With My Blood Part One
6k words
chapter warnings: mentions of death, threats, asshole jake, mafia stuff, alliances, allusion to murder, bullet wound/injury, slight stirring of feelings
With My Blood Masterlist
You wake to silence. Not the soft kind that comes with dawn, but the hollow, heavy quiet that follows absence.
The kind that reminds you your father’s office door is still shut, his chair still empty, his phone still unanswered. Three days now. Three days since he vanished without a word, without a trace– just a glass of half-finished whiskey and an empire teetering on the edge of chaos.
The men downstairs– your men now– pretend not to look at you when you pass. They murmur Boss under their breath, but the word still sounds foreign, ill-fitting, like a borrowed coat that’s a size too big. You feel their eyes, their doubt. The daughter of the old man. The princess of the Moretti family.
The one who was never supposed to sit at the head of the table.
But you do. You sit there now, behind the same desk where your father signed deals and issued death sentences, the scent of his cologne still lingering in the grain of the wood. On the blotter lies the ledger– the real one, bound in black leather. Every debt, every favor, every name that owes or is owed.
You open it, fingers tracing the inked lines, the ghosts of promises made in blood.
If your father’s disappearance was a message, you intend to answer it.
You find out the truth the way all ugly truths surface in your world– too late, and through someone who shouldn’t have known it before you did.
It’s Marco, your father’s consigliere, who cracks first. His hand steady as he sets the file on your desk, eyes darting between the door and your face like he’s not sure which one holds more danger. “He didn’t want you involved,” Marco says quietly. “Said it was his mess to clean up. But he’s not here anymore, and the debt doesn’t die with him.”
You slide the folder open. Inside– photocopies of wire transfers, coded notes, and one photograph. Jake Kiszka. The name alone makes your stomach tighten. A man whispered about in back rooms and buried in half-truths. No one really knows where he came from, but everyone knows what he’s capable of. Ruthless. Brilliant. Untouchable. The kind of man who doesn’t just kill his enemies– he dismantles them, piece by piece, until all that’s left is a lesson.
According to the file, your father owed him seven million dollars. Not pocket change. A debt like that isn’t just financial– it’s personal.
You stare at the photograph. Kiszka’s eyes are sharp, almost amused, caught mid-turn as if he already knew someone would be looking.
Marco clears his throat. “Word is… he’s been asking questions. About your father. About you.”
The air feels heavier now, pressing against your ribs. You’ve inherited the title, the power, the family– and apparently, your father’s enemies too.
You close the file slowly, fingers steady even though your pulse isn’t.
If Jake Kiszka wants something from the Moretti family, he’ll have to ask you directly.
—
You slump into the leather chair behind your father’s desk, the ledger open on your lap like a trap.
Jake Kiszka– seven million dollars.
The numbers blur and swim as if mocking you, the ink smeared in the places your father must have rushed.
The office smells faintly of old whiskey and polished wood, familiar and suffocating all at once. Outside, the city hums– sirens, distant engines, the low pulse of neon reflecting off rain-slick streets– but inside, it’s heavy and still, like the walls themselves are holding their breath.
Your fingers drum nervously on the desk. You imagine him– sharp suit, sharper eyes, calm as a predator. The kind of man whose patience outlives his enemies. Stories drift in your mind– of men ruined, families broken, debts extracted with precision and cruelty. And now… you’re next.
You stand and pace. The floorboards creak under your weight, and for a moment it feels like the sound echoes through the city, announcing your fear. You stop at the window, staring down at the glittering streets far below, wondering if the glitter hides knives.
You run a hand through your hair, tugging slightly, your pulse hammering in your ears. Seven million dollars. Impossible. Ridiculous. Unthinkable.
You sink back into the chair, gripping the ledger tightly, pressing it against your chest like a shield. You replay every possibility: pay him, fight him, run– but the truth presses down on you like a vice: none of it is good. None of it is safe.
