Jett: DESCENDED, #1

By Dana Pratola

SOME SAY HE'S A CULT LEADER. OTHERS SAY HE'S NOT HUMAN.

Jett Cestone is an enigma with a disconcerting connection to the young women in his employ and Haven is amazed when the reclusive billionaire takes an interest in her artwork and wants her to move in ... but what if her father is right? What if he's dangerous?

Uncovering his startling ties to the women in his house would be bad enough, but Haven would certainly reject him if she learned of his abilities, and that his life is much more paranormal than normal. Too bad he wants her more than he's ever wanted anyone or anything.

 

The DESCENDED SERIES:

Book I: JETT

Book II: SEBASTIAN
Book III: AARO
Book IV: ULRICK

 

What readers are saying about the Descended Series:

"Jane Eyre meets Batman!"

"Romantic Suspense at its finest."

"Who doesn't appreciate inspirational paranormal romance with angels and shapeshifters?"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dana Pratola
• Release date: Feb 29, 2024
• ISBN: 9798201072469

Book preview

PROLOGUE

THE LIGHT WAS NO MATCH for him. He could become one with any light, or shadow, keeping his presence secret for as long as he wished, causing a man to believe his mind was playing tricks. Or he could be the last thing that man saw before he met his Maker. There were prices to be paid for his rare gifts—consequences—but none dissuaded him from his mission. 

Three armed men guarded the corridor, yet he passed room after room unrestrained. The sounds of animal lust pierced his eardrums, the stench of sex invaded his nostrils, and his stomach turned in revulsion. 

He stopped in front of his target, listened. Beyond the door, a girl reluctantly offered her body to a stranger. Had she sounded the least bit enthusiastic, he would have continued on. Her life was her business.

But her voice was cold, her tone flat. She didn’t want to be here. And that made it his business.

Getting to her was easy. Getting her out, another matter. They were on the third floor, and he couldn’t fly. He wasn’t some kind of superhero. But he had to act now, before what was going to happen happened.

A door opened behind him and he glanced over his shoulder. A man came out, walked down the hall, and disappeared down the stairs. One guard followed. 

That left two to deal with. His odds might not get better than they were right now. With a thought, he was inside the room. 

Yesterday he’d seen this girl wrangled into the back of a car with several others. The evening’s entertainment for a celebration of debauchery at another exclusive downtown club. Now she sat naked on the edge of the bed as her customer shed his twelve-hundred-dollar jacket, reached for his belt buckle. She made no sound, no move to escape, but her eyes pled for mercy. 

Rage, pure and deliberate, guided him as he stepped behind the man, gripped his head in both hands and snapped his neck with a violent twist. The man fell like a marionette, its strings abruptly snipped.

Don’t scream.

The girl scrambled to the top of the rumpled bed, gripped the headboard with white fingers, and drew her legs in tight, shaking from head to toe. 

D-Don’t hurt me. Her voice was a strangled whisper.

He raised a finger to his lips, remembering too late she couldn’t see it. I won’t hurt you.

Her eyes darted around the room before she tucked her head into her arm and cried, no doubt awaiting her next form of abuse. Apparently, she’d heard such promises before.

I swear I won’t hurt you. I’ve come to take you out of here.

She dared another peek, but saw nothing.

What is your name? he asked.

Diamond.

Diamond, you must trust me.

Why can’t I see you?

Her shaky voice told him she wanted to trust him, but at present, he could not earn that trust by showing himself. You will see me later. Right now, do as I say.

Believing him was her only option, really. She nodded.

Short of killing everyone, he would have to create a diversion. He had just the thing. Simple.

I’m going to take your hand.

The girl lifted fear-filled blue eyes and shook her head. You have to get my sister, too!

Quiet.

Sister? Was she kidding? 

Diamond moved to the center of the bed. I won’t leave without her. 

Unreal. How was he to get two girls out unnoticed? Where is she?

First room near the top of the stairs, on the left, she said. Her name is Goldie.

His teeth ground at the relief in her voice. It was too soon for that.

I’ll be right back.

He watched her face when she glanced at the body on the floor, on the verge of hysteria, but she would probably hold it together. She’d better. 

In an instant, he was back in the hall. A guard stood by Goldie’s door, checking his watch, unaware that an intruder had passed mere inches away. Inside the room, a man sprawled naked across the bed, hands folded beneath his head. A naked girl came out of the bathroom and approached.

