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A
<b>92 </b>
Jade’s POV:
“Dad, I’m heading back now.” Catherine Sullivan’s voice carried a hint of tension as she leaned close to her father’s ear. The charity auction had just concluded, and guests were beginning to mingle throughout Warren Mitchell’s grand ballroom.
Her father’s expression darkened, jaw tightening with obvious displeasure. He said something to his daughter before turning to his assistant and speaking briefly. The assistant nodded with a professional smile as Mr. Sullivan quickly gathered his things.
I watched them both depart, one after the other.
“Aren’t you leaving?” I asked Ethan, who remained seated beside me while others began rising from their chairs.
His eyes–calcting and intense–didn’t leave my face. “Are you?”
“Not yet.” I nced toward Warren Mitchell, who was engaged in animated conversation with several well–dressed patrons near the stage. “Your phnthropist friend seems quite popr.”
Ethan followed my gaze. “Mitchell? He’s rtively new to the New York charity circuit.”
“Perhaps you should go introduce yourself,” I suggested. “After all, Alexander seems to admire him.”
A flicker of understanding crossed Ethan’s face. “And would you like to join me for this introduction?”
“Absolutely.”
Ethan’s mouth curved into a subtle smile. “Using me as your social passport again, Miss Morgan?”
“You’re an excellent tool when needed,” I replied with a small smirk.
“At least I’m useful.” He rose gracefully, buttoning his jacket. “Shall we?”
We approached Warren Mitchell just as he finished speaking with an elderly couple. His silver hair was immactely styled, his tuxedo perfectly tailored–a far cry from the blood–spattered operative I remembered from my previous life.
“Mr. Mitchell,” Ethan extended his hand. “Ethan Haxton. I believe you’ve met my nephew, Alexander.”
Mitchell’s face brightened. “Mr. Haxton! A pleasure to finally meet you. Yes, Alexander is such a promising young man with great potential.” His handshake was firm, his smile practiced. “And who is this lovelypanion?”
“Jade Morgan,” I introduced myself before Ethan could speak. “Your charity work is truly impressive.”
<b>92 </b>
Mitchell’s eyes–calcting behind their benevolent facade–assessed me carefully. “Thank you, Miss Morgan. I try to give back where I can.”
I noticed a young man hovering nearby, watching our interaction with obvious interest. He was perhaps twenty–two, with dark hair and a lean build. Mitchell caught my nce and beckoned him over.
“This is my son, Danny,” he said proudly. “Danny, meet Mr. Haxton and Miss Morgan.”
I shifted my attention to Danny, noting the slight hesitation before Mitchell had said “son.” “It’s nice to meet you, Danny. Are you involved with your father’s foundation?”
“Stepfather, actually,” Danny corrected with a polite smile. “And yes, I help coordinate some of the smaller charity events.”
I felt Ethan’s energy shift beside me, his breathing pattern changing slightly. He was watching me watch Danny.
“That’s admirable,” I continued, maintaining eye contact with Danny while ignoring Ethan’s growing tension. “You must be proud to be part of such meaningful work.”
Danny brightened. “It’s been life–changing. Warren took me in when I was little. Before that…” He trailed off, shrugging. “Let’s just say my prospects weren’t great.”
“A touching story,” Ethan interjected, his voice carrying a subtle edge. “Your stepfather seems to have many admirable qualities.”
Warren beamed, cing a hand on Danny’s shoulder. “This boy has been a blessing. Sometimes family is who we choose, not just who we’re born to.”
I pulled out my phone. “Danny, I’m actually interested in learning more about your foundation’s work. Would you mind if I contacted you directly? Sometimes these events are too noisy for real conversation.”
Danny’s face lit up. “Of course!” He recited his number, which I dutifully entered into my contacts.
Ethan’s breathing had grown even more controlled–a sign I recognized as carefully managed irritation. Warren Mitchell didn’t miss it either; his eyes flickered between us with shrewd assessment.
After exchanging a few more pleasantries, we excused ourselves. Ethan’s hand found the small of my back as <b>we </b>walked away, his touch firmer than necessary.
“That was productive,” I said once we were out of earshot.
“Was it?” Ethan’s voice had cooled considerably. “I wasn’t aware you were so interested in charity work. Or was it the stepson who caught your attention?”
Connor was waiting for us at the mansion’s entrance, the car already brought around. The night air was crisp against my skin as we stepped outside.
>
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In the back of Ethan’s luxurious car, I scrolled through my phone, looking at the newly acquired contact. Danny Mitchell. My ticket into the King of Hearts‘ inner circle.
“You’re still looking at his number,” Ethan observed, his voice carefully neutral.
Connor, in the driver’s seat, kept his eyes fixed on the road, but I could sense his difort at the tension filling
the vehicle.
“I’m not interested in him,” I said inly, not bothering to look up from my phone.
“Of course not.” Ethan’s tone suggested he believed otherwise. “You just wanted his number to discuss charitable
donations.”
<b>92 </b>
I locked my phone and turned to face him. “Exactly. Is there a problem with that?<b>” </b>
What I couldn’t tell Ethan was that this phone number wasn’t for friendly chats or flirtation. It was for monitoring, tracking, and eventually infiltrating Warren Mitchell’s operation. The King of Hearts had undoubtedly secured his retirement well, establishing a foothold in New York’s elite circles. If he had also taken control of Shadow Organization’s Princeton branch, he would be a formidable obstacle in my ns.
I needed to investigate him thoroughly before making any move. His adopted son was my easiest entry point. I had to work quickly–Shadow Organization would soon discover their assassin had died by my hand. When SPECTER contacted the King of Hearts, my interest in Danny would immediately look suspicious.
“This Warren Mitchell started appearing in New York about fifteen years ago,” Ethan said, interrupting my thoughts. “He was abroad before that. I’ve dealt with him a few times.” He studied my face carefully. “Is there something about
him you’d like to know, Miss Morgan?”
Fifteen years ago? I had known the King of Hearts for twenty years. Before that, he operated primarily in Eastern
Europe.
The car slowed as we approached my house, the headlights illuminating the manicuredwn and elegant facade.
“Would you like toe in for a drink?” I asked Ethan as Connor parked.
Before Ethan could answer, his phone rang. He nced at the screen, a sh of concern crossing his <b>face</b>.
“Excuse me,” he said, answering quickly. “Yes? What’s happened?”
I watched his expression harden, jaw tightening and eyes narrowing.
“How bad? When?‘ His voice had taken on a sharp edge. I’ll be there in an hour.”
He ended the call, already moving. “Connor, New York Memorial Hospital. Now.”
“What’s happened?” I asked, though I’d already guessed from his reaction.
“My father,” Ethan said tersely. “His condition has deteriorated rapidly.”
“I’lle with you,” <b>I </b>said, the decision made before I’d even processed it.
Ethan looked momentarily surprised but nodded. Connor was already restarting the engine.
B
<b>92 </b>
I pushed Ethan toward the car’s interior, sliding in after him. “Go,” I instructed Connor, who immediately pulled away from the curb, tires squealing slightly as we elerated into the night.
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