You close your eyes. The office grows darker as the sun dips behind the skyline. Your father’s absence weighs on you like a lead cloak, but there’s no time for grief.
You stare at the number written in your father’s sharp handwriting. No name, just digits. It’s the kind of number that doesn’t appear in any phonebook, one that probably routes through three continents before it reaches its owner.
Your thumb hovers over the screen. You don’t know if this is bravery or recklessness– but in your world, they often look the same.
You press Call.
One ring. Two. Then a voice, smooth and low, filters through the line.
“Didn’t expect a Moretti to be using this number.”
You exhale slowly. “Your expectations aren’t my concern.”
A soft chuckle. It’s the kind that tells you he’s smiling, though not kindly. “So the daughter speaks. To what do I owe the honor?”
“I’m calling about my father’s debt,” you say, the words tasting like metal. “We need to talk. In person.”
A pause. You can almost hear the gears turning on his end. Then– “You’re not afraid?”
You glance at the ledger still open in front of you. “Fear’s a luxury I can’t afford.”
Another quiet laugh, this one longer. “You sound like him,” he says. “But you’re braver, or maybe just more foolish.”
“So, do we have a meeting or not?”
He doesn’t answer right away. You hear a faint click, maybe a lighter, maybe a gun being set down– impossible to tell. Then, “Tomorrow night. Hotel Miraggio. Top floor. Midnight.” His tone lowers, lazy but sharp. “Wear something that tells me you're serious, Moretti.”
The line goes dead before you can answer.
You set the phone down, the sound echoing too loudly in the quiet office. Marco looks at you from across the room, eyebrow raised. “You called him?”
You nod. “He agreed to meet.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “And you think that’s good news?”
You look toward the window, where the city stretches out in shadows and light– your father’s empire, now yours.
“It’s a start,” you say.
—
You can’t outmuscle Jake Kiszka. But you might be able to unnerve him.
By nightfall, your bedroom looks like a battlefield of silk and leather. Dresses lie draped across the bed, shoes kicked aside. You stand before the mirror, the city glimmering through the tall windows behind you. The reflection that stares back doesn’t look like someone’s daughter anymore.
You choose black. Always black. A fitted dress that stops just above the knee– high enough to distract, low enough to remind him you’re not there to beg. The neckline dips slightly, elegant rather than vulgar, the fabric sleek and smooth like armor disguised as temptation. A single diamond glints at your throat. Nothing more. No earrings, no bracelets. Minimal. Controlled.
You pull your hair back– not tightly, but enough to show the line of your jaw. The effect is precise. Composed. Dangerous.
The city hums as you step outside– the low growl of engines, the glitter of wet asphalt. Your driver opens the car door, and as you slide in, you catch your reflection in the tinted glass.
Not the princess of the Moretti family anymore. Not the grieving daughter.
Tonight, you are something else entirely.
—
The Hotel Miraggio rises like a shard of glass against the skyline– sleek, expensive, and cold. The kind of place where no one asks questions, and even the security cameras know when to look away.
Your car pulls up beneath the gold-lit awning, rain still clinging to the windshield. The valet moves toward the door, but your driver steps out first, wordlessly passing him a folded bill and a look that says don’t even think about it.
You step onto the marble, the night air cool against your skin. Every motion feels deliberate, measured– the click of your heels, the slow sweep of your coat as you move through the revolving doors.
Inside, the lobby gleams. Crystal chandeliers scatter the light like diamonds, and the piano music drifts soft and meaningless. A few heads turn when you enter. You don’t meet their eyes. You’re used to being looked at. Tonight, it’s just part of the strategy.
The elevator is waiting. A single attendant presses the button for the top floor, his hands a little too steady, his eyes a little too still. You recognize the type immediately– Kiszka’s man.
He doesn’t speak. Neither do you.
The doors slide open on silence. The entire floor has been cleared, the air thick with the faint scent of tobacco and expensive liquor. The lighting is low, the skyline sprawling beyond the glass walls like a dark ocean.
