Chapter 9
JACKSON
I tossed the Christmas sweater onto my bed, staring at the ridiculous reindeer with it's cartoonish smirk and the words 'Merry kiss-my-ass' embroidered over the top.
What the hell was I doing? Accepting gifts, although I'd argue it wasn't, from a woman I was supposed to be investigating was unprofessional at best, a liability at worst. But the damn sweater smelled like her—fresh and something floral—and I couldn't bring myself to throw it in the hamper.
It was stupid, really, but I'd wanted to stay longer with her, talk to her more, just be around her.
The rain beat against my apartment windows as I stripped off my clothes. My shoulder ached from an old injury, a souvenir from a mission gone wrong, from when my world was flipped on its head. I rolled it, trying to work out the tension that had settled there during the drive with Elena.
Elena Peters. I couldn't get her out of my head.
I'd told myself that driving her home was reconnaissance.
Getting a look at where she lived, how she lived.
Professional curiosity. But that was bullshit, and I knew it.
I'd seen her standing there in the rain, looking small and vulnerable, and something in me had responded before my brain could catch up.
She made me act without thinking things through, which was far too out of character and dangerous.
Her apartment was exactly what her financials suggested—cheap, cramped, in a neighborhood that made my skin crawl.
The kind of place where the walls were thin enough to hear your neighbors fighting, where the locks were decorative at best. But she'd made it a home anyway.
A few books stacked on a small bookcase with photos of who I assumed was her mother with her, and some with another woman who was likely the roommate.
A potted plant on the counter with a little fairy house perched in the soil with two small clay pieces, a butterfly and a frog.
Little touches that added life and energy despite limited means.
I'd wondered if the two clay pieces had symbolized something.
It didn't fit with someone trying to infiltrate the Donati organization. People with ulterior motives typically didn't spend their money on hospital bills and secondhand furniture or decorate their shitty apartment.
The shower hissed as I turned it on, cranking the heat until steam filled the bathroom.
I stepped under the spray, letting it pound against my tense muscles, but it did nothing to wash away thoughts of Elena.
The way her wet clothes had clung to her curves.
How her eyes had widened when she'd seen me step out of my car and join her in the bus stop.
The slight tremble in her fingers as she'd handed me that ridiculous sweater with her cheeks flushed.
"Fuck," I muttered, bracing one hand against the tile wall as my cock hardened painfully.
I shouldn't want her. She was a job. A potential threat.
But my body didn't care about operational security as I wrapped my hand around my length, stroking slowly at first, then faster as I pictured her.
Those blue eyes looking up at me. That dining table in her apartment—I'd bend her over it, hear it creak beneath us as I took her from behind.
The sounds she'd make as I filled her up, the moans and cries, how she'd arch under me.
I'd wrap her dark hair around my fist, pull her head back to expose her throat. ..
My release hit hard and fast, pleasure spiking through me as I came with a grunt, watching the evidence wash down the drain. It'd been too long since I'd jerked off, but Elena was making me crave more. The momentary relief quickly gave way to disgust at my lack of control.
This wasn't me. I didn't lose focus over a pretty face. Not since?—
I shut down that line of thought immediately. The past was the past. I had a job to do.
I turned off the shower and grabbed a towel, roughly drying myself as my phone buzzed on the counter. I wrapped the towel around my waist and checked the message from Carl.
Got those phone records you asked for. Found something interesting. She's been in contact with a PI named Trent Simpson multiple times over the past month. Last call was tonight, right after you left her place.
My jaw clenched. A private investigator. I texted back.
What do we know about Simpson?
The response came within seconds.
Small-time operator. Mostly cheating spouses, insurance fraud. But get this, he's been digging into the Donatis, asking questions. Specifically about Anthony Cassaro's death.
Anthony Cassaro. Grayson and Meredith's father. What the hell would Elena want with information about him?
I pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, anger and unease warring within me. She'd played me. All those innocent questions about the Donatis, her sweet little doe-eyed act. She wasn't just some accountant looking for a better job to pay her mother's medical bills.
She was digging for something specific.
I dialed Roman's number, pacing my apartment as it rang.
"Jackson, anything new?" he answered.
"Elena Peters has been in contact with a private investigator who's been asking questions about Anthony Cassaro's death."
