Jayson (Gatti Enforcers #3)

1. Jayson

JAYSON

T hey say blood makes you family.

But blood’s the first thing spilled when loyalty is tested.

I was nine the first time I watched someone die. In a cold alley with piss on the pavement. My father’s knife slid across a man’s throat. The man gargled, choking on his own lungs, and my father wiped the blade clean on his jeans before he looked at me with dead eyes and said,

“Don’t cry. Unless you want to end up beside him.”

I didn’t cry.

I didn’t breathe wrong for the next ten years. Because family? That’s just a word people use when they’ve never had to watch it betray them. Rip them open. Leave them behind.

I always knew I’d be a killer. Some people are built for violence. Others are born from it. And me? I was sculpted in blood.

The first time I held a gun, it felt like coming home. The weight. The chill of the steel. The silence before the shot. I didn’t feel fear. I felt peace. Because the world finally made sense.

And now ?

I’m the Moreno family’s most prized weapon.

Funny. I spent years swearing I’d never become my father. And yet here I am—standing in his shadow, only colder.

The revolving doors of the Columbia Tower hiss closed behind me.

Seattle’s tallest building—polished steel, black glass, and more power than most people know what to do with.

The elevator requires no input. It already knows where I’m going. Top floor. Dante Accardi. Mr. Seattle. They call him The Saint . Because he used to be a priest. Now he gives death his blessing before he signs the order.

When the doors open, I don’t knock. I don’t need to. They part for me like I was expected the moment I left the womb.

Dante stands by the window, the city before him, like he owns it. And in a way, he does.

He’s dressed in a blue suit worth more than my car. Silver cufflinks. Gold Rolex. Everything about him is polished and precise—like a holy man who prays with a knife instead of a rosary.

He turns. Looks at me with cool calculation. Smiles like the city’s fate is already decided.

“We have a problem,” he says. His voice is smooth, unbothered. “And I’ve been told you’re my best fixer.”

That’s a lie. I’m not his best anything. But you don’t correct Dante Accardi. You nod. You listen. And if you’re lucky, you leave with your life.

He walks toward me—calm, unhurried. Hands in his pockets. Shoes shining like mirrors. We’ve crossed paths before. Briefly. Peripherally. But this? This is different. This is personal.

He extends his hand. I take it. Then he places his other hand over mine—locks me in. Not a greeting; a statement.

I own this moment. I own you.

“Mayor Bishop,” he says .

I nod once. I know the name. Everyone does. Polished. Powerful. Press darling. But underneath the facade? Filth. The kind that slips out of trafficking charges with a clean suit and a public apology.

Accardi hasn’t forgotten.

“Slippery bastard,” he mutters. “The system failed. So now we fix it. Quietly. No mess. No witnesses.”

He doesn’t need to say more. I know exactly what this job requires. One shot. No mistakes. In and out like smoke. I cannot fuck this up.

He raises an eyebrow. “Do you have any questions?”

I shouldn’t. Men like him don’t like questions. But the words slip out anyway.

“Why me?”

He doesn’t flinch.

“It’s time you step up,” he says. “I hear you’ve been wasting your talents playing chauffeur for Mason Ironside.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. Hard enough to taste blood. Because he’s not wrong. But he’s not entirely right either. Because Mason Ironside deserves my loyalty. Hell, the whole Gatti outfit deserves it.

“What comes after this?” I ask.

Dante tilts his head slightly, like he’s assessing me.

“The organization’s growing. Faster than expected. We’ll need people who can carry that weight. People we can trust. The kind who don’t hesitate to spill blood—and don’t flinch when it’s their own.”

Then silence. No promise. No reward. Just the test. If I want a permanent place at the table - I’ll need to bleed for it.

The doors shut behind me with a whisper. But the weight? It’s the same. Dante Accardi doesn’t give orders—he delivers verdicts. And mine was just sealed.

I step into the elevator and say nothing. Just stand there, motionless, as the city rises around me in steel and glass. My reflection stares back at me from the mirrored walls—sharp suit, emotionless face, dead eyes. The gun under my jacket suddenly feels heavier, like it knows what’s coming.