You hear him before you see him– a quiet rustle, the soft drag of a cigarette.
Jake Kiszka stands near the window, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of amber liquid. The reflection of the city burns across his shoulders, making him look like a silhouette carved out of fire and smoke.
When he turns, the corner of his mouth lifts. Not quite a smile. Something sharper.
“Y/n Moretti,” he says, voice smooth enough to hide the threat beneath it. “You clean up nicely.”
You stop a few feet away from him, coat still on, chin lifted just slightly. “I didn’t come here for compliments.”
He takes a slow sip of his drink, eyes never leaving yours. “No, I imagine you didn’t. Still– credit where it’s due. Most people don’t call me. And even fewer show up.” His gaze flicks over you once, lingering just long enough to acknowledge the effort. “Your father would’ve sent an army,” he murmurs. “You came alone.”
“I’m not my father.”
He studies you, then laughs softly– the sound warm, but not kind. “No,” he says. “You’re not.”
The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s electric. Every word, every glance, feels like the start of something dangerous.
He gestures to the table beside him, two glasses waiting. “Then let’s talk about your father’s debt.”
You step closer. “Let’s.”
—
You don’t drink from the glass. You can’t.
Jake notices immediately. Of course he does. That smirk– slow, deliberate, permanent– curves across his face as his eyes travel over you, sharp and calculating. He lingers, just a fraction too long, as if memorizing every line, every angle, the faint rise and fall of your chest. Predatory, yet undeniably intrigued.
“I need time,” you say, voice low, measured, letting it hang between you like smoke curling in sunlight.
His head tilts slightly, shadows dancing over his sharp features. His eyes glint with amusement– and something darker, something hungry. “Time,” he repeats, slow, deliberate, almost tasting the word, letting it roll over you like velvet and steel.
“You can’t expect me to run an empire and pay my father’s debts overnight,” you say, leaning back, forcing your shoulders square. “It’s impossible.”
He leans in just a fraction, closing the air between you without touching. His gaze sharpens, sliding over your jaw, the tension in your neck, the controlled lift of your chin. “Time is a luxury we can’t afford in this line of work, Moretti,” he murmurs, voice smooth, dangerous, low enough to vibrate through the air.
“Then what? You want me to drown before I even start?” Your brow furrows, defiance sharpening your tone. “I’m not my father. I’ll pay what I owe– but I need a chance.”
He tilts his chin again, slow, predatory, eyes never leaving yours. He traces you with his gaze as if cataloging every move, every breath, every heartbeat he can sense. “I wouldn’t get used to speaking to me that way,” he murmurs, soft, almost intimate, yet lethal.
“I would,” you retort, leaning forward just enough to feel the heat of his gaze brush against your skin, spine tingling with the tension between you. “If you want your money, you’ll wait. Otherwise, you're out seven million– with nothing to show for it.”
He straightens slowly, a predator taking measure of its prey, yet there’s something more in his eyes– a spark of curiosity, a fascination that prickles along your nerves. He steps closer, subtle, deliberate, the air between you thick and almost tangible. “Or,” he whispers, low, dangerous, slow, “I take your little empire myself. Erase you completely. That’s worth far more than seven million.”
A shiver coils through your chest– sharp, cold– but your voice stays steady. “You won’t,” you murmur, low, measured, defiance lacing every syllable. “If you wanted me dead, this meeting wouldn’t exist.”
His grin widens, slow, predatory, as if he’s tasting the thrill of the moment. “You sound…certain.”
“I am,” you reply, letting the challenge thread through your words, subtle, deliberate. “It’s more profitable to give me a chance. Otherwise, the Moretti name would have been buried long ago.”
He steps closer still, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him, the faint brush of his presence against your skin without contact. His gaze rakes over you, meticulous, almost intimate, predatory– but threaded with fascination. “Two weeks,” he murmurs, voice low, velvety, dangerous. “Show me something by then.”
Your throat tightens, tension coiling in your chest. “Two weeks? That’s impossible.”
