Page 50 of Watch Me Burn

AARON

T he boxing gym hides in a basement beneath Brooklyn concrete, unmarked save for faded numbers above a steel door. Inside, the air hangs heavy with sweat, leather, and disinfectant. Bare bulbs dangle from exposed rafters, casting shadows over punching bags that sway in the stillness.

The layout reads like a survival blueprint. Main entrance, two emergency exits, a blind corner perfect for ambush. I don’t consciously catalog these details anymore. Muscle memory.

Weeks ago, I would’ve noted square footage, outdated wiring, resale potential. Now I see choke points. Cover. Kill zones.

That should bother me. It doesn’t.

It feels like peeling off a mask I wore too long. Something that never quite fit.

We find Marco in the back room, broad shoulders and tattooed spine to us as he wraps his hands with tape. He doesn’t turn when he hears us approach.

“You never show up unannounced, Cat. Everything okay?”

“It’s time,” she replies.

He nods once, finishes wrapping his right hand, then faces us fully. Every inch the fighter—six-four, built like a wall, scars carved across knuckles and jaw. But it’s his gaze that stands out. Sharp. Focused. Killer intent paired with calculation. He doesn’t strike me as someone who misses.

“Nice to finally meet you in person, Aaron,” he says, offering his hand with a wry smirk.

I shoot Cat a sideways glance. “Let me guess. You were the one who planted all that shit in my systems, weren’t you?”

He raises both hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I followed orders.”

I take his hand, shaking it with crushing grip. “Water under the bridge.”

And I mean it.

Maybe that makes me soft. Or maybe it means I’ve finally stopped caring about the rules I used to live by.

I’m in too deep to give a damn about the past.

He winks, seemingly satisfied.

It’s insane how easily I fit into their world. The silent choreography of violence, the unspoken hierarchy of power. It no longer feels foreign.

I respect it, understand it.

Maybe I always have.

“Are you ready to take down my father’s empire tonight?”

“Been waiting years to slit Giovanni’s throat. Say the word.” His grin turns wicked.

“We can fight over who gets to do that later, but first, we need access to everything. Which means we’ll need my father’s head of security,” Cat says.

His smile widens. He reaches under his shirt and pulls out a steel USB drive hanging from a chain around his neck. “You mean this? It’s a backdoor into Mortelle’s security network. Cameras, alarms...even the underground tunnels no one talks about.”

Cat’s gaze narrows. “How did you get that without my father knowing?”

He shrugs, completely unapologetic. “Every good soldier needs an exit strategy. I’ve been collecting insurance for years.”

I step forward, examining the drive. “This makes everything easier.”

He crosses to a battered metal desk and spreads out a map of the city, the paper marked with red ink.

“We still need our target,” he says, tapping a location. “He’s got a device that resets the security protocols every hour. Without it, the drive’s worthless. Plus, he runs the live camera team. Giovanni doesn’t gamble with safety.”

“Then we’ll take him,” I say.

“He’ll be at Obsidian tonight. Distracted. VIP section, same as always—expensive vodka, paid women, a god complex the size of Sicily.”

My mind assembles the pieces. Obsidian is the perfect cover. It’s underground, loud, and chaotic. The kind of place where blood disappears under strobes and screams blend into bass.

“Can Tristan handle surveillance?” Cat asks me.

“I’ll tell him to meet us there. He’s tying up digital loose ends, making sure nothing points back to us when we hit the estate.”

Marco nods. “Then we’re ready to move.”

I watch him outline the extraction plan, leaving nothing to chance as he goes over it with us. He’s the weapon we need. A man forged by violence, loyalty, and vengeance. Exactly the kind of ally I’d choose at a time this critical.

I’m glad Caterina had someone in her corner. Someone equally ruthless and trustworthy.

“I’ll call when it’s done,” he says, heading for the back exit. “Be ready to move.”

The steel door slams shut behind him, the sound echoing through the warehouse.

I glance at Caterina. “You trust him?”

“With my life. When Lorenzo was teaching me how to become the Mortelle empire’s perfect weapon, Marco was the only one who saw me as more than that. The only one who gave a shit if I lived or died. The only one who hated what they were turning me into.”

Every rare glimpse into her past is something I pocket.

Even in all this wreckage, someone saw her.

And now? So do I.

Obsidian throbs with expensive hedonism—champagne flowing, bodies writhing beneath pulsing lights, bass so deep it rattles your spine. The perfect hunting ground.

Tristan meets us at the service entrance, clad in black-on-black, a sleek tablet glowing faintly in his hands. Onscreen, the club’s security feed pulses with movement.