Stay there.

Both parties looked around to see where the voice had come from. Before the man could get off the bed, his neck twisted and cracked in the same manner as Diamond’s customer. Unlike Diamond, this girl opened her mouth to scream.

Shut up! He covered her mouth with his hand. We’re leaving here. Your sister is waiting for you.

It didn’t matter that she couldn’t see him. Goldie swung toward his voice, wrapped her arms around his invisible form, and sobbed into his chest.

He gave that about three seconds, then took her by the shoulders. Put something on. Quick.

She grabbed the white satin robe at the foot of the bed.

Do you know what room your sister is in? he asked. She nodded vehemently. When I tell you, run to her room and stay there.

With that, he was back in the hall.

Diversion ... diversion.... Only one came to mind. He grabbed the guard in front of the door, shoved him to the end of the hallway and through the window. Crude, but it would draw everyone’s attention.

When the other men ran to the window, he went back for Goldie.

Now! 

She tore off to Diamond’s room and slammed the door behind her. Inside, the girls clung desperately to one another. 

What’s going on? Goldie stared at the body. 

We’re being rescued, Diamond answered. Don’t ask a lot of questions! Just do what he tells you!

Good advice, their rescuer said. We’re going to walk right out the front door. Understood?

What? both girls asked in unison. 

We can’t! Still clutching her sister, Goldie moved them both closer to where the voice seemed to come from.

The back exit is no longer an option, he replied. By now, everyone in the building was staring at a blot in the rear alley. I’ll be right there with you.

He went into the hall to clear the way. It would only be a matter of moments before someone came to gather the girls. Couldn’t very well have a bunch of captives around while the building swarmed with police investigating a murder-suicide.

No one was in sight, here or on the staircase leading to the main lobby. None of the other occupants seemed to know or care what was going on. He opened the door, and two seconds later the girls were running, the hems of their matching robes flying in the breeze.

He remedied the one locked door at the bottom of the stairs in short order, but the larger door leading to the main lobby would be more difficult to breach. Two armed thugs stood guard, and from their casual stances, they had no idea what had happened upstairs. They came to attention when they spotted the girls.

The girls stopped, but invisible hands and a whispered command nudged them on. No matter what they say or do, keep walking.

Where do you think you’re going? one goon demanded.

The girls looked at each other, but went forward. 

Get back upstairs! the other guard ordered. 

He took a menacing step, only to crumple when his leg snapped under him at a distorted angle. Screaming and clutching his knee with both hands, he was relieved of his holstered pistol.

Before his partner could reach for his own weapon, it, too, was removed for him. The butt of the gun swung across his face, and he hit the wall amidst a spray of blood and teeth.

Lips trembling, eyes huge and round, the girls watched the guns float toward them.

Hold these on them.

They obeyed, and with shaking hands, took the weapons.

I don’t want to get shot, so keep your finger off the trigger unless they try to get up or call out.

He riffled through the men’s pockets and recovered a key. In a matter of moments, he dashed the girls across the bustling Seattle street and around the corner to the safety of a waiting car. 

But not before turning back to see a man at the top of the stairs. He recognized him instantly.

His next target.

CHAPTER 1 ~ One Year Later

HAVEN PLUNKED HER BRUSH in a jar of cleaning solution and took a fresh brush from a hanging tray beside the easel. Humming to a classic Luther Vandross hit, she dipped the tip in Thalo blue and signed the painting discreetly in the bottom right corner, then stepped back to examine the results.

In the foreground, a little blonde girl in a pale green dress sat on an embroidered parlor chair. The far left of the painting offered a peek into a sumptuous ballroom where a wedding reception was in full swing, with grownups looking on as the bride and groom danced beneath twinkling lights. But the girl was more interested in practicing the newly acquired skill of tying her shoes. 

Sometimes Haven had an idea that needed to be set on canvas, and the name simply made sense. Often, the lines or movements gave her the title as she worked. At other times, she would take one look at a finished piece and know beyond doubt she couldn’t name it anything else. Such was the case here.

She smiled, satisfied that Innocence was going to look perfect in her new niece’s bedroom. The fact that her niece had yet to be born, or that her sister-in-law Caroline hadn’t announced her pregnancy, didn’t matter. From the minute Caroline confided her suspicion that she was pregnant, Haven was definite it would be another girl, a sister, for four-year-old Mari. 