“That's generous,” he murmurs, each word deliberate, almost a caress. “Two weeks longer than you deserve.”
“You could at least be a little more…cordial,” you snap, pulse thrumming, “to someone trying to fix something she didn’t even cause.”
He laughs– low, rough, dark amusement curling around you like smoke, wrapping tight and hot. “If I weren’t being cordial, you wouldn’t even be here.”
You draw a slow, steadying breath, grounding yourself in the charge of the moment. “Two weeks,” you say, nodding once. Standing, you square your shoulders.
He rises too, closing the remaining space with the fluid grace of a predator. His eyes track every subtle movement– the lift of your chin, the twitch of your fingers, the inhale that carries tension. His presence presses close, magnetic, impossible to ignore. “I’ll be watching, Y/n,” he murmurs, voice silk and steel, vibrating with promise and warning. “Don’t disappoint me.”
You meet his gaze without flinching, aware of the taut energy vibrating between you, thick enough to taste. “Don’t get in my way,” you reply, firm, letting a thread of provocation slip through.
The door closes behind you to the echo of his low, dark laughter, lingering like smoke.
And still– you breathe easier. He doesn’t want you dead. Not yet. You’re not sure why. But if he did…you wouldn’t have left the room alive.
—
“That was… the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.”
You exhale sharply, shrugging off your coat and letting it fall onto the rack. Marco stands in the foyer, arms crossed, eyes fixed on you like he’s trying to read every thought behind your calm mask.
“Hello, Marco,” you murmur, quieter than usual.
He tilts his head, eyes scanning your dress with thinly veiled disapproval. “Why are you dressed like that?”
You can’t help but let out a humorless laugh. “I bought us time,” you admit, shoulders slumping.
“Did he hurt you?”
“No,” you say, but your mind lingers on the way he looked at you– hungry, dangerous, as if he wanted to break you just to see if you’d snap back. “I handled it, Marco. Really. You don’t need to worry.”
He takes a step closer, voice hard but edged with something softer. “You went into his territory alone… dressed like that… and you expect me not to worry, fiammetta?”
The nickname hits you like a small, warm hand on your shoulder. Little fire. Memories of a simpler, safer time flicker behind your eyes.
“Marco…”
“No,” he interrupts firmly, shaking his head. “I know you run the business now, Y/n. I understand that. But I’ve been here longer than you’ve been alive. And I swear, I intend to see you alive until I’m old and gray. You will not– under any circumstances– endanger yourself. Do you understand me?”
You sigh, feeling the familiar weight of being small again, of being cared for in a way that feels both grounding and suffocating. “I… understand.”
He softens, voice dropping almost to a whisper. “Your father… he’s gone. That’s my responsibility now. Keeping you safe– it’s not just duty. It’s… my priority. I will not fail at it.”
You look away, words catching in your throat. “We have two weeks.”
He exhales, steadying himself. “That's manageable. I suppose he thinks that’s being generous?”
You nod, the weight of it pressing down on you. “His exact words.”
A pause, then he reaches for your hand, steady and sure. “Then we do this. Together.”
You give him a small, fragile smile, letting the tension in your shoulders ease just enough. “Together.”
—
Two weeks is no time at all.
Not when you have everything working against you. Deals falling through, old allies breaking because it wasn't your father they're dealing with now. Doubt that the daughter can rule. Doubt that you can succeed.
You make it home, exhaustion taking over you the moment you step through the door. You mindlessly walk to your bedroom, freezing when you find none other than Jake Kiszka sitting in your chair.
He has a glass of something expensive, something he'd most likely helped himself to, and a smirk upon his face, “Time's up, princess.”
You let out a soft sigh, “I don't have it all.”
“I know,” he says in a mocking tone, standing.
You stand firm, trying to make your spine a wall against the pull of his presence. “I am making progress,” you say, voice low but steady, each word deliberate. “Not the full amount yet, but enough. You should be… grateful for that much.”
