Page 54 of Watch Me Burn

AARON

SIX MONTHS LATER

A glass of whiskey sits untouched at my elbow as I analyze the latest acquisitions report.

New York City glows beneath us, a promise I never intended to keep.

Our empire is polished now, on the outside anyway.

Glossy press releases, public donations, charitable foundations targeting trafficking networks; most of which we built and quietly dismantled on our terms.

We give what’s needed but hold back enough to maintain control.

I bet Giovanni is rolling in his grave...if he had one.

Half a year to claim it all.

My phone buzzes. The Westside Development deal closed.

Another piece of Mortelle’s former empire, legitimately transferred to Jackson Holdings.

On paper, we’re a ruthlessly efficient real estate conglomerate expanding at unprecedented speed.

The financial papers call it a miracle recovery after my “kidnapping ordeal” last year.

If only they knew the truth.

I swipe through surveillance photos of the construction site. The third this month where we’ve quietly uncovered and dismantled human trafficking operations. The rescued women and children have been relocated, given new identities, substantial funds. The traffickers...well, they won’t be found.

Caterina is the head of our intelligence web. She never asks for permission. Only results. The people who used to whisper her father’s name in reverence now lower their voices when speaking hers. Some call her a nightmare. Some call her a god.

All of them are right.

And me? I’m the suit. The businessman who somehow made it out of the fire cleaner than he should’ve.

Except I’m not clean. Not anymore. I haven’t been since the night I bled for her, since the night I took my place beside her—not in front, not behind.

Because together, we are an absolute powerhouse.

People don’t need to know about the other operations we maintain. The ones that keep us informed, protected, and powerful. There are some channels you don’t destroy, but control. Cat taught me to look for the line.

Still, I haven’t lost the part of me that lives to protect what’s mine.

If anything, standing on this side of the fire with Cat has sharpened it.

I hated that Dom and Zoe had to postpone their wedding after his mom was taken, but they finally had the most beautiful ceremony—and I know my sister is safe, happy, and off on her honeymoon.

I’m certain of that because I’ve been checking, here and there.

Honestly, I can’t help it. That voice of control inside me is quieter now, but it’s still there.

And I’m learning to balance it. Every single day.

I touch the ring that’s sitting in my pocket. A silent habit I’ve picked up. The brush of metal against my fingertips grounds me whenever nerves kick in. The elevator chimes, interrupting my thoughts.

The doors open and Cat steps out, shedding her coat and dropping it on the bench in the foyer. Even after half a year, the sight of her still hits me with physical force. Her hair is shorter now, a sleek bob that accentuates the sharpness of her features.

“The Moscow connection is secure,” she announces, crossing the room to pour herself a drink. “Alexei’s people will handle distribution through Eastern Europe without interference.”

I nod, meeting her halfway and pulling her into a kiss. “And the problem in Queens?”

“Permanently resolved.” She smiles, kissing me again, deeper this time.

I don’t ask for details. I don’t need to.

In half a year, Caterina has built an intelligence network that eclipses anything Giovanni ever controlled—leaner, faster, more loyal. Brutal when it needs to be. Untraceable when it isn’t.

She walks to the windows, gaze fixed on the city that now belongs to us.

“They found three more of Doyle’s men at the docks,” she says, almost bored. “Marco handled it.”

I move in behind her, hands settling on her waist. She leans back into me—a gesture so natural, so quietly intimate, it almost feels absurd. We’ve built something resembling peace. A warped, bloodstained version of it. But it’s ours.

“The fundraiser for the children’s hospital is tomorrow. The mayor will be there.” My lips brush her temple.

“Mmm.” She turns in my arms, one brow arched. “Another chance to remind him who really runs this city?”

“Exactly.”

She studies me for a moment, gaze narrowing. “You’re thinking about something.”

My wife always knows.

I’ve been carrying the ring for weeks now—platinum band, rare blue diamond. A symbol of everything this second marriage won’t be. No strategy. No pretense. Completely real from the beginning this time.

But I haven’t asked. Because a part of me is scared she’ll say no. Maybe it’s because we’ve spent so long on the edge of war that softness feels foreign. Or maybe some part of me is afraid we won’t survive stillness the way we’ve survived fire.

“Nothing that can’t wait,” I say instead, brushing my thumb along her bottom lip.

She doesn’t push.

Another reason I love her—she knows when to wait. The power of perfect timing.

The comfortable silence is broken by my phone. A call from lobby security.

“Mr. Barlowe is requesting access. Says it’s urgent.”

I frown, sharing a glance with Cat. Tristan normally walks up to the penthouse without announcement. This is odd, but since the night we took down Giovanni, he’s been more distant, focused on his own projects.

“Send him up,” I tell security.

Cat moves to the bar, subtle tension in her shoulders. “Why did he have security call? He has a code to the house.”

“I don’t know. He’s never done that.”

I glance at the screen again. Tristan’s name lights up security, but there’s no timestamp for his access code.