Finished now, and able to view the scene more objectively, it was uncanny how much the child resembled Mari. Haven was musing over how often her life bled into her art when the phone rang. 

Hello?

Good morning, May I speak with Haven Silano, please?

This is she. Haven didn’t recognize the female voice.

I have a call from Jett Cestone. Please hold.

Haven stared at the phone in her hand. Anyone with access to the outside world knew the name. Jett Cestone was a financial and technological wizard, perhaps better known than the President and certainly more respected. Global News estimated his worth at almost a hundred billion dollars, and some bandied about as absolute truth that he was deeply involved in the development of government spyware. She didn’t have an interest in shoe phones or pen guns, but some said Jett-Way Corporation would one day rule the world.

Because he guarded his privacy viciously, and supposedly rarely appeared in public, even for business, gossip mills ran day and night, grinding out news of the enigmatic magnate, who, some regarded as myth. Sort of like Bigfoot.

She had only to look at the newspaper covering the floor beneath her easel to find an item speculating whether the elusive billionaire had mob ties, or controlled an underground cult. Right beside it, another article claimed recent advances in fuel alternatives and genetic research, due in part to enormous donations from a single source, believed to be Jett Cestone.

Popular opinion painted the tycoon as exceptionally generous. Some said he wasn’t human.

Haven nibbled her bottom lip. Why would he be calling her? It had to be one of those recordings, like a political candidate calling voters with last-minute promises. Maybe he was running for public office or having a fundraiser.

That made sense. Except the woman asked for her by name. And he was coming on the line. She fought the urge to clear her throat, and barely had time to worry over what to say, before a deep male voice flowed into her ear. 

Hello, Miss Silano. I hope I’m not disturbing you this early.

There was an accent, but she couldn’t place it. She’d never heard mention of his heritage. Come to think of it, she’d seen only a few pictures of him, and those from a distance and a little grainy. For such a well-known figure, that alone was peculiar. 

No—no. She cleared her throat. You’re not disturbing me. She swallowed. Can I help you?

I hope you’ll consider it. I have a proposition.

Her hands fumbled the phone as she brushed hair from her face and tried to rub any residual sleep from her eyes. Not that he could see her. A proposition?

I realize this comes out of the blue, but my grandmother, Olivia, is an admirer of yours.

Haven wasn’t certain she heard right for the whooshing of blood in her ears. Your grandmother? Her voice cracked. Are you sure you have the right—

Yes. She found one of your paintings in a consignment shop. I don’t know how it, or she, ended up there.

It’s my aunt’s shop. Haven was too astounded to take offense at the way he’d enunciated the word consignment. "It’s Victorious. In oil."

It was one of her favorites, portraying the discovery of Jesus’ empty tomb by disciples Peter and John. When Aunt Judith had prodded her to start selling her work, Haven had stuck a hundred-dollar sticker on it as a joke and told her to bring it to her shop just to see what happens.

She was taken with the piece and bought it, Jett said. I can see why.

He paused as if waiting for her to speak. She couldn’t.

It’s stunning, he continued.

She needed air. Thank you. The sound of her voice made her aware of how long it had been since she’d last spoken. The man must think her an empty-headed twit. You’re very kind.

Kind has nothing to do with it, he said. If you make use of a particular talent, and you’re good at it, you’ve earned the credit.

The imperious undertone, even in the form of a compliment, told Haven he was a man accustomed to being agreed with. She went to the window and threw it open, welcoming in the thirty-degree air. 

Well, thank you anyway. She lowered herself onto the homemade window seat.

My grandmother’s seventieth birthday is approaching, and she’s requested something special. I would like to meet with you to discuss it. 

You want to meet? With me?

Haven’s head reeled, trying to process this information. Jett Cestone’s grandmother was an admirer of hers. Of hers! And he wanted to meet with her!

It’s obvious you don’t have someone guiding your career, so yes, with you, he replied with a hint of impatience. Are you free for lunch today?

Fueled by a mixture of excitement and apprehension, blood surged through her veins like a tidal wave. Um, sure. She swallowed, forcing words through her lips without thinking of what she was saying. Yes, I’m free.

Excellent. I’ll send a car for you around one. You’ll dine at my home.

He lived around here? In driving distance? You don’t have to send a car. We can meet somewhere.

That won’t do.

She sighed. Right. Doesn’t go out in public. Okay, give me the address, she suggested.

