Chapter 288 - 0288: Do You Deserve Her?

Chapter 288: Chapter 0288: Do You Deserve Her?

Jaxx’s Point Of View

The air in the study hung stagnant, thick with the smell of old paper and the heavy, metallic tang of power my grandfather had wielded for decades. I stood with my hand on the brass handle, knuckles white, jaw clenched tight enough to crack a tooth. Every object in that room seemed to watch me... the leather-bound ledgers, the oil portraits of dead Morettis, the heavy drapes that never quite let in enough light.

This was a room built to intimidate, and even now, it worked on me the way it worked on everyone who crossed its threshold.

I’d just declared war on my own blood... or at least the bastard version of it that walked around calling himself Graham.

"Let him come," I repeated, my voice dropping into that hollow, jagged tone that usually preceded someone’s last breath. "He had his chance. He didn’t know what he had." The words tasted bitter on my tongue. "Graham doesn’t deserve her. He never did."

I started to turn the handle, desperate to escape to the only room in this house that didn’t feel like a tomb, when the old man’s voice sliced through the silence like piano wire.

"If Graham doesn’t deserve her... then do you, Jaxx?"

The question struck me like a physical blow to the solar plexus. I froze, feet rooted to the Persian rug beneath me. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner suddenly transformed into a countdown, each second marking off my failures, cataloging every mistake I’d ever made. I could hear my own pulse in my ears, loud and accusing, as if my body had joined the old man in his interrogation.

"Do you deserve that woman?" he pressed, his voice stripped of its earlier rage, replaced by a quiet, clinical curiosity that somehow cut deeper. It was the tone he used when dissecting a business rival’s weaknesses, when identifying the exact point where a man could be broken. I’d heard that tone directed at others my entire life. I’d never once imagined it turned on me.

I didn’t answer immediately. Couldn’t. My throat had closed up, words dying before they could form. Images flashed behind my eyelids... Elena laughing at something I’d said, her eyes crinkling at the corners, that genuine joy I’d never seen her show anyone else.

The way she looked in the morning light, all soft edges and warm skin, her hair spilling across my pillow like dark silk. The way she’d screamed my name last night, her fingers digging into my shoulders like she was afraid I’d disappear, like I was the only solid thing in her world. I held onto that memory the way a drowning man holds onto driftwood, letting it keep me afloat against the current of my grandfather’s scrutiny.

God, the way she’d looked at me afterward, vulnerable and trusting and so fucking beautiful it hurt. I hadn’t known what to do with that look. Nobody had ever trusted me with something so fragile before, and the responsibility of it terrified me more than any rival ever had.

Then came the darker memories, the ones I tried to bury under layers of justification and time. High school. Those endless hallways where I’d been the predator and she’d been the girl who just wanted to exist without being noticed. The cruel things I’d said to her back then, words designed to wound, calculated to hit exactly where she was most fragile. The way I’d watched her cry and felt a twisted sense of triumph because I didn’t know how to handle the fact that she was the only thing I couldn’t control, couldn’t possess, couldn’t break.

I’d been a monster to her. A fucking monster. I could still hear the way her voice used to shake when she spoke to me, could still see the way she’d flinch whenever I came too close. I’d done that to her. I’d carved that fear into her with my own hands and called it power.

The realization that I’d wanted her even then... and hated myself for it, still burned like acid in my chest. I’d tortured her because I couldn’t have her, because she represented everything I couldn’t understand: kindness, softness, genuine emotion. Everything the Moretti world had beaten out of me before I’d even had a chance to develop it. Maybe that was the cruelest irony of all... that I’d punished her for possessing the very things I secretly craved.

My hand tightened around the handle until the metal bit into my palm, the pain grounding me, anchoring me to this moment. I turned back to face him, head bowed, my shadow stretching long and distorted across the floor like a dark prophecy of what I’d become.

"No," I said, the word barely a whisper, raw and ugly and true. "I don’t deserve her."

The admission felt like ripping open an old wound, exposing something I’d kept carefully hidden even from myself. It felt like standing naked in front of a firing squad, waiting for the bullets to tear through flesh and bone. I waited for him to agree, to confirm the verdict I’d already passed on myself a thousand times in the privacy of my own mind.

Pops stared at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable, those sharp eyes searching my face for something. Truth, maybe. Weakness. Strength. I couldn’t tell anymore. Then he did something I didn’t expect. He shook his head and let out a dry, raspy chuckle that held no humor, just a bitter acknowledgment of something only he understood.

"Young people these days," he muttered, moving away from the window. He crossed the room toward me, his gait slow but steady, each step deliberate, measured. The man never wasted a single movement, never showed his hand until he was ready. When he reached me, he stood right in my space, close enough that I could see the lines etched deep around his eyes... lines carved by years of making impossible choices, of sacrificing pieces of his soul for the family. For a moment, I saw not the Don, but simply an old man who had buried more than he’d ever admit.

He reached up, his weathered hand gripping my shoulder with a strength that reminded me he was still the head of the Moretti line, still the man who’d built an empire on blood and will. His fingers dug in, not painfully, but firmly enough to command my full attention.

"Then why are you so fixated on her, Jaxx? Why risk the peace for a woman you claim you aren’t worthy of?"

