Page 5 of Jayson
Inside, everything is soft and expensive. The carpet is thick and plush under my boots. The kind of quiet money buys. It reminds me of that scene fromThe Godfather. Not the wedding. The horse.
I smirk.This city’s going to wake up to something worse than a decapitated stallion.
I move through the house like I’ve been here before. Every step practiced. Every breath controlled. Up the stairs. Slow. Left at the landing. Down the hallway.
My footsteps ghost against the carpet. I’ve had years to master this kind of silence.
I stop at the last door at the end of the hallway. I reach for the handle and pause, listening carefully. There’s no sound coming from inside. A faint light glows beneath the door. I easeit open, slow and careful—it gives the softest creak. The light’s coming from the ensuite.
The room is massive. All cool grays and chrome, like a hotel suite in your own home. There’s a floor-to-ceiling window behind the bed. Heavy blackout curtains pulled tight. A faint ticking sound—maybe the clock on his nightstand.
Mayor Simon Bishop is in bed, laying on his stomach, blankets kicked low. His breathing is deep and even. Peaceful. This is going to be easier than I thought.
I step closer, raise the Glock. Silencer screwed on tight. It’s almost surgical. One arm straight. Elbow locked. My aim steady.
I stare at the back of his head. Blond hair. Soft gray at the edges.
There are no guards and no cameras. Just a man who thinks justice won’t find him in his own bed.
For a second—one minute second—something flickers behind my ribs. A twitch. A spark of something that might be guilt. But I snuff it out fast. Because I remember the girls. The ones no one talks about. The ones who never got to wake up in a warm bed again.
And I pull the trigger.
One shot. Then another. Then two more for good measure. Blood spatters the pillows, the headboard, the curtains covering the glass wall. It’s quiet. But the smell hits quick—metallic and final.
His body gives a short jerk then settles on the mattress, unmoving; he never even saw it coming.
I lower the gun. Exhale once. Quiet. Focused. The hardest part is over.
I turn toward the door—and stop.
There’s a girl in the doorway. Young. Barefoot.
Wearing nothing but a threadbare T-shirt that hangs too bigon her frame, skimming the tops of her thighs like she forgot—or didn’t care—to put anything else on.
Her hair’s a tangled mess, dark strands clinging to her face like she tore herself out of sleep. But she’s not asleep now. She’s awake. Wide awake. Eyes blown wide with an icy cold reserve. Like her soul already left the building and left her behind to watch the aftermath.
There’s a gun in her hand. She’s holding it like it’s a remote. Limp at her side. Slack fingers. No tension in her body. Just stillness.
She sees the man on the bed. She sees the blood. She sees me. And yet… she doesn’t scream. She doesn’t back up. Doesn’t even flinch when I raise my weapon and point it straight at her head.
My finger curls around the trigger.
Her eyes don’t flicker. She just stares. Straight down the barrel, like it’s nothing more than a mirror. Like she’s not just ready to die—she’s inviting it. Welcoming it. Like she’s daring me.
Do it. End this.
I’ve seen death before. Delivered it, more times than I can count. But this? This is different.
She’s not pleading or bargaining for her life. She’s not shaking with adrenaline or panic as she should be. She looks at me like she’s already seen how this ends and she’s just waiting for me to catch up.
And fuck me—my hand wavers. For the first time in a long time, I don’t know what to do. Because how the hell do you kill someone who already looks like they’ve been dead for years?
3
KEIRA
Idon’t hear the gunshots.