Silence on the other end. I could almost see him shaking his head and massaging his temples. "You're certain?"
"Got her phone records. Multiple calls and texts to a PI named Trent Simpson. Last call right after I dropped her at her apartment tonight."
"And this Simpson, he's been asking specifically about Anthony?"
"Yes. Don't know what he's found, if anything."
Roman cursed softly then sighed. "Handle Simpson. Find out what he knows, what he's told her, see if Eddie can go in person."
Eddie, one of our guys who could pay visits when I was otherwise engaged. It meant Roman wanted me here.
"What about Elena?" I asked, trying to keep my tone neutral. How had she played me so well? I thought I'd gotten good at reading people. My interest in her was clouding my judgement, and it was pissing me off now.
"Nothing changes. We need to know what she's after, who she's working for if anyone. Keep close to her, but don't let her know we're onto her."
"Understood."
"And Jackson?" Roman's voice hardened. "Don't get attached. She's not what she seems, obviously."
The call ended, leaving me standing in my apartment, fury building in my chest. She'd looked me in the eye, accepted my help, invited me into her home—all while investigating the family I'd sworn to protect.
I grabbed my keys and gym bag. There was no way I'd sleep now, and I needed to deal with this rage before I did something stupid.
Twenty minutes later, I was at Ironstone Boxing Club, the 24-hour gym where I'd trained since moving to the city. At this hour, it was nearly empty—just a few night owls and insomniacs seeking physical exhaustion.
I wrapped my hands, the familiar ritual calming me slightly as I focused on the technique. Across the knuckles, between the fingers, around the wrist. Protection and support. I didn't bother with gloves. I wanted to feel the impact.
The heavy bag swung slightly as I approached it. I started with jabs, quick and controlled, finding my rhythm. Left, right, left. The bag absorbed the blows silently.
Elena's face floated in my mind. The way she'd bit her lip when she was concentrating.
How she'd looked standing in her doorway, inviting me in despite having every reason to be wary of a man like me.
Of the way her cheeks flushed when we got close, or when she thought she was talking too much.
Or how she'd offered me that wretched sweater and made me soften for her.
I hit harder, shifting my weight to put more force behind each punch. The bag's chain creaked as it swung back from the impact.
Had it all been an act? The vulnerability in her eyes when she spoke of her mother? The way she'd tried to hide her financial struggles? The small apartment with its carefully arranged books and photos?
My fists slammed into the bag in a rapid combination. Jab, cross, hook, uppercut. Again. Harder. Faster.
Or was she being manipulated rather than working for someone? Used by someone to infiltrate and gather intelligence? They could be holding her mother's life over her, threatening her. It wouldn't be the first time someone had targeted a vulnerable person to get to the Donati family.
The thought of someone using her made my next punch wild, off-center. Pain shot through my knuckles as they connected at the wrong angle. I kept going, ignoring it.
Why Anthony Cassaro? The man had been dead for over a decade. What could Elena possibly want with information about him? Or what would someone else want through her?
I stopped mid-punch, hating the confusion running rampant in my mind. I stepped back from the bag, breathing hard, and examined my hand. Blood seeped through the wrappings where I'd split my knuckles.
I unwrapped my hands slowly, wincing as the fabric stuck to the wounds. Blood smeared across my skin as I flexed my fingers, testing the damage. Nothing broken, just torn skin.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror above the sink. Dark circles under my eyes, stubble darkening my jaw. I looked like what I was—a man caught between duty and something dangerously close to desire.
Part of me wanted to confront Elena immediately, to see the truth in her eyes when I called her out, to get to the bottom of why she was looking into all of this. But Roman's orders were clear, and he was right. We needed to know what she was after, who else might be involved.
I dried my hands and taped a few band-aids over my split knuckles. The physical pain was a welcome distraction from the turmoil in my head.
If Elena Peters was playing some kind of game, she'd picked the wrong family to target. The Donatis protected their own, and I protected the Donatis. It was the one thing in my life I hadn't failed at.
I wouldn't start now, no matter how blue her eyes were or how much I wanted to taste her lips.
I'd play her game, get close enough to learn her secrets. And when the time came, I'd do what needed to be done.
I always did.