Chapter 36
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Jackson
“Yo, Jackson.” Someone snaps, a hand entering my line of vision. “Are you awake, man?”
I blink, torn from my thoughts about Ava. I look up to see Lucas standing above me.
“Don’t move,” Ricky, the tattoo artist says, head down, the tattoo gun buzzing steadily against my shoulder blade. “You’ve been zoning out for like twenty minutes. I was starting to think you’d passed out with your eyes open.”
“I’m good,” I mumble.
“You don’t look good.” This from Roman, who’s sprawled in the leather chair next to me, scrolling on his phone. “Looks like you’re having an existential crisis.”
I throw Roman a look, but don’t respond.
Ricky pauses and wipes the excess ink away. “For real though, you sure about this design? We could work it into something else. A skull or snake, maybe.”
I glance at the mirror beside me and catch a glimpse of the tattoo taking shape on my skin. It’s not what most would call conventional. But that’s the point. Ink doesn’t fade the way a bruise does. This is a reminder of what Ava and I had, something that won’t fade or wash away.
“I’m sure,” I answer.
“Alright. We’re almost done, anyway.”
The buzzing resumes, and pull out my phone to check my surveillance app. The feed from Ava’s living room fills the screen—grainy black-and-white, shadows flickering across the frame. At first, I tell myself it’s just a glitch. But then my stomach twists, and my pulse spikes.
There she is.
Sitting in a chair. Wrists bound.
I growl a curse, the sound so raw that Ricky jerks back. “Dude—”
I’m already on my feet, skin burning where the needle just tore through. My phone is crushed in my hand as I stare at the screen. Ava is talking to someone, but there’s no sound, and whoever she’s talking to isn’t in frame.
“Dude, you’re bleeding,” Lucas says.
“Not as bad as they will be.”
I grab my shirt off the couch but don’t bother putting it on. The hum of the tattoo gun fades behind me as I shove through the door, adrenaline roaring in my ears. Lucas and Roman are right behind me.
“What’s going on?” Roman asks, matching my pace.
I don’t answer. I can’t. Rage is a live wire under my skin, buzzing too loud for words. I throw myself into the driver’s seat of my car, and the engine roars awake. Roman and Lucas climb in without hesitation. No questions.
They don’t need to ask.
They’re in it now, my brothers in violence and chaos.
The drive blurs—red lights, traffic, horns. I don’t remember any of it. All I can see is that grainy image of Ava tied up. It’s burned into the inside of my skull.
By the time I reach her building, I’m already in motion. Her front door splinters under my boot, the frame cracking as it flies open. I’m inside in seconds with Lucas and Roman right behind me.
She’s still here, exactly where the feed showed her. Wrists and ankles tied to the chair, eyes wide with fear. When I see her, in that instant, my world narrows to one thought—Whoever touched her is already dead.
Then my eyes land on who’s standing behind her.
My father.
For a second, I think I’m hallucinating. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t even know where Ava lives.
He turns when he hears me, calm as ever, that smirk carved into a face that looks too much like mine. “Jackson,” he says smoothly, like this is a goddamn family reunion.
My eyes sweep the room and land on the last person I expect—Chase.
He’s crammed into the corner of the kitchen, half-hidden behind the counter like that’s gonna make him disappear.
His hands are shaking, his eyes are wide.
He’s doing absolutely nothing. Not standing between Ava and the danger, not even trying. Just hiding. Fucking useless coward.
Then I focus on the man beside my father. One of our own security guys, someone I handpicked. Yates. My stomach twists.
“What the fuck is this?” I bite out.
“Now, son—”
I move toward him before he can finish, because, as it turns out, I don’t give a fuck what he has to say.
Yates steps forward to block me, but I’m already on him.
My fist connects with his jaw, and he’s not expecting it, so he goes down hard.
I follow him down, knee in his chest, pounding until his head hits the kitchen tile and stays there.
The room echoes with the sound of it—bone, breath, blood.
Roman curses behind me. Lucas pulls Ava free, cutting the zip ties with the knife he always carries.
When I finally stand, my chest is heaving, and my knuckles are split, slick with Yates’s blood. My father doesn’t even flinch. He just stands there, watching like this is all a damn spectator sport.
“You’ve always had a temper,” he says lightly, unbothered.
I take a step toward him, my voice low. “What the fuck are you doing with Ava?”
“Saving you from yourself, like I always do.” The moment my father speaks, something shifts. It’s not the words. Not at first. It’s the way he says them. “She’s a liability, Jackson. Always has been.”
His eyes flick to Ava, then back to me. Something cold crawls up my spine. A liability. Always has been. Pieces start clicking into place. The attack at Rush House. The men who came for her. The precision. The planning. It was professional. It was calculated.
My father’s smile is slow, condescending. And suddenly I know.
“You sent those men to Rush House,” I whisper. “You had them attack Ava.”
It’s not a question. It’s an accusation. And from the way his smile doesn’t waver, from the cold calculation in his eyes, I know with cold certainty, I’m right.
He shakes his head with a laugh. “Just sit back, son, and let the grown-ups take care of business.”
I take one step forward. Just one. But it’s enough to make that fucking smirk falter.
Because he knows me. He knows what I’m capable of when pushed.
The bodies I’ve left behind. The wars I’ve started.
The lines I’ve crossed without a second thought.
And right now, I’m not just his son. I’m the monster he helped create.
I can see it in his eyes—he’s afraid.
And he should be.
“Someone at Malibu PD called me,” he says, voice thin. “Ava left a message, said she was ready to talk. And we both know what that means. She was going to tell them what she saw that morning. She was going to turn on you.”
“That’s not true!” she yells from across the room. “I was going to turn myself in.”
My father still believes I’m the one who killed the senator. He has no idea it was actually Ava.
He doesn’t even glance her way. His focus is locked on me. “I had to protect our legacy,” he says. “I had to protect you.”
My voice is raw with rage. “She’s my wife now, which means you can’t touch her. That’s Burning Crown code—violate it and you’re exiled.” My eyes meet his. “Or worse.”
He leans in, something hard glinting in his eyes. “You really think I wouldn’t cover my tracks?” he says, all smug. “Every move went through names and accounts that don’t lead back to me. No fingerprints. Nothing obvious. That’s why I had Yates here—to make him the fall guy if it comes to that.”
His words hit me like a shock of cold water. Names and accounts that don’t lead back to him. Suddenly, I see everything with brutal clarity. My father’s obsession with ancient Rome, his library filled with classical texts, the way he can read and write Latin…
“Aurum Noctis,” I say, the realization spreading ice through my veins. “That was you.”
He shrugs, but doesn’t deny it.
Why the fuck didn’t I see it before?
“Why?” I ask, disgusted.
“‘A prince ought to have no other aim or thought, nor take up any other thing for his study, but war and its organization and discipline…’”
Yeah, it’s a Machiavelli quote. But who the fuck cares about some asshole from five hundred years ago?
“You don’t get to hide behind fucking philosophy,” I grit out. “Why Ava?”
“Ava is your weakness. Your distraction,” he says simply, like that justifies everything. “All I needed was one video showing her compromised. The goal was to humiliate her. To make you pull away.”
Compromised. Assaulted. Raped.
“I didn’t expect you to kill the senator, though,” he continues. “Maybe I should have. Doesn’t matter—it worked. You broke up with Ava. The case went cold…”
Until Shadow and Ash unearthed it and dