Page 6 of Watch Me Burn

AARON

T he enforcer sitting across from me has hands like sledgehammers. I’ve been watching them for fifteen minutes—each tap against the mahogany table a quiet promise of exactly how much damage they could do to my face.

His name is Enzo, and he’s brought a friend. Some wiry guy with dead eyes who hasn’t said a single word since they walked in. He’s stationed by the door like he’s expecting a SWAT team to burst through it any second.

“Mr. Jackson,” Enzo says, his voice surprisingly soft for someone who probably crushes skulls for cardio. “Mr. Mortelle is growing impatient.”

I keep my expression blank, even though my gut is churning like I swallowed broken glass. “Our payments have been on schedule.”

Enzo leans back, rolling those massive shoulders like he’s working out a kink. But his eyes never leave mine, and I can practically see him calculating exactly how many bones he’d need to break before I’d agree to whatever fresh hell they’re proposing.

He smiles. It’s not a pleasant sight.

“The terms have changed.”

Of course they fucking have. That’s how it works with the mafia—they keep moving the goalposts until you can’t possibly score, then they act surprised when you fail.

“We had a deal,” I say, keeping my voice level despite wanting to punch something. “Thirty percent over five years.”

“Inflation’s a bitch.” Enzo chuckles like he just told the funniest joke in the world.

The silent psychopath by the door doesn’t even blink.

“Mr. Mortelle feels forty-five percent is more appropriate given current market conditions.”

Translation: He wants more, so he’s taking more. Simple as that. Defaulting doesn’t just mean bankruptcy in Mortelle’s world—it means becoming another “missing businessman” story. The kind they find buried under highway overpasses or dissolved in acid baths.

They enjoy making examples out of people like us.

The conference room door swings open, and Tristan strolls in like he owns the building. Fifteen minutes late but looking like he timed it perfectly. He’s the complete opposite of my rigid, barely-controlled tension—relaxed, almost unbothered as he drops into the seat beside me.

But I catch the way his jaw tightens, the calculating look that flickers across his face as he sizes up our visitors.

“Gentlemen,” he says, flashing that disarming smile that’s closed more deals than our actual business strategies. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Traffic was absolutely murderous.”

Poor choice of words, considering our company.

Enzo doesn’t waste time on pleasantries. “As I was explaining to your partner, Mr. Mortelle has adjusted the terms of your agreement.”

“That’s not sustainable for our business model.

” I spread the quarterly reports across the table, even though I know they won’t look at them.

“We’d be operating at a loss within four months.

Not to mention the additional businesses we started specifically to help Mr. Mortelle with his. ..financial diversification needs.”

Tristan’s hand clamps down on my arm hard enough to bruise.

A silent warning: Shut the hell up. You’re giving away too much.

“What my partner means,” Tristan says smoothly, “is that we value our partnership with Mr. Mortelle far too much to risk its longevity with unsustainable terms. We want to be helping him expand his empire for many years to come.”

I trust Tristan. At least, I thought I did. Now his reckless confidence feels like a loaded gun pointed at both our heads, and I’m starting to wonder if we’re racing toward disaster because he’s too proud to admit we’re completely fucked.

Enzo doesn’t even glance at the financial reports. Instead, he slides a manila envelope across the table like he’s dealing cards.

“Mr. Mortelle thought you might say that. He asked me to deliver this personally.”

I reach for it, but Tristan beats me to it, his fingers closing around the envelope with practiced nonchalance. His knuckles go white as he opens it, his eyes scanning whatever’s inside.

His poker face is legendary, absolutely legendary, but I catch the almost imperceptible tightening around his mouth before he passes the envelope to me.

Inside are photos. Surveillance shots of people who matter to us.

Our clients entering buildings, holding their children, laughing with their spouses like they don’t have a care in the world.

My blood turns to ice water when I see Zoe’s carefree smile at some concert, completely oblivious to the telephoto lens capturing her every move.

Then Dominik’s mom in Boston, probably heading to her book club or grocery shopping, blissfully unaware she’s being stalked.

Dom himself, grinning at some post-game interview, still riding the high of victory.