His smirk deepens, dark amusement flickering across his sharp features. He steps closer, too close, so the air between you seems to crackle with heat and danger. “Grateful?” he murmurs, circling slowly like a predator enjoying the view. “Grateful that you’ve barely scratched the surface? That you’ve survived two weeks under my… supervision?”
You stiffen, heart racing. “You think I needed supervision?”
“Not think,” he corrects, leaning in just slightly, letting the heat from his chest brush against your shoulder. “Know.”
He traces a finger lightly along the edge of your jaw, almost casual, almost intimate– but it lands like a warning. “You think that fire will save you, Y/n? Two weeks of scrambling, negotiating, sweating under deadlines…” He tilts his head, letting a lock of your hair fall into his hand. He toys with it, rolling it through his fingers, eyes glinting. “If you fail, I will enjoy watching your little empire crumble. Every brick, every deal, every illusion of control…” His voice drops lower, deliberate, slow, like silk sliding over steel. “…gone. And I will be there, watching, savoring the moment you realize you’ve lost it all.”
A shiver coils low in your stomach, but you force your chin higher, keeping your gaze locked on his. “You’re theatrical,” you murmur, attempting to reclaim control.
“Perhaps,” he admits, voice dark, amused, brushing against your ear. Then, just for a fraction of a second, his hand presses gently against your throat, fingers feather-light but deliberate– a reminder of that first tension between you, that danger that lingers under the surface. “But necessary,” he whispers, smirk curling. “A reminder that I could crush you… and yet, I don’t.”
You inhale sharply, pulse hammering, and when you meet his gaze, there’s a spark there– hungry, teasing, and impossibly dangerous. “Lucky me,” you murmur, voice steadier than your body feels.
He tilts his head, eyes glinting like a predator savoring the hunt. His hand drops from your throat, brushing your hair again, deliberate, slow, intimate in a way that sends a jolt through your nerves. “Very lucky,” he murmurs. “For now. But…” His gaze locks on yours, smoldering, magnetic. “You’ve survived. You’ve… done enough that I’ll call it even.” He tilts his head, letting a lock of your hair fall into his hand. He toys with it, rolling it through his fingers, eyes glinting. “But… you owe me a favor. Consider it a down payment for my patience.”
A shiver coils low in your stomach, but you force your chin higher, keeping your gaze locked on his. “And if I refuse?”
“You won't, fiammetta,” he says, quiet. Confident.
You freeze at that, your eyebrows pinching down. Marco had never called you that in front of anybody, let alone him.
The soft click of the front door makes you start, and before you can speak, Marco is there in the doorway, silent and solid as ever, eyes scanning the room like a hawk.
“Y/n. You okay?” His voice is low, steady, but the edge of worry beneath it is unmistakable. Hands loosely at his sides, ready to move.
Jake chuckles, a low, amused sound that curls through the air. “Okay?” he repeats, tilting his head to study Marco like a predator sizing up another predator. “I’ve heard of you, Marco. Impressive reputation… very meticulous. I have to say, I admire your work.”
Marco stiffens, jaw tight, gaze narrowing. “I don’t work for you.”
“Of course not,” Jake murmurs, smirk widening. He steps a fraction closer to you, brushing the air near your shoulder, the faint heat of him almost tangible. His eyes flick from Marco back to you, lingering just a beat too long, dark amusement sparkling. “But I do enjoy watching her survive… and thrive. And you,” he glances at Marco, “she clearly has excellent taste in allies.”
You feel the charge of his attention, the magnetic pull of his presence, and can’t help the small, tight shiver that snakes along your spine.
Jake straightens, giving a slow, deliberate smile that’s half threat, half teasing promise. “I’ll leave you to it. For now. But remember, Y/n…” His eyes catch yours, smoldering, magnetic, the unspoken tension between you sharp as a knife. “…you owe me.”
Then he’s gone, the echo of his laughter lingering like smoke, leaving you and Marco in the quiet aftermath.
