Page 61 of That Time I Accidentally Took Over the Mafia

I smile against his lips. "You shameless flirt." We’re nearly at the barn, but my questions keep coming. “What about Enzo and Luca? You said all of you have something in this.”

“Someone is going after Enzo’s business, his properties—snagging land purchases out from under him. He’s lost millions. It’s a territory grab but without the bloodshed.” Jesus. “Luca needs to find that last piece of the puzzle that has eluded him. He’s chased a shadow for six years. He needs this. He needs it to come to an end.”

So, that’s it. Jax was framed. Enzo’s territory is being invaded, and Luca is taunted by a mystery. The investment they have in this goes deeper than just me.

Jax pulls me back from my thoughts with a kiss to the back of my hand and gestures toward the barn. "Ready to see the magic?"

I take a deep breath, feeling a mix of nerves and anticipation. "Ready as I’ll ever be."

Jax opens the door smoothly, and the cold air from inside hits us. The unknown is waiting just beyond the threshold, but I’m not backing down now.

"After you, princess."

I look at him, a small smile tugging at my lips. "If there’s even a hint of blood in there, I’m blaming you for my mental trauma."

Jax just grins back, and I feel the spark between us flicker again. "I wouldn’t have it any other way."

We step into the barn, and I take in my surroundings, half-expecting a blood-splattered scene straight out of a horror movie. Instead, it’s more like a storage space where you’d park an RV for the winter—nothing ominous about it at all. The shelves are stacked with random tools, cans of motor oil, and a pile of old blankets. If I don’t think about it, it could just be a regular garage.

Jax, on the other hand, doesn’t seem fazed at all. He strolls in, his hand brushing mine casually, while I’m stuck picturing a crime scene.

I raise an eyebrow. “So, where’s the blood and the bodies hanging from meat hooks?” I look around like I’ll find them tucked behind a stack of boxes.

Jax grins, stepping up behind me and getting close enough to drop his voice in a creepy way. “Oh, those are far below ground,” he whispers, leaning in like he’s sharing a dark secret. “Where no one can hear their screams.” He even shudders exaggeratedly, and I feel a chill run down my spine.

For a second, I can’t tell if he’s joking. I mean, it’s Jax—he can’t possibly be serious, right? But the idea of a subterranean torture chamber flashes through my mind, and I can’t help but shudder. Maybe he’s not entirely joking.

I eye him suspiciously. “I’m not sure if you’re joking or if you’re really about to drag me into a creepy hole in the ground.”I cross my arms over my chest, half-expecting him to break into laughter.

Jax, ever the smooth talker, just keeps grinning. “I’d never let you go down there alone. It’s more of a two-person gig.” He winks at me, and I roll my eyes.

“You’re a sick bastard, Jax. I bet you love seeing me squirm.”

“Only when it’s fun,” he says with a wink, completely unapologetic.

I look around again, processing what he’s said. It’s a lot less creepy than I imagined, but I still picture some poor soul tied up in here, getting tortured while Jax casually munches on a sandwich.

“Alright, no more creepy basement torture talk, Jax. You might actually convince me you’re a psychopath. You’d ruin that cute smile of yours.”

Jax flashes a grin. “I’m your psychopath, Peach.”

I roll my eyes but can’t help smirking back at him. This guy never takes anything seriously.

Then, with a flick of his wrist, Jax opens a cabinet door and reveals a hidden button. The shelf behind it rises with a smooth whirring sound, exposing a compartment beneath.

I freeze. “Holy shit. There really is a torture chamber down there, isn’t there?”

Jax laughs, unaffected. “Relax, Delaney. Nothing sinister. But you don’t leave evidence from a ‘conversation’ out in the open, do you?”

“Yeah, sure,” I mutter. “Just a little spot for ‘conversations.’”

I’m starting to think therapy might be on the horizon after all this.

Jax completely ignores me, a grin still on his face as he walks past the opening, inspecting the shelves of guns. He selects a few handguns, his movements smooth and practiced, like he’s done this a thousand times.

“Here,” he hands me a couple boxes of ammo as though we’re just grabbing some snacks for a movie night. “We’re going to need a lot of these.”

“Hey, I resent that,” I say, taking the boxes, trying to shake the unease in my hands. I follow him through a door, and as it closes behind us, I feel a quiet, unspoken tension.

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