Chapter 42
Conor
What the ever-loving fuck just happened? One second, I’m standing in front of Jaxon, protecting him. Exactly where I’m supposed to be. Next, I’m flat on my back staring at the warehouse ceiling. Jaxon on top of me. My gun in his hand. For a moment, I genuinely have no idea how I got here.
I replay the last few seconds. Him yelling to get down.
His hand grabbing my shoulder. The sudden loss of balance.
The concrete slamming into my back. The realization hits me like a freight train.
Jaxon threw me. Actually threw me. Not an easy task considering our relative sizes.
Yet somehow he managed it without hesitation. Then he covered my body with his own.
The memory makes something uncomfortable tighten in my chest. Because I know exactly what he was doing.
He was shielding me. In the same way I have spent the last week trying to shield him.
I don’t like it. The realization arrives immediately.
I don’t like being protected. I especially don’t like being protected by Jaxon. That was supposed to be my job.
A burst of gunfire echoes through the warehouse.
Jaxon’s body tightens over mine. Gone is the man who blushes when I compliment him.
Gone is the man who curls against me in bed.
This version of Jaxon is something else entirely.
A Marine. A fighter. And for the first time since meeting him, I understand exactly how he survived everything life has thrown at him.
None of this is right. I swore I would protect him.
That was the agreement I made with myself the moment I decided Jaxon was mine.
I would take the hit. The bullet. The wound.
Whatever was required. He wasn’t supposed to be the one protecting me.
Yet here we are. My back against cold concrete and Jaxon between me and the threat.
The realization lands like a punch to the chest. Failure. Logically, I know what happened. Jaxon reacted faster. His training took over, and he identified a threat and neutralized it. The explanation is simple, reasonable even. It changes nothing.
Because every instinct I possess rebels against the sight before me.
Jaxon remains kneeling over me. One hand pressed firmly against my chest. The other is holding my gun.
His attention fixed entirely on the doorway, prepared to engage another threat if necessary.
And I hate it. I hate it more than I can adequately describe.
Because the idea of losing him is infinitely worse than taking a bullet myself.
The moment Vincenzo Moretti walks through the door, I know the violent part of our evening is over. Not because he’s incapable of violence. Quite the opposite. Men like Vincenzo don’t need gunfights. They have people for that. The real reason is simple.
Once the Don of the Moretti family arrives, everyone else’s opinions become largely irrelevant. Duncan had called him personally after Ronan finished digging through Manny’s computer. The information he uncovered was… illuminating.
“Mr. Moretti.” Manny all but bows. Ten minutes ago, this asshole was threatening everyone in this warehouse. Now he looks like a man awaiting a verdict.
“How’s your grandmother?” Vincenzo straightens the cuff of his jacket. His tone is conversational. He sounds polite, almost friendly. The question immediately catches my attention. Because he asks it like a man who already knows the answer.
“She’s much better.” Manny attempts confidence, but fails spectacularly.
Vincenzo’s expression doesn’t change. “That’s funny.
” The words are delivered mildly. “Because according to my sources, she died over a year ago.” Silence.
“You’ve been a very busy man.” Vincenzo finally looks directly at Manny.
“Especially with all those meetings you’ve been having with the heads of two of my biggest rivals. ”
Manny’s face loses what little color it had left. Not pale. White. The look of a man who has just realized the conversation he’s been preparing for all night isn’t actually the one he’s having.
“The one thing you lacked was a financial backer to prove yourself to those heads. And being the ignorant piece of shit you are, you thought Duncan was your ticket.”
Vincenzo motions to two of his men. They move immediately. One grabs Manny’s left arm, the other his right. A kick to the back of the knees sends him to the floor. Manny spent the entire evening trying to establish control. Now he can’t even remain standing without permission.
“You should have checked my contacts before trying this.” Vincenzo’s voice remains calm, almost bored. As though betrayal is less an insult and more an administrative inconvenience. He draws his pistol. The temperature in the warehouse seems to drop several degrees.
Above me, Jaxon’s body goes rigid. The hand pressed against my chest tightens.
My attention immediately shifts from Vincenzo to him.
Jaxon’s focus is locked on the scene unfolding in front of us.
His breathing changes. His shoulders tense.
The pistol in his hand begins to rise. I understand instantly.