Marco exhales, tension in his shoulders easing slightly as he steps closer, hand brushing yours briefly in a grounding gesture. “He… left you alone?” His tone is cautious. “What did he say?”
“He called it even,” you whisper, the ghost of his touch still burning your skin, “He called for a favor.”
Marco exhales, “That's never good.”
“It's part of the game,” you say quietly. “But we play it on our terms.”
—
The summons comes in the early afternoon– formal, precise, impossible to ignore. The leader of another syndicate is calling a meeting, and your presence is required. The message leaves no room for negotiation: Come alone. No exceptions.
Your stomach tightens as you read it, a mix of apprehension and strategy tightening your chest. You’re dressed in tailored black, hair pulled back, every detail deliberate, calculated– because in this room, appearances are everything.
When you arrive, the place is neutral territory, a dimly lit private room in a high-rise downtown. A long, polished table dominates the space. Around it, men and women from various syndicates sit, their eyes sharp, measuring, and more than a little dangerous. The leader– a man named Alvarez– sits at the head, expression unreadable.
“Moretti,” he greets, voice smooth but firm, eyes sizing you up. “I trust you’ve heard why you’re here.”
You nod, meeting his gaze without flinching. “I have.”
The room hums with tension as negotiations begin– contracts, territories, debts, threats– each statement precise, layered, lethal. You navigate it with careful words, subtle defiance, and calculated charm, every move measured to maintain your footing.
Then, without warning, the door swings open.
Jake steps in. Calm. Smirking. Eyes dark and sharp as he surveys the room. Every head snaps toward him. Murmurs ripple through the gathered syndicates. He wasn’t invited. He has no business here. It makes your heart race the second you see him.
“Ah,” Jake says, his voice smooth, deliberate, dripping amusement, as he leans casually against the wall near the door. “I see you’ve all been busy. Very industrious.” His gaze flicks to you, lingering longer than necessary, smirk curling. “And here I thought I’d missed all the fun.”
Alvarez’s eyes narrow, lips pressing into a thin line. “Kiszka.”
“No invite for me, Alvarez?” Jake replies lightly, tone teasing, dangerous. He tilts his head, glancing at each syndicate leader in turn, his presence commanding, predatory. “I’ve heard… good things about all of you. Really impressive work.” He finally rests his gaze on you, slow and deliberate, letting the tension between you thrum like electricity in the air. “And the princess was invited?”
“It’s private business, Jake,” Rossi says, his tone sharp. “If it concerned you, you’d have been invited.”
“It does concern me,” Jake replies, hands shoved in his pockets, but you can feel the menace behind his casual tone. His gaze sweeps the room, lingering on you just long enough to make you shift in your seat. “Does Moretti know what you’re all planning?”
Your eyebrows lift. You scan the men around the table. Some shuffle nervously, avoiding your eyes. “What are you talking about?” you ask, carefully baiting him.
Jake’s eyes snap to Alvarez, amusement curling at the edges of his smirk. “That contract… wouldn’t it be convenient for you, Alvarez?”
Your pulse jumps. One of the unsigned contracts on the table suddenly feels like a weight pressing down on your hands.
“It’s business,” Alvarez says smoothly. “And I fail to see how it concerns you.”
Jake striaghtens, voice light but loaded. “She’s my responsibility. I don’t take kindly to people toying with what’s mine.”
You bite back a retort. “I’m not yours,” you say through gritted teeth. He ignores you, eyes locked on Alvarez as if you’re invisible, and the tension in the room tightens like a noose.
“She’s not signing the contract,” Jake says evenly. “She’s not signing any of your fucking contracts.”
Before anyone else can respond, a calm, authoritative voice cuts through the room. “Nobody here was planning on screwing her over.”
You look up to see Vincent Crane at the far end of the table. Silver-streaked hair, impeccable suit, eyes that miss nothing. Wealth, power, and danger radiate from him effortlessly.
Jake’s smirk doesn't falter. “Vincent,” he mutters under his breath, a mix of respect and challenge in his voice.