I’m afraid I’ll have to insist on sending a car, Jett said, his tone clearly displeased.

Haven paused. This situation was already bizarre. Did he really expect her to go to his house—a man who seemed to make it his business to remain a mystery—with no means of escape should she need one?

Excuse me if I’m being rude, Mr. Cestone, but that arrangement makes me uncomfortable.

I expected as much, but it’s the way I do things. My wishes, my rules, your benefit.

She was glad he couldn’t see her mouth fall open or the way it closed and opened again like a guppy’s. She didn’t care how powerful he was, she should hang up on him. But she couldn’t bring herself to push the button, not on this kind of opportunity.

Then again....

I don’t even know if you are who you say you are. 

Even if he was, he could be a serial killer for all anyone knew of him.

I’ll have to ask you to trust me.

Trust him? Can I bring a friend?

He groaned, agitated. Miss Silano, I don’t have time for childish fears or—

Childish? she interrupted. I don’t think uneasiness about being taken to a strange man’s home— 

If you’d rather not come, fine. I can’t say I agree with your willingness to live in obscurity for the rest of your life, but the decision is yours.

She didn’t reply simply because she couldn’t think of anything to say. 

But, if you shore up your courage, he began, and get into the back of my car at one o’clock, you must understand that you are to keep this between us for the time being. I promise no harm will befall you, and I’ll not keep you any longer than you wish to stay.

Hearing him speak her thoughts made her wonder if she was being childish. The circumstances weren’t ideal, but she would be insane not to at least meet and hear him out. 

Okay. No problem. Breathing presented a problem just then, but she would have to walk it off.

Very good. He sounded like a satisfied father reading a passing report card. If it isn’t an imposition, I’ll ask you to bring a few more samples of your work. To be sure the first wasn’t a fluke. I look forward to meeting you.

With that, he hung up.

Haven was thankful to be denied the chance to sputter like a fool. A fluke? She could draw before she could read, paint before she could write, and while she by no means considered herself a master, she was aware of her talent.

Trying to be indignant, Haven folded her arms against the icy morning air and tapped her foot, but she couldn’t build a good mad through the excitement. This could be the break every artist dreamed of! If she blew it, it could be the last.

More than anything she wanted her work seen and appreciated, but so far only Victorious had been sold. She’d gifted the others to friends, or leaned them against a wall somewhere in this house.

A cold gust of wind sent a chill up her spine. She closed the window and flipped through the paintings that rested along two walls, looking for the best cross section of her recent work. She couldn’t take Innocence since it wasn’t dry, so she would take Verge, a colorful landscape, and Showoffs, portraying an elderly couple on roller skates. Perhaps Mr. Cestone had a sense of humor. 

The phone rang again, sending her heart scurrying as she snatched it up. Maybe he’d forgotten something.

Hello?

Her father’s voice boomed in her ear. Where are you? 

Haven sighed and tucked the phone under her chin while she pulled her hair up into an elastic band. I’m home, Dad, you just called me here.

You’re supposed to be here.

She double-checked the time. I’m supposed to be there by nine. It’s eight ten.

Did you forget it’s Tuesday?

Haven thumped her head with her fist. It was her day to bring breakfast. Yes. I’m sorry! 

Well, your brother and I didn’t. We’re starving. Get your tail in gear.

Mr. Cestone’s call had already unsettled her, but the race from home to the diner and then to the job two towns away left Haven anxious and out of breath. How could she tell her father she wouldn’t be working a full day? Without mentioning Jett Cestone?

Her father was typically ill-tempered, and was worse when he hadn’t eaten. She hoped the food would appease him enough to better receive the news.

It was already bound to be a sticky matter once she told him it had to do with her art. The subject always fueled the same argument, initially ignited when she was nine and begged him to enroll her in art classes at the local museum. Art, in Frank Silano’s school of thought, was a hobby, not something to take seriously, and not something to squander money on. Definitely not a career. 

Her father’s words echoed in her mind. Frittering your time painting bowls of fruit will get you nowhere. If you’re going to swing a brush, you might as well get a day’s wage for it.

Haven bit her bottom lip. She could tell him she had a dentist appointment. She hit the gas hard, and by the time she parked behind his red van in front of the client’s Tudor-style house, she needed to sit a moment and take several calming breaths. 