A red head I don’t recognize but can only assume is connected to Tristan somehow.

They’re not just threatening us. They’re systematically dismantling us, piece by piece, starting with the people we’d die to protect.

“What is this supposed to be?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. I need to hear it said out loud, need to understand exactly how deep we’re buried.

“Insurance,” Enzo says with a casual shrug. “Mr. Mortelle values your partnership, but he’s concerned about your commitment lately. These are just friendly reminders that your decisions affect more than just your company.”

Every muscle in my body wants to launch myself across this table and bash his skull against the mahogany until there’s nothing left but pulp and regret. But that’s exactly what they want—for me to lose control, give them an excuse to escalate.

So I breathe through my nose, keep my hands flat on the table, and remind myself that I’m still in control of something, even if it’s just my temper. And my reactions to this situation.

Tristan leans back in his chair. “Tell Mr. Mortelle we appreciate his...thoroughness. We’ll need to review our financials to accommodate his new terms.”

“You have until Friday.” Enzo stands, straightening his tailored suit like he’s heading to Sunday brunch instead of back to whatever hole he crawled out of.

His silent companion opens the door without a word, and they exit, leaving us alone with photos of innocent people who have no idea they’re being used as leverage.

As soon as the door closes, Tristan’s facade cracks like ice on a frozen lake.

“Forty-five fucking percent? He’s trying to bleed us dry so we have no choice but to default.”

“Or push us to do something stupid,” I mutter, gathering the photos and shoving them back in the envelope before I have to look at Zoe’s face again. “If we can’t make the payments, he gets everything. Including our heads mounted on his office wall.”

Tristan runs a hand through his perfectly styled hair, messing it up in a way that makes him look younger, more vulnerable. And yeah, better looking, though that’s probably not the most important observation right now.

“We need to move the drive again.”

“Again?” We’d relocated it just last week, following our usual rotation protocol.

“If they’re escalating this fast, we can’t take any chances,” Tristan says, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “I’ll handle it tonight. I won’t tell you where, just to be safe. Better for both of us if only one person knows.”

To be safe.

Those three words have become our fucking mantra lately. In case we’re being watched. In case our phones are tapped. In case one of us breaks under pressure. In case one of us goes missing.

I hate that last one most of all.

The drive is our lifeline and our death warrant rolled into one tiny piece of hardware. Every day it stays hidden, the risk multiplies. Every move we make to protect it might be the move that exposes us completely.

“I’m heading to the Porter meeting in twenty,” I tell him. “We need to start moving clients to our subsidiaries, spread the risk around.”

Tristan nods, already on his feet and straightening his jacket. “Be careful. Don’t spook them any more than they already are.” He pauses at the door, hand on the handle. “And Aaron? Watch your back. If Mortelle’s playing this hard, he might have other pieces on the board we don’t know about.”

My mind immediately flashes to Via. Is this connected somehow? The timing feels too perfect to be coincidence, and I stopped believing in coincidences the night she pressed a knife to my chest.

“Always do,” I reply, watching him disappear through the door.

But we both know that might not be enough anymore.

The Porter meeting is an absolute disaster.

Martin Porter is a bulldog of a man who built his tech empire from nothing and has zero patience for being jerked around. The moment I suggest moving some of his assets to our subsidiary company “for tax optimization purposes,” his eyes narrow like laser sights.

“Cut the crap, Jackson. What’s really going on?”

I’ve prepared a dozen reasonable explanations for this conversation. Rehearsed them in the car, in the elevator, walking down his hallway. But sitting across from him in his minimalist office, all I can think about are those photos.

His daughter on the playground, pigtails flying as she swings.

His wife alone at the gym, earbuds in, completely unaware.

His elderly parents at their retirement home, playing cards and living out their golden years in blissful ignorance.

Every single one of them within Mortelle’s reach.

“We’re restructuring some accounts to optimize performance across our portfolio,” I finally say.

“You know what I hate more than losing money? Being lied to by people I trusted.” Porter leans forward, as he taps his tablet and turns it to face me. “Care to explain why two of our competitors received identical proposals from Wright Capital this morning?”

