Chapter 116 The King of Hearts
Jade's POV:
I leaned against my doorframe, studying Ethan's face as he stood on my porch. The night air felt cool against my skin, a welcome relief after the day's lingering heat. A distinct, rich tobacco scent wafted between us.
"You do smoke," I observed, wrinkling my nose slightly. "Just not cigarettes. Cuban?"
Ethan didn't confirm or deny.
"I can smell it on you," I added. "Dominican Republic. Monte Cristo, if I had to guess. The spicy undertones give it away."
Instead of addressing my observation, Ethan met my gaze directly. "What can I do for you, Jade?"
Our eyes locked. His stare was intense, almost burning with an emotion I couldn't quite place—or perhaps didn't want to acknowledge. I kept my own expression carefully neutral, my eyes deliberately cold.
"Nothing," I replied. "I don't need anything from you."
"You had me clean up a body just hours ago." His voice was matter-of-fact, not accusatory.
"That was a one-time thing." I crossed my arms. "The Shadow Organization and I have unfinished business. I won't rest until either they're destroyed or I am."
Ethan's jaw tightened imperceptibly. "I can help with that."
"This isn't your fight." My voice was firm. "I can handle it myself."
"I have resources beyond just disposing of bodies, you know." His voice was low, controlled. "Connections, information, protection—"
"Thank you for the offer," I cut him off, my tone polite but final. "But I've got this covered."
Ethan studied my face for a long moment, his eyes tracing the contours of my features as if memorizing them. "You should consider staying in the dorms for a while. Or at my place. The Shadow Organization clearly knows where you live."
I shook my head, feeling the weight of my decision. "I'm not hiding. That just wastes time I could be using to hunt them down."
"It's not hiding—it's strategic withdrawal."
"I know the Shadow Organization inside and out," I insisted, a hard edge creeping into my voice. "I won't make a move unless I'm absolutely certain of success."
Ethan's expression darkened. "These are professional killers we're talking about. Not those untrained mercenaries in Venezuela with more machismo than brains."
"I'm well aware." My lips curved into a cold smile. "Trust me, I don't plan on dying anytime soon."
"Does Chris know about this?" Ethan asked suddenly.
I nodded. "He knows. He trusts me to handle it."
The silence between us stretched, filled with unspoken tension. A car passed by on the street, its headlights briefly illuminating our faces.
"Fine," Ethan finally said. "But be careful." He turned to leave, then paused. "And Jade? My offer stands."
I watched him walk away, my expression revealing nothing even as my mind calculated my next moves. The Shadow Organization had made their first move. Now it was my turn.
---
The next morning, my mansion showed no trace of the violent encounter that had occurred there. The carpet had been replaced, the walls repainted, the furniture either repaired or exchanged for identical pieces. Ethan's cleanup crew had been thorough.
I sat cross-legged on my bed, laptop balanced on my knees. My fingers flew across the keyboard as I bypassed the security on the New York residential database. I had a name to find.
"King of Hearts," I murmured to myself. The Shadow Organization's leadership structure was based on a deck of cards—and I needed to locate one of the highest-ranking members.
After an hour of searching through tax records, property deeds, and social security databases, I found him: Warren Mitchell, philanthropist and respected member of New York's elite social circle. His new identity was impeccable, with no visible connections to his past life. To the world, he was just another wealthy businessman with a generous charitable foundation.
I dug deeper, scanning financial records and cross-referencing data points. Warren Mitchell had appeared in New York society circles one years ago, around the same time the King of Hearts had supposedly "retired" from the Shadow Organization. But I knew better. No one truly retired from the Organization; they just changed their operating parameters.
I pulled up his social media profiles, noting his Upper East Side address and upcoming events. Photos showed him shaking hands with politicians, cutting ribbons at hospital wings named after him, standing proudly beside oversized donation checks. The perfect cover.
A smirk crossed my face when I spotted a charity auction scheduled at his home in two days.
---
Two days later, I watched a parade of luxury vehicles—Bentleys, Rolls-Royces, and Maybachs—line the street outside Warren Mitchell's Upper East Side mansion. Men in tailored tuxedos and women draped in designer gowns and glittering jewels stepped out, greeted by an army of valets and security personnel.
My Uber—a modest Toyota Camry—pulled up behind a gleaming Lamborghini. I stepped out, aware that I looked oddly out of place in my simple black dress and minimal jewelry. The security guards exchanged glances as I approached, taking in my unremarkable appearance with barely concealed suspicion.
The October evening air carried the scent of expensive perfumes and the gentle murmur of privileged conversation. Spotlights illuminated the mansion's facade, highlighting its classical architecture and manicured grounds. I took a mental note of every security camera, every guard, and every potential exit route.
"Invitation, please," the guard at the entrance requested, his tone suggesting he doubted I had one.
I handed over a perfectly forged invitation. The guard examined it carefully, checking my name against the guest list. His eyebrows rose slightly when he found it.
"Welcome, Miss Morgan. Please, go right in." The surprise in his voice was evident.
As I entered the opulent foyer, I scanned the room with practiced efficiency. Two exits beyond the main entrance. Three visible security cameras. At least four plainclothes security personnel mingling with the guests, identifiable by their alert postures and strategic positions.
My attention drawn to the wall of framed certificates and photos documenting Warren Mitchell's charitable contributions. A cold smile touched my lips as I studied the face of the man who had once been known as the King of Hearts—one of the Shadow Organization's most ruthless operators. The same man who had overseen countless assassinations and disappearances now smiled benevolently from photos where he handed out food to the homeless.
"Miss Morgan?" a familiar voice called from behind me.
I turned to find Alexander Haxton approaching, Connor Haxton a few steps behind him. Both men looked surprised to see me. Alexander wore a perfectly tailored tuxedo that emphasized his athletic build, while Connor's more conservative suit marked him clearly as security rather than a guest.
"Alexander," I acknowledged with a slight nod. "What a coincidence."
"I didn't know you'd be here," Alexander said, genuine joy in his voice.
"Where is your uncle?"
Alexander shook his head. "Uncle Ethan avoids these kinds of functions whenever possible. Says they're a waste of time—just rich people patting themselves on the back while writing tax-deductible checks."
Connor cleared his throat. "Miss Morgan, you do realize this is a charity auction, right?"
Behind his carefully neutral expression, I could tell he was remembering the bloody scene in my mansion just days ago. The contrast between that violence and my calm presence here clearly unsettled him.
"I'm here to support a good cause," I replied with a thin smile.
Alexander's face brightened. "That's very admirable of you. Would you like to join us? I can introduce you to some interesting people." He offered his arm with the practiced ease of someone raised in high society.
"Lead the way," I agreed, my eyes briefly returning to Warren Mitchell's photo on the wall.