Her brother, Marcus, was already on a ladder cutting in the dining room ceiling with white paint. He descended when she set the bags and cup holder on a tarp-draped table and removed the Styrofoam-encased orders. 

Sorry I’m late. She offered him a cardboard cup and a shamefaced grin. Where’s Dad?

‘Bout damn time. 

She whirled at the sound of the gruff voice. Her father glared at her as he wiped his hands on a clean yellow rag hanging from his belt loop. Haven held her tongue and handed him his coffee. 

Let’s not make a habit of this, he said. I hope my eggs aren’t sweaty. I hate when the inside of the box gets all steamed up. 

A well-built man of fifty-one, Frank Silano, kept trim and youthful despite his dietary habits, due in part to hard work, but mostly to simple genetics. He weighed the same as he had at twenty-five. 

With a grumble, he unwrapped a plastic knife/fork combo and dug in. Haven tossed her coat aside and sipped her scalding coffee. Gauging his mood was tricky. He seemed in better spirits than expected, but all the same, she would be careful how she handled the subject of taking the afternoon off. 

The homeowner, a woman in her forties with a Cleopatra hairstyle and a heavy hand with the perfume bottle, waved goodbye and left through the kitchen door, trusting her room would be moss green and eggshell white by the time she came home from work. Without waiting for the men to finish eating, Haven climbed the ladder and started in where Marcus left off. If she was only putting in half a day, she was going to do her share.

Missed a spot, Marcus said. 

Haven followed his direction and dabbed her brush at a shadow. 

Eggs were sweaty, but the sausage was better than usual. Thanks. Her father patted her calf and moved off to roll paint on the wall.

Now that he was more agreeable, Haven thought it best to get it over with. Dad, I have an appointment this afternoon, so I’m going to have to leave here around noon, okay?

He loaded the roller with paint and rolled it back and forth across the shallow end of the pan. Doctor appointment? What’s wrong?

No, it’s nothing. It would be so much easier if she could lie, but she wasn’t skilled at it and could never outlast the guilt, so always ended up confessing. It’s personal.

Both men turned. Her brother’s eyes were curious. Her father’s suspicious.

Someone wants to talk to me about my painting.

Why would they call you? I’ll give them a price, her father said.

"No, Dad, it’s a personal project. She took a small breath. It’s about my work. My art."

He cocked his head and set the roller in the pan. "A personal project? And who’s the someone? A boyfriend?"

Haven came down off the ladder. "No. Just ... I don’t know him, really. I know of him." Her hands were clammy now. Great.

Marcus stepped up, acting as a buffer, and gave her a lead. So, he wants you to paint a portrait or something....

I’m not sure, she answered. I’m going to meet with him to find out.

This was bad.

Where? her father asked.

And getting worse.

At his home.

Are you nuts? You can’t go to a strange man’s house!

I am. Going, I mean. Haven set her hands on her hips, preparing to square off. This was important to her and with her brother on her side, she felt more confident.

I hate to take Dad’s side, but he has a point. Marcus winced when she aimed betrayed eyes on him.

Haven flung her arms up, then slapped them to her sides. You two treat me like I’m eleven! she scolded her brother, then turned on her father. But I’ve been an adult for some time. So I’ll do my share of the work, but I’m leaving at noon. 

Then we’re going with you, her father said.

No, you’re not.

Her gaze clashed with his in a battle of wills. She hadn’t intended it to go this way, but she was grown, and while he didn’t have to like it, he’d have to accept it. And if she wanted to fritter her time away dabbing pictures on a square of canvas, he would deal with that, too.

How do you know he isn’t some kind of nut? her father demanded.

Where does he live? Marcus asked.

Because she didn’t have answers, she huffed and stomped across the room. I can take care of myself.

You didn’t answer the question. Marcus’ blue eyes narrowed.

Look, he called me and said his grandmother bought one of my paintings—

His grandmother. And you buy that?

"And, she stressed, plodding through her brother’s interruption, he wants to discuss having me do a piece for her seventieth birthday." She hoped she hadn’t told them too much already.

And because it’s your artwork, you’re all gung ho, her father said.

Haven’s ears burned with rage and humiliation. There you go....

Her father raised a staying hand before she could walk away. If this was about painting a kitchen or putting up dry wall, would you be going to a stranger’s house, alone?

Yes, I’ve gone to clients’ homes alone.

But it’s never sneaky. We always know where and when.

Okay, I’ll give you that. Fury