Vincent sweeps the room with a glance before fixing his gaze on Jake. “If there’s a problem, I want names.”
Jake leans forward, voice low and dangerous. “Rossi. Alvarez. Costello. They thought they could play her.”
You feel the words land like a warning. Vincent nods slowly, a faint, calculating smile on his lips. “Handled.”
Jake tilts his head toward Vincent. “Handled.” he says.
Vincent inclines his head, acknowledging the unspoken pact. “Good. Then this meeting is over.”
The room exhales in a collective, cautious relief. Papers shuffle, chairs scrape, and the tension in the air eases– but just barely. You feel it in your chest: two of the most dangerous men in the city have drawn a line, and everyone knows not to cross it.
You lean back, letting the weight of the moment settle. For now, at least, the game has shifted in your favor.
—
The night is crisp as you step out of the building, the black SUV parked under the flickering streetlight. Jake falls into step beside you, his smirk sharp in the dim light, and you can feel the easy confidence radiating off him like a warning.
“You really think you can handle this, Moretti?” he asks, voice low and dangerous. “You think you’re untouchable?”
“I am untouchable,” you reply, pressing your hands to the hood of the car. “I don’t need anyone– least of all you– telling me what I can or cannot handle.”
Jake chuckles, the sound harsh in the quiet street. “Confidence is cute,” he says, stepping closer. “But fire like yours… it can burn you if you’re careless.”
From the shadows, Vincent Crane emerges, his coat sharp, hair silvered, eyes calculating. He doesn’t look at you with warmth tonight– he looks at you with the weight of the world behind him. You still, heart hammering in your chest. “Crane,” you manage, nodding.
Jake says nothing, just watches you, a faint flicker of amusement in his eyes. Crane’s gaze meets yours, calm and unreadable.
“It’ll be handled before you get home,” Crane says.
“I–” You stop yourself, mind racing. Another favor you’d owe? “What’s the price?” you ask, glancing between them.
“No price,” the older man replies smoothly, lips tugging at a faint, almost humorless smile. “I worked with your father years ago. He saved my life– I’m repaying the favor.”
A shaky breath escapes you. “Won’t this… start something?”
“Nobody wants to challenge two of the most powerful men in the business,” Crane says evenly, never arrogant, just stating a fact. “They know when to pick their battles.”
“You’d be wise to learn from that,” Jake mutters under his breath, a quiet barb aimed squarely at you.
Crane chuckles softly, giving you a parting nod. “I look forward to seeing where you go with this, Moretti.”
You nod, eyes following him until the space he just occupied is empty. Finally, you drag your gaze back to Jake. He’s still watching, that same infuriating smirk curling his lips.
“Fuck you,” you mutter.
“I’m still waiting for a thank-you,” he says, voice low, deliberate.
“Why would I thank you?” you snap. “You only did this for yourself, Jake– don’t act like it had anything to do with concern for me.”
He tilts his head, studying you for a long, unsettling moment. Then he smiles, sharp and cold. “You’re very stupid,” he says quietly, “for such a smart girl.”
The words hit you like a punch you didn’t see coming. Stupid. You blink, open your mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. Jake straightens, shoulders back, and turns, walking away without another word.
You stay there, frozen, staring at the space he just left. A small, strange weight settles in your chest– a mixture of frustration, confusion, and something else you can’t name. You feel a little sad, though you’re not sure why.
The city hums around you, indifferent, as you finally pull yourself together, your heart still pounding.
—
You step into the office, briefcase in hand, ready to go over the numbers. The room smells faintly of old leather and coffee, quiet except for the low hum of the city outside.
Jake is hunched over his desk, papers scattered like fallout. He doesn’t look up when he mutters, “You’re late.”
“I’m right on time,” you snap, tossing your file onto the desk, right over whatever he’s working on. His jaw flexes, but he just slides it aside, silent.
He looks wrecked– hair a mess, eyes bruised with exhaustion, tension coiled tight through him.
“You look like shit,” you say quietly.