He doesn’t know what Vincenzo intends. He sees a powerful man with a gun.
Reaching up, I wrap my hand around his wrist.
The movement finally pulls his attention to me.
For a second, neither of us speaks. I shake my head once.
His jaw tightens. The conflict is obvious on his face.
Every instinct he possesses is screaming at him to act, to take control, to prevent whatever comes next.
Slowly, reluctantly, the muzzle lowers. The tension doesn’t leave him.
“Let me up, Jaxon.” I push at his arm that’s pinning me to the floor.
He glances back at the men in the center of the room.
Then he releases me and we both stand. He’s still standing between me and the threat.
I have to grit my teeth together to keep from yelling at him that he does not belong there.
“Duncan, we have an agreement. I will be calling in the favor soon.” Vincenzo takes a step towards Manny. “But right now I have my own business to take care of, so why don’t you and yours go enjoy the rest of your night?”
Duncan doesn’t respond. He simply nods and turns toward the exit. The conversation is over. The verdict has been delivered. Everything else is someone else’s problem.
I place my hand against the small of Jaxon’s back.
The contact is automatic. A habit I’ve developed, not that I intend to stop.
Jaxon falls into step beside me. As we pass through the warehouse doors, I catch sight of a sleek black sedan parked near the loading docks.
A young man sits in the back seat. Early twenties at most. He’s well-dressed, clean-cut.
His eyes remain fixed on the warehouse entrance, wide and unblinking.
He doesn’t even acknowledge us as we pass.
I wonder if this is his first lesson. His first glimpse behind the curtain. If so, it’s certainly memorable.
The sound of raised voices pulls my attention away. Finn and Declan round the corner from the side of the building. Both have rifles slung over their shoulders. Both appear entirely unharmed. They’re also arguing.
“I’m telling you it was your shot.”
“It absolutely was not.”
“It hit his left arm.”
“Exactly. Which means it came from your angle.”
Finn throws his hands into the air. “That’s not how angles work.”
“That’s precisely how angles work.”
I glance at Jaxon. Then back at them. Now they’re conducting a postmortem on who failed to shoot Gabriel correctly.
“Gentlemen,” Duncan says without breaking stride. Both men stop talking immediately.
“Gabriel survived.” A beat of silence. “Neither of you has anything to brag about.”
The choking sound Jaxon made beside me doesn’t last long. The moment we climb back into the SUV, the humor disappears. The adrenaline crash has started. Jaxon sinks into the seat. His shoulders slumped, and his hands are gripping his thighs. I watch his fingers move. Back and forth. Back and forth.
“So it’s over?” he asks quietly.
“Yes.” Duncan’s answer comes without hesitation. Most people would find the certainty reassuring. Jaxon doesn’t. His fingers continue moving against his jeans.
“What about the favor?” Jaxon’s fingers tighten until his knuckles turn pale. Even now, he’s trying to calculate what he owes. Duncan catches it too. I see his eyes flick toward the rearview mirror.
“That is between Vincenzo and myself.”
Jaxon’s shoulders tense. It’s not enough of an answer. He needs more than that. For a man who spent most of his life handling his own problems, accepting help remains profoundly uncomfortable.
“There may be some trouble within his organization,” Duncan says after a moment. “His youngest son has nothing to do with the business. Vincenzo may need an exit strategy for the kid.”
Silence fills the vehicle. Jaxon’s fingers finally stop moving. The explanation doesn’t completely relax him, but some of the tension leaves his shoulders. Not mine. The knot in my stomach remains. It’s tight and refusing to let go. I turn toward him.
“What exactly was going through your head when you tackled me?” The question comes out sharper than I intended. The anger slips through. It’s not really directed at Jaxon. But at the memory, at the sight of him covering my body with his.
“You could have been hurt.” The image flashes through my head again. “Or worse, killed.”
The reaction is immediate. Jaxon’s head snaps toward me. His entire posture changes. The exhaustion and relief gone. Replaced by something much harder.
“What the fuck did you just ask me?”
I expected defensiveness. Not anger.
“I asked you—”
“I heard what you asked the first time.” His voice cuts through mine. “Do not repeat it.”
The vehicle falls silent. Even Duncan doesn’t interrupt. Jaxon holds my gaze.