I’m being trusted with blood. Again. And all I can think about… is how much I’ve already spilled. Not in hits. Not in executions. But in the wreckage I walked away from.

I haven’t thought about that in years. But now it slams into me—hard and fast and uninvited.

The car smelled like strawberry lip gloss and cigarette smoke.

My sister, Lila, was crammed between me and Mom in the backseat, seatbelt off like always, legs tucked under her, head thrown back in laughter.

She was singing off-key, loud and unapologetic.

She never cared if she got the words wrong—she just sang like the world was hers.

Mom was in the passenger seat, arm out the window, fingers slicing through the wind like she could catch something better out there.

And me?

I was behind the wheel, trying not to smile—pretending Lila’s voice didn’t warm something hollow in my chest.

We weren’t going anywhere. No destination.

Just… driving.

Mom had said we needed air.

“We need to breathe,” she told us. “Even if it’s just for a little while.”

I never saw the other car. I just heard the scream and felt the spin. And tasted blood in my mouth when the world finally stopped moving .

They didn’t make it. I did. That’s the part that never lets me sleep. I survived.

I crawled out through the broken window, lungs burning, vision smeared with red. I remember reaching for my mother’s hand—and realizing it wasn’t moving. That her neck wasn’t whole anymore. That Mia’s face had gone pale, her mouth open in a silent breath that would never finish.

And I remember screaming. Once. Twice. Then I locked it down. Because what the hell else could I do?

They buried them side by side in a cemetery I never visit. Not because I don’t care. But because I do. Too much.

If I go, I won’t leave. I know that about myself. I’ll sit down and rest between their graves and hope someone puts a bullet in me before the guilt does. Because I should’ve died too.

Everyone says I was lucky. But luck doesn’t feel like waking up in a hospital alone. It doesn’t feel like digging your nails into your arms every time you smile, just to punish yourself for feeling anything but grief.

And that’s the truth I’ll never say out loud:

I don’t survive things. I outlive them.

That’s not the same. Not when the silence in my chest grows louder every year. Not when the weight never goes away.

The elevator dings. I step out into the lobby level, shoving the memories back into the box I’ve been sealing shut for over a decade.

It’s a box with no lock. Just a quiet promise: not today.

I’ve got a job to do. And guilt doesn’t belong on the trigger.

But as I step out into the rain-soaked street, a whisper of my sister’s laugh clings to me like smoke.

And that tiny crack? It’s still there. Growing.

I walk with my hands in my pockets and my head down, rain sliding off my shoulders like it doesn’t dare touch me. I make it five blocks before I stop. Just for a second. Just long enough to catch my reflection in a darkened shop window.

Not the man they say I am. Not the killer Dante Accardi handpicked.

Not the soldier Mason trusts to handle the ugly work.

Just… me. Eyes too old for my face. A mouth that forgot how to smile.

And a scar above my left brow that Lila used to call my “thinking line.” Said it made me look serious.

Said one day, I’d rule the world with it.

I press my palm to the glass like I could reach through it and pull back the boy I used to be. But there’s no boy left. Just bone and blood and the man I’ve become.

And still, I hear her.

Not the scream. Nor the silence after.

The laugh. That wicked, beautiful, too-loud laugh. The one that used to make my mother’s shoulders shake with joy. The one I thought I’d carry with me like a shield. Now it follows me like a ghost.

What would she think of me now?

What would she say, seeing her big brother with blood on his hands and nothing in his eyes? Would she still laugh? Would she run?

I step away from the glass before the ache crawls higher, before it gets dangerous. I’ve let it in too far already.

The phone in my pocket buzzes.

One word:

Ready?

I type back:

Always.

But it’s a lie. Because I’ll never outrun the truth.

I was supposed to die that day. They were supposed to live.

And now? I kill so I don’t have to feel.

But tonight—as I disappear into the rain with a pistol and a purpose—I can’t shake it.

The sound of her laugh. The warmth I’ll never feel again.

The weight of surviving something you didn’t deserve to walk away from.

And the terrible, gut-twisting fear that maybe.

..Just maybe... That crack inside me? Isn't a break at all. Maybe it’s the start of something worse.

The part of me that wants to be human again.