My release hit hard and fast, pleasure spiking through me as I came with a grunt, watching the evidence wash down the drain. It'd been too long since I'd jerked off, but Elena was making me crave more. The momentary relief quickly gave way to disgust at my lack of control.
This wasn't me. I didn't lose focus over a pretty face. Not since?—
I shut down that line of thought immediately. The past was the past. I had a job to do.
I turned off the shower and grabbed a towel, roughly drying myself as my phone buzzed on the counter. I wrapped the towel around my waist and checked the message from Carl.
Got those phone records you asked for. Found something interesting. She's been in contact with a PI named Trent Simpson multiple times over the past month. Last call was tonight, right after you left her place.
My jaw clenched. A private investigator. I texted back.
What do we know about Simpson?
The response came within seconds.
Small-time operator. Mostly cheating spouses, insurance fraud. But get this, he's been digging into the Donatis, asking questions. Specifically about Anthony Cassaro's death.
Anthony Cassaro. Grayson and Meredith's father. What the hell would Elena want with information about him?
I pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, anger and unease warring within me. She'd played me. All those innocent questions about the Donatis, her sweet little doe-eyed act. She wasn't just some accountant looking for a better job to pay her mother's medical bills.
She was digging for something specific.
I dialed Roman's number, pacing my apartment as it rang.
"Jackson, anything new?" he answered.
"Elena Peters has been in contact with a private investigator who's been asking questions about Anthony Cassaro's death."
Silence on the other end. I could almost see him shaking his head and massaging his temples. "You're certain?"
"Got her phone records. Multiple calls and texts to a PI named Trent Simpson. Last call right after I dropped her at her apartment tonight."
"And this Simpson, he's been asking specifically about Anthony?"
"Yes. Don't know what he's found, if anything."
Roman cursed softly then sighed. "Handle Simpson. Find out what he knows, what he's told her, see if Eddie can go in person."
Eddie, one of our guys who could pay visits when I was otherwise engaged. It meant Roman wanted me here.
"What about Elena?" I asked, trying to keep my tone neutral. How had she played me so well? I thought I'd gotten good atreading people. My interest in her was clouding my judgement, and it was pissing me off now.
"Nothing changes. We need to know what she's after, who she's working for if anyone. Keep close to her, but don't let her know we're onto her."
"Understood."
"And Jackson?" Roman's voice hardened. "Don't get attached. She's not what she seems, obviously."
The call ended, leaving me standing in my apartment, fury building in my chest. She'd looked me in the eye, accepted my help, invited me into her home—all while investigating the family I'd sworn to protect.
I grabbed my keys and gym bag. There was no way I'd sleep now, and I needed to deal with this rage before I did something stupid.
Twenty minutes later, I was at Ironstone Boxing Club, the 24-hour gym where I'd trained since moving to the city. At this hour, it was nearly empty—just a few night owls and insomniacs seeking physical exhaustion.
I wrapped my hands, the familiar ritual calming me slightly as I focused on the technique. Across the knuckles, between the fingers, around the wrist. Protection and support. I didn't bother with gloves. I wanted to feel the impact.
The heavy bag swung slightly as I approached it. I started with jabs, quick and controlled, finding my rhythm. Left, right, left. The bag absorbed the blows silently.