All my rehearsed excuses evaporate, replaced by the terrifying clarity that Mortelle isn’t just squeezing us.

He’s boxing us in. Setting up the kill shot.

“Martin, I can explain?—”

“Save it. I received a very interesting offer from Wright Capital this morning. Significantly better terms than what I’m getting from you and Tristan.”

Wright Capital isn’t just any regular firm. It’s a front for the Black Hounds—the Doyle Clan, Irish mafia that’s spent decades trying to tear the Mortelle family apart piece by bloody piece.

Now they’re poaching our clients.

Fantastic.

If Mortelle finds out, he’ll make our death slow and creative. A message to anyone else who might be tempted to play both sides.

“Wright doesn’t have our track record,” I argue, shoving everything inside me deep down. “They don’t have our expertise in your specific market sector. No one else can get you the same returns we can.”

“I don’t care about returns anymore.” Porter’s eyes bore into mine like he can see straight through to my panic. “I care about stability. Something I’m starting to think you severely lack.”

By the time I leave Porter’s office, I’ve lost not only his account but any hope of salvaging this situation through conventional means. Tristan and I are being systematically dismantled, and the worst part is there’s nothing illegal about it.

On paper, it’s just business.

Mortelle is too smart to leave evidence, which means he can wipe us off the face of the earth like we never existed in the first place.

For the first time in a long time, I feel completely lost.

The day keeps getting worse—two more client meetings, each worse than the last.

The massive penthouse deal I was supposed to close today? Dead in the water.

At this point, I’m half tempted to cut my losses, go home, and drink myself unconscious. Maybe tomorrow will suck a little less.

Fucking doubt it.

By the time I return to my office, it’s past nine and the building is nearly empty. Just the night security guard who nods as I pass, and the cleaning crew working their way through the east wing with their industrial vacuum cleaners and chemical smell.

I loosen my tie, feeling like it’s been strangling me all day.

My office is dark when I enter, the city skyline visible through the windows—a glittering tapestry of lights against the night sky.

I don’t bother with the overhead lights, just flip on the small lamp that casts long shadows across the room.

That’s when I notice it.

The drawer of my filing cabinet is open. Just a fraction of an inch, but I’m obsessive about keeping everything locked tight.

I scan the room for other signs of intrusion. Nothing else seems disturbed, but that doesn’t mean anything. She’s too careful, too professional to leave obvious traces.

She was here. In my fucking office.

This slip of a woman who bakes lemon tarts and makes my sister laugh—how the hell does she keep getting past million-dollar security systems like they’re made of tissue paper?

I pull the drawer open fully, expecting to find it empty. Did I leave something important in here?

There’s a black envelope sitting on top of my most sensitive files. My name written in elegant silver script that I’d recognize anywhere now.

That handwriting haunts my dreams.

My fingers refuse to stay steady as I open the envelope. Inside are photos—not of clients or business associates this time.

Of me.

Getting coffee at my usual spot, completely unaware.

Working late at my desk, focused on spreadsheets.

Asleep in my own bed.

Naked, about to step into my oversized shower, water already running.

Dread knifes down my spine, like she slipped the blade in herself.

The photos of me sleeping, naked, completely exposed strip away any illusion of safety I had left.

But underneath the panic, anger flares white-hot because she’s invading every inch of my life, dismantling my control piece by piece.

She’s stripped the distance away—peeled back my life frame by frame until I’m nothing but a man under glass, dissected and documented.

But it’s the last photo that stops my breath completely.

It’s me, sitting in this very office, taken from what could only be the building across the street. Through the exact window I’m staring out of right now.

On the back, in the same silver script:

I see you, Aaron. Do you see me?

Spinning toward the window, I scan the dark offices across the street. Most are empty at this hour, nothing visible but my own pale reflection and the yellow glow of my desk lamp.

But she’s out there somewhere.

Watching.

Waiting.

Planning her next move while I stumble around like a blind man in a maze.

My nightmare thinks she’s closing in, thinks she has me cornered.

But she’s not the only predator in this city.

And it’s time she learned that some prey bite back.