"I’m not just fixated on her, Pops," I snapped, meeting his penetrating stare. The words emerged sharper than intended, but I couldn’t hold them back. Heat crept up my neck as I forced myself to continue. "I know I’m not a saint. I’ve never claimed to be one. I’m far from perfect... hell, I’m no match for her."

My throat tightened as the truth spilled out, each word scraping against years of carefully constructed walls. "She’s got a soul that’s still intact, untainted. Mine was signed away before I could even drive, bartered for power and survival in a world that devours innocence."

I shook my head, trying to organize the chaos of thoughts swirling through my mind. My pulse hammered in my temples. The weight of what I was about to say pressed against my chest, threatening to crack ribs. "But I’ve come to realize one thing... one certainty in all this mess. I want to keep her. More than I want the seat at the head of the table. More than I want the Sinclair name erased from the map." I paused, letting the admission hang between us like a confession in church. Saying it aloud made it real in a way I hadn’t expected, as though the words themselves carried weight enough to bend the air around us.

The words felt foreign on my tongue, vulnerable in a way I’d never allowed myself to be. "Though I don’t deserve her now, I’m going to spend every damn day proving how worthy of her I’ll become. I’ll treat her better than anyone else ever could. I’ll build a world around her where she never has to cry again unless it’s because she’s laughing too hard at my expense."

The vision of that future... her smile, her laughter echoing through rooms that had only known violence, made something in my chest ache with longing. I could almost hear it, that sound I’d only caught glimpses of, bright and unguarded. It would be worth everything. I wanted to give her a life so far removed from fear that she’d forget I’d ever been the reason for it.

Pops laughed then... a real, deep belly laugh that shook his frame and filled the study with unexpected warmth. The sound startled me, so out of place in this room where we’d discussed death and territory countless times before. It was the laugh of a man who’d seen this exact scene play out once before, decades ago, from the other side. "You’re a goner, boy. Truly."

My brows furrowed as confusion cut through the tension. "What do you mean by that?"

He shook his head, and his gaze softened in a way that made him look a decade older, more vulnerable. The formidable Don receded, replaced by a father remembering wounds that had never fully healed. Lines of memory creased his weathered face, each one a story of loss. "You remind me of your mother. That was exactly how she used to defend that Sinclair bastard... your father. The passion, the conviction, the stubborn refusal to see reason."

His voice grew quieter, tinged with old pain that still had teeth after all these years. A muscle worked in his jaw. "The only reason that man is still drawing breath today is because she made me promise not to hurt him, even after he broke her heart into pieces too small to count." For a moment, something like grief flickered across his features, there and gone so fast I almost doubted I’d seen it.

My fist clenched at my side, knuckles whitening. The mention of my father sent a familiar, bitter heat through my veins, a rage I’d carried since childhood like a second skin. I’d learned early that some hatreds were inherited, passed down like heirlooms, polished and sharpened with every retelling.

"But you," Pops continued, his grip on my shoulder tightening until I felt the pressure in my bones, his eyes transforming back into the flinty stones of the Don. The vulnerability vanished as if it had never existed. "You have the Moretti blood running through you. As a Moretti, we don’t wait for permission. We don’t ask for what’s ours. We go for what we want, and we hold onto it until our fingers bleed and our enemies fall."

He leaned closer, his breath warm against my face, carrying the scent of expensive whiskey and old cigars. The weight of generations pressed down on me through his hand. "Are you sure she’s who you want? Not as a pawn against Graham, not as a trophy to display, but as your woman? Your equal? Your future?"

The questions hung in the air, demanding absolute honesty. This was the moment that would define everything... my answer would set the course not just for me, but for her, for us, for whatever we might become. I understood, standing there, that there would be no taking the words back once spoken. A Moretti’s word was a blood oath, binding until death.

I didn’t hesitate. I thought of the way her hand felt in mine, small but strong, fitting perfectly as if made for that purpose. I thought of the fire in her eyes when she told me I was a pervert, unafraid despite knowing what I was capable of, what I’d done to men who’d shown me less disrespect.

That fearlessness had undone me. I thought of the way the world felt quiet when she was near, as if all the violence and chaos that defined my existence simply ceased to matter. In her presence, I wasn’t the heir to an empire... I was just a man who wanted to be better. I hadn’t known that version of myself existed until she’d dragged him into the light.

"Yes," I said, my voice as steady as a heartbeat, each word a vow. "She’s the only thing I want. The only thing that matters." The certainty of it settled over me like armor. I’d never been more sure of anything in my life.

Pops nodded, a slow, solemn movement weighted with significance. Something passed between us in that moment... an understanding, a transfer of power, a benediction. He released my shoulder and stepped back, his expression settling into something final and irrevocable. The Don had made his decision, and in our world, such decisions were carved in stone and sealed with blood.

"Then you have my blessing, Jaxx. Bring her into the fold. Make her a Moretti in spirit, if not yet in name." He turned his back to me, returning to his desk with measured steps, each footfall deliberate. But his voice followed me, cold and certain as winter steel, carrying the full weight of his authority. "And if any Sinclair... Graham or otherwise steps in your way to try and take what is yours..."

He paused, and the silence in the room suddenly grew sharp and dangerous, filled with unspoken threats and promises of violence. The air itself seemed to thicken with menace. I could feel the darkness gathering, the same darkness that had built our empire and defended it for generations, waiting patiently for its next command.

"You know what to do."