He didn’t use it.

I move toward the drawer where my Glock is stored, in case he’s not alone.

When he finally walks in, it’s not the Tristan I know.

His blazer is gone. Shirt sleeves rolled unevenly to the elbows. His hair is a mess and longer than he likes to keep it. His jaw is dark with stubble, face rimmed red and hollow.

Wild and unfocused. As though he hasn’t slept in days, coming back from somewhere he never meant to go.

“Tristan,” I say carefully. “What happened?”

He ignores us. Walks straight to the table and places his laptop down with a hard thunk. His movements are disjointed. Too sharp. Too practiced, as though he’s rehearsed this moment a hundred times and still isn’t sure how to live through it.

He won’t answer. Won’t greet us.

Cat moves in beside me, shoulders tight, reading the tension coded into the air.

“I’ve been tracking Doyle,” Tristan says at last, voice rough from disuse. “He’s vanished. Underground. Probably back in Ireland with what’s left of his men, planning their move.”

“Is there a threat?”

“No,” he answers Cat, staring at the screen as he types, jaw ticking with every keystroke.

I glance at Caterina, but she’s already watching him with hawkish intensity. “What is it, then?”

Tristan continues typing, ignoring us.

“Spit it out,” I say flatly. My voice doesn’t rise, but it cuts clean.

Whatever this is, it’s already crawling under my skin.

He exhales slowly, hands pausing on the keyboard. “Keira’s gone.”

The words land with the force of a punch.

“She disappeared the night the Mortelle estate went down. I’ve been looking for her for months. It was dead silent, concerning actually, but then I found something.”

He finally looks up, and what I see in his eyes makes the hair on my arms rise.

It’s not fear. It’s not grief.

It’s neurosis.

“She was watching someone. Someone outside our operation. Someone big. Hidden and completely in the dark. Every place I’ve looked is a dead zone.”

He turns the screen toward us—images, fragmented files, burned documents partially recovered. A pattern we hadn’t seen. A third player.

“No name?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Not yet. But she was afraid of them. And Keira Lynch isn’t afraid of anything.”

Cat drops into the seat opposite the screen, flipping through the files. “Why are we only hearing about this now?”

“Because I wasn’t sure and I couldn’t risk being wrong.”

His hand dips into his jacket. He looks up at us, hesitating for a second as he draws in a breath. Then he pulls out a single photograph, lays it face-down on the table.

“I didn’t come here to ask for help. I came to show you this. I needed someone else to see it.”

He turns it over.

And for the first time in years, I’m speechless.

It’s Keira.

Younger. Softer. Smiling freely at the camera.

She’s standing in a sun-drenched apartment, hair pulled into a messy knot. In her arms, a child. A boy.

His face stops me cold.

Because I’d know those features anywhere.

They’re Tristan’s.

Cat exhales sharply beside me. Her hand curls into a fist, her mind already racing ten steps ahead.

“She left this for you?”

Tristan nods once. “With a set of coordinates to a lockbox in Geneva. Inside was a DNA test...and a dossier. On whoever she was watching.”

“Why didn’t she tell you?” I ask, though I already know the answer. Keira moves in shadows even we haven’t fully mapped.

Tristan drops his head. “Because she didn’t think she could. And if she left this for me to find now, it must mean she’s in trouble.”

“What now?” Cat asks.

“Now I’m going to find her. And my son.”

Her. My son.

The way he says it, as though the weight of both will snap him in two.

“If this player has them?” I ask. “If Keira didn’t disappear, but was taken?—”

“Then God help them,” Tristan growls. “Because I’ll turn over every brick of every fucking city on this planet until I find them.”

His gaze burns. And I see it, the same fire I once saw in my own reflection. The kind of fire that razes empires to ash for the sake of one person.

“What do you need from us?” I ask quietly.

He doesn’t answer right away. Stares at the photo in his hand as though it’s the only thing anchoring him to this moment.

Then, finally, he looks at me as he stands.

“When I find them...when I find out who’s behind this and what they’ve done to her. I’m going to need what you two do best.”

Cat’s head tilts. “And what’s that?”

“Making people disappear in the worst way possible.”

Tristan doesn’t wait for our response as he walks toward the elevator. Walks in, doors closing behind him with the sound of a blade sliding into its sheath.

Cat moves to my side, threading her fingers through mine.

“Guess retirement’s off the table.”

I pull her close, already calculating everything we’ll need if we have to go to war again. And if we do?—

We won’t lose.

“Would you have it any other way?”

She looks up at me with that slow, dangerous smile. The same one that ruined me and made me realize I would follow her into hell itself.

“Never.”

Outside, the city lights glitter down below. Our empire—built on fire, blood and betrayal—gleams beneath them. And somewhere out there, in the dark spaces between, a new threat stirs. Tied to Keira, to a boy with Tristan’s features, to a legacy older and far more lethal than even we imagined.

The game isn’t over.

It never was.

It was only the beginning.

And now the real war begins.

THE END