Chapter Twenty-Eight
Jaxon
Sometimes the most obvious answer is the hardest one to come up with.
It took me too long to figure out that the answer to my problems is a private investigator.
I’d considered going to my father again, even contemplated begging, but I knew it would get me nowhere. He’s a stubborn motherfucker.
After another meeting with Vincent where he threatened more than last time, and a meet up with Orville that got me nowhere, I realized I was on my own.
And after a simple internet search of how do you find someone who doesn’t want to be found?
came up with a few names, I realized that I’m a fucking idiot and I’ve been doing this all wrong.
Relying on others, on those close to me who aren’t being paid, is dumb.
Money talks. Money gets shit done. I know this, and yet… I don’t know what happened.
So now I’m sitting in the dark corner of a coffee shop three towns over, waiting for Harvey St. Aubyn.
The coffee is expensive and tastes like water, but I sip it as the time passes because there’s nothing else to do.
He’s seven minutes late, and if he isn’t here in three, I’m going to leave and report the transaction so I get my money back.
When we spoke on the phone earlier, he said he had information for me and it was imperative that we meet. He sounded nervous, so I took him seriously.
I’m literally pushing up from my seat to leave when he rushes in, hat pulled down over his head, collar pulled up. He looks up once before bee-lining it toward me, and dropping into the chair across from me.
“You’re late.”
“On purpose.”
“Why?”
He clears his throat as he scoots his chair in, resting his hands on the table. I can hardly see his face.
“Your mother is caught up with a very dangerous family.”
“My family is the dangerous family,” I say in a bored tone.
“No,” he says firmly. “This family is worse.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Have you heard of the Marcellos?”
“The who?” I hiss.
He exhales, then explains, “They’ve been running the West Coast under different fronts for decades. Drugs. Arms. Debt collection that ends with people disappearing. So bad even the FBI won’t mess with them.”
I raise a brow, feeling like he’s being dramatic. He keeps going.
“Your mother didn’t just cross paths with them—she’s in with them.”
“In?”
“Yes,” he says quietly, looking around. “And if they know I’m digging into them, I won’t be breathing for much longer. I’m sorry, but I’m done.”
“Whoa, hold on,” I say as he jerks up to his feet.
“I’m sorry, no.” He shakes his head firmly as he walks away. He stops, turns around, and quickly walks back to me. “Fionn Fitzpatrick.”
“Who the fuck is that?” I ask louder than I should, as he rushes toward the door.
The woman behind the counter is watching me with a sour look, and I’m grateful there’s no one else in here. I pick up my coffee and drop it into the trash by the pastry case.
“Your coffee tastes like shit,” I say as I walk out.
The rain is coming down hard as I make my way to my car. I sit for a minute, waiting for it to heat up before I turn it on and head home.
I thought I had the answer to my problem, but as usual, I was fucking wrong.
I search for the name the PI gave me before he walked out, but nothing comes up.
Absolutely nothing—not even social media pages, which is fucking weird.
How does no one in the world have that name?
Doesn’t make any fucking sense. And why would he give me the name of someone who doesn’t exist? Or, at the very least, can’t be found?
Maybe that means he’s the person I need, but then how do I get to him?
Well, turns out I don’t need to get to him.
Because he will get to me.
I wake up well past the time I need, and decide class isn’t happening to today. As I usually do, I grab my phone and open the feed to Sailor’s house. She’s already up and eating breakfast, Amelia across from her.
I’ve made sure not to watch the feed on Friday nights, when she has girl night with Amelia. I want to give her some privacy, and that’s the time she gets. All the rest of it is mine.
I watch for a few more moments before shutting it off and getting out of bed to go to the bathroom. I make it one foot out of my room and jerk to a stop when I see a massive guy sitting on my couch.
“You sleep too much,” he says with a thick Irish accent.
“Who the fuck are you?” I bark, my body tensing, readying for a fight.
“The guy you were looking for, it seems.” He gets up and turns to face me.
He’s got a few inches on me, and at least fifty pounds.
His hair is brown, but with a reddish tint.
Light freckles along his cheeks, and his skin is fair.
His nose looks like it’s been broken a few times and there’s a deep scar over the left side of his top lip. “Name’s Fionn.”
Normally I’m more on my game, but this is throwing me and I can’t think straight.
“How the fuck did you get in here?” is what comes out of my mouth.
“Picking locks is child’s play.” He shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You were looking for me?”
“How the fuck do you know that?”
“I know what I need to know. Who gave you my name?”
Narrowing my eyes, I take him in. I don’t like the fact he let himself into my apartment. I have no idea how long he’s been in here, while I slept, and that pisses me off and freaks me out more than it should. Maybe I should take it easy on Sailor?
Yeah, no… fuck that.
"I don’t know who the fuck you are, but if you don’t get out of my face in three seconds, you will no longer have eyeballs to see with.”
The man’s eyes narrow, and then his face splits into a grin.
He points at me with a thick finger and starts to laugh. “I had a feeling I was going to like you.”
“I don’t know what you’re finding funny here,” I growl.
His laughing stops, but he’s still smiling at me like I’m a cute puppy. And I don’t fucking like it.
“How about you just tell me why you were looking for me, yeah?”
I was looking for him, and I’m all out of ideas. I don’t know what else to do. It’s not just my life on the line, but Sailor’s. I thought this was all done, thought since my mother was gone it would be the end of it. But fucking Vincent.
Fuck him so fucking hard.
“My mother is mixed up with the Marcellos,” I admit.
His brows shoot up, lips turning to a little O as he lets out a disappointing whistle.
“Best you get her funeral taken care of now, lad.”
“No, not like that. I need her dead.”
“Leave her with them and it’ll happen.”
“I think she’s working with them.”
“Who told you that?”
“Harvey St. Aubyn.”
“Ah…” He nods. “Well, me being here makes sense then.” He moves back to the couch and sits. “Tell me what’s going on and I’ll see if I can help.”
“Just like that?” I ask.
I know this doesn’t work that way. We don’t just sit down and have conversations.
“Aye. Just like that.”
He sounds honest, and I’m at the end of my rope. So I sit on the coffee table in front of him and unload.