“Frank’s in the VIP lounge, northwest corner,” he says, eyes scanning the video. “Two bodyguards. Tight formation.”

“I assume he’s armed.”

“Of course,” Tristan replies. “But the metal detectors limit their toys. Knives, no guns.”

I nod, removing my cufflinks and rolling up my sleeves as I scan the corridor.

The bass thumps overhead, muffled but menacing.

Caterina checks her blade in the dim emergency light.

The steel flashes red, catching on the bulb’s flicker like a warning.

Her expression is unreadable, pure control layered over quiet fury.

She’s always a vision, but right now…she’s intoxicating in a maddening way.

When this is over, I’m going to fuck her like the storm she is—violent, merciless, and worshiped.

“Cameras going offline,” Tristan’s voice cuts in, dragging me out of the spiral. “Three…two…one. You’ve got seven minutes before reboot. I’ll trigger a distraction near the east exit which should pull Frank’s security away.”

I glance between Marco and Caterina. “Let’s move.”

We slide into the pulse of the club, disappearing into the crowd. The VIP section glows ahead, roped off with velvet and guarded by men with dead eyes and earpieces.

Marco is already there, approaching the bigger guard with disarming familiarity while placing something into his palm. Money or drugs, it doesn’t matter which, but it gets us access. The guard nods, unclipping the rope.

Frank sits in the corner booth, a glass of amber liquid in his hand, two women draped across him like living accessories. His laughter dies when he spots Caterina.

“What the f?—”

Marco moves with shocking speed for a man his size, clamping a hand over Frank’s mouth while my fist drives into his kidney. It’s a precise blow that paralyzes without causing a scene. The women scatter like startled birds.

Caterina takes care of the two Mortelle guards that cover Frank.

“One sound,” I whisper against his ear, “and you die right here.”

His eyes bulge, recognition dawning. “Jackson? You...you’ve always been the clean businessman. This isn’t you.”

“I’m a changed man, what can I say?”

My fist connects with his face, splitting his lip, blood spattering across the white leather booth. Just as I pull back for another strike, the lights flicker, then plunge into darkness. Somewhere across the club, screams erupt. Tristan’s distraction.

“Time to go,” Marco says, already dragging Frank toward the service exit.

We move efficiently, not looking back as Frank struggles between us.

We reach the delivery bay in the back where a nondescript van waits.

After we shove Frank inside, I turn to see Tristan slipping through the emergency exit, calm as ever while security rushes past him toward whatever diversion he just set off.

Inside the van, Marco zip-ties Frank’s hands while I press my knife against his throat.

Across from me, Caterina digs through his jacket and pulls out the security device.

“Don’t touch that!” Frank spits, eyes wide.

“Quiet,” I snap, pressing harder. A thin red line blooms under the tip.

Frank’s gaze ricochets between us, desperation clouding whatever loyalty’s still rattling around in his skull. “You’re all dead. When Giovanni finds out?—”

“Giovanni will never know. You’ll disappear and no one will remember you,” Caterina says coldly, not even looking at him.

The van jolts forward, peeling away from the curb. The throb of the club fades into distance. And with it, so does Frank’s bravado.

I lean in close, my voice a razor just behind his ear.

“If you don’t cooperate, she won’t kill you quickly.

She’ll peel you apart slowly and make you beg for death long before she gives it to you.

Caterina is the last face you’ll ever see and if you think I’ll stop her, think again. I’ll be holding the fucking camera.”

Frank swallows, his defiance crumbling into dread. Good, let him choke on it.

The warehouse at the docks is hidden on another level. Rust-streaked walls, salt-eaten beams, and the stench of brine clinging to every inch of metal and stone. Waves crash relentlessly against the pilings below, a dull rhythm punctuated by distant, mournful foghorns.

Inside, a single bulb swings from the ceiling, casting flickering shadows that turn the space into a breathing thing—alive with menace. Tristan is already there, laptop set up on a rickety table, fingers moving fast.

“Security feeds are looping,” he says, not looking up. “As far as the world’s concerned, we don’t exist tonight.”

Frank is dragged in by Marco, blood already seeping from his busted lip. He’s dumped into a metal chair bolted to the floor. His breathing is ragged, defiant. Marco lays out the tools—pliers, scalpels, bolt cutters—each one arranged with careful intent. Not just for function. For fear.

“He was easy to grab,” Marco remarks, wiping his knuckles with a blood-stained cloth. “Getting sloppy in his old age.”