He lets out a dry huff of laughter. “Been busy keeping us both afloat, Moretti.”
You sink into the chair opposite him, studying him. Then your eyes catch on the dark stain spreading across his sleeve. Blood.
“Jake,” you say, the word catching in your throat, “you’re bleeding.”
He glances down, dismissive. “I’m fine.”
“Like hell you are–”
“I said I’m fine,” he snaps, eyes cutting up to meet yours, sharp and tired all at once. “Don’t start pretending you give a damn, I don’t need–”
You’re already on your feet, moving around the desk before you can think. “I do give a damn, you jackass,” you bite out, catching his arm gently, careful where you touch.
He doesn’t pull away this time. You lift the fabric, just enough to see the wound, your stomach tightening at the sight. “What happened?” you ask, your voice low.
“Bullet wound,” he says, tone flat. “Had business to handle last night.”
“Alvarez?” you ask, eyes meeting his. You already know the answer.
You'd heard all about it. Jake and his crew– along with Vincent and his men– decided to clean up that bunch. It wasn't pretty, lots of guns and bloodshed, but Jake came out on top. He always did.
A ghost of a grin touches his mouth– cold, tired. “You should see the other guy.”
You shouldn’t laugh. But you do. A breath, sharp and short.
“Take off your shirt,” you say, straightening, voice steady even though your pulse isn’t.
His brow lifts, that smirk tugging back to life. “If you wanted to see me shirtless, sweetheart, you didn’t have to come up with an excuse.”
You glare at him, but your hand stays on his arm. “Don’t flatter yourself. I just don’t want you bleeding out on the damn paperwork.”
He holds your gaze for a beat too long before he exhales, the tension in his shoulders shifting. “Guess that’d ruin my reports,” he mutters, fingers moving slowly to his buttons.
The sound of fabric against skin is louder than it should be in the silence that follows.
The shirt hits the floor with a soft thud.
You try not to look, but there’s no avoiding it– broad shoulders, the line of muscle shifting under skin, bruises painted down his ribs. The wound on his arm is the worst of it, but it’s enough to make your chest tighten.
You swallow. “Do you have a first aid kit?”
He leans back in his chair, watching you through hooded eyes. “Somewhere.”
“Where?”
He shrugs with his good shoulder, smirk faint. “Why? Planning to play nurse now?”
You glare at him. “Planning to keep you from bleeding all over the place.”
He holds your gaze for a long moment before sighing, jerking his chin toward the bottom drawer. “Knock yourself out.”
You crouch down, pull it open, and dig through a mess of files and gun oil until you find the metal box. “You really should clean out your fucking desk,” you mutter, setting it on the desk.
“Didn’t know I was being graded.”
You shoot him a look. “Sit still.”
“I don’t need–”
“Sit. Still.”
He opens his mouth like he’s going to argue, then thinks better of it. His jaw works, but he settles back, watching as you open the kit. The silence between you hums. You can feel his eyes on you, tracking every movement.
You pour antiseptic onto gauze, and he flinches when it touches the wound.
“Hold still,” you say, softer now.
“Easy for you to say.” His voice is low, rough.
You don’t look at him. You can’t. Not when he’s this close, his breath warm near your temple, the scent of smoke and gunpowder and something distinctly him curling around you.
He shifts, muscles tensing under your hands, and you try– really try– not to stare. But your eyes flick, just for a second, down the line of his chest.
And that’s when he catches you.
His mouth tilts into a knowing smirk. “You done checking for other injuries, or should I keep still a little longer?”
You force your gaze back to the bandage, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck. “You’re insufferable.” You press the tape down a little harder than necessary. “Hold that.”
He hisses but obeys, eyes still on you. The silence stretches again– thick, charged.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
Then, softly, you say, “Next time, you tell me when you get hit.”
He studies you, the smirk fading, replaced by something quieter. “Didn’t think you’d care.”
You meet his eyes. “You’re an idiot if you think that.”
He looks away first.
