminating while playing the role of dutiful mafia warrior.

She’s not like the rest of them.

Not like anyone I’ve ever known.

I position myself near the bar, whiskey in hand, scanning faces under the pretense of casual networking. But I’m gathering intelligence. Half the people here would slit my throat for leverage in their own games. The other half would raise a toast while it happened.

“You look like you’re attending a funeral instead of a celebration,” comes a voice behind me, smooth as expensive bourbon. “Can I buy you a real drink?”

Red hair falls in calculated waves. Features too soft but with a dangerous edge to them. Beautiful in the way fire is beautiful—stunning from a distance, lethal up close. Green eyes catalog every detail of my appearance, likely mapping weaknesses I didn’t know I was broadcasting.

“Thanks, but I’m set,” I say, lifting my glass slightly.

She extends her hand. “Keira Lynch. I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.”

The name clicks into place like a round chambering.

The Lynches are high-ranking enforcers within the Doyle organization, specialists in making problems disappear permanently.

I’d studied her file once. Rumored to be the youngest person to ever earn her stripes in their hierarchy.

Brilliant, ruthless, and quietly climbing the ranks.

No confirmed kills on record, but plenty of unexplained disappearances trace back to her family’s operations.

She’s the one they call when someone needs to vanish without a trace.

Her presence here tonight isn’t coincidental.

“Aaron Jackson.” I shake her hand—warm, confident, designed to establish dominance. “I’m here with?—”

Her smirk cuts me off clean. “Caterina Mortelle. Your wife. I know exactly who you are.”

The way she says Caterina’s name makes my jaw clench involuntarily. Like she’s a liability. Like she doesn’t belong to me.

I don’t like hearing her name in someone else’s mouth.

Keira lets silence stretch between us, waiting for discomfort to make me fidget or look away.

I hold my ground, perfectly comfortable with this little staring contest.

“Word around the city is you two have gotten quite cozy lately. Interesting evolution from the man who looked ready to bolt at the altar.” Her faint Irish accent adds warmth to the cut in her words.

“People love their gossip.”

“This isn’t gossip. It’s observation.”

“And your point is?”

Keira’s eyes flick toward the crowd, then back to mine with calculated timing. “Rooms like this have exceptional acoustics. And some very well-trained listeners.”

I maintain my smile, even as every nerve sharpens to combat readiness. “Then they must not understand marriage very well. I was too busy trying not to pass out when I saw my wife walking down that aisle.”

“Right. Just like sworn enemies becoming passionate lovers overnight.”

I ignore the bait completely.

“Curious thing, though,” she continues, circling closer. “Do you happen to know anything about a phone call that pinged off three cell towers near your apartment building the night of the Miller Street fire?”

“Excuse me?”

Movement by the door drags the air out of the room.

Caterina. My wife. The woman who’s been living in my head rent-free, who nearly died in front of me four days ago—just walked into this den of wolves wearing a smile that promises she’d burn the entire place down if they pushed her too hard.

Every head in the vicinity turns toward her.

I’m not the only one watching. Two men near the far bar can’t seem to look away. One nudges his companion, murmurs something under his breath that makes them both grin like they’re sharing a private joke.

Every primitive instinct I possess roars to life.

It takes everything I have not to walk over there and introduce their faces to the marble floor, just to wipe those expressions off permanently.

The burgundy gown hugs her body like it was designed specifically for her measurements. She glows under the chandelier light—diamonds catching illumination like falling stars, dark hair swept up to expose the elegant column of her neck.

It’s a calculated risk, that dress. That exposure.

She’s daring them to look. Forcing me to react.

“My wife needs me,” I say, stepping away from Keira. I make sure to brush close enough to those leering men that they feel my presence. One glance from me and they both straighten like soldiers called to attention.

Let them understand exactly who she belongs to.

Let them wonder what I’d do if they kept staring.

Because honestly, I’m barely keeping it together as it is.

Whatever happens tonight won’t be my responsibility.

I weave through the crowd, hyperaware of how many eyes track my movement. Curious glances, calculating stares. This isn’t a party—it’s a behavioral study. And Caterina is the brightest flame in a room full of moths.

She turns as I approach, expression unreadable. But her eyes—those dangerous, beautiful eyes—flicker with something I recognize. Relief, maybe. Or the ghost of a smile she won’t let fully surface.

I offer my hand like we’re still performing. “Care to make this look convincing?”

“We’re always convincing.” She takes it without hesitation.

The ballroom noise fades as we move toward the conservatory—privacy disguised as architectural design.

As we reach the glass doors, I lean close enough to feel her warmth. “We have a problem named Keira.”

Caterina doesn’t break stride. “Keira Lynch?”

“You know her?”

“We traveled in similar circles before she disappeared. Vanished at fifteen, supposedly sent for advanced training with Doyle foreign operations. Most people assumed she was dead.”

“She’s very much alive. And keeping a close eye on us.”

“You think she sent our mystery package?”

“I’d bet money on it.”

Her fingers tense against mine. “What did she want to know?”

“She mentioned Miller Street specifically. Said we’ve been getting too close for comfort.”

That stops her mid-step.

“She was fishing for information,” Caterina says.

“Before you even arrived. She knew exactly where to find me.”

“Then she’s not operating independently. This is sanctioned intelligence gathering.”

“Which means what, exactly?” I ask.

“It means they know something we don’t. And they’re trying to determine how much we know in return,” Caterina murmurs as we enter the conservatory.

The atmosphere shifts immediately—humid, sweet, heavy with orchid perfume. Music fades behind glass walls, replaced by the sharp click of Caterina’s heels on stone.

I stop her with a gentle touch. “Do you trust her at all?”

“I don’t trust anyone in this business. But Keira always played multiple angles simultaneously. If she’s here tonight, she’s looking for something specific.”

She faces me fully, something raw and vulnerable flickering behind her usual mask.

“How close have we actually become?” I ask.

Her lips part, but no words escape.

Behind us, the doors creak. A server enters, sweeps the space with professional efficiency, then retreats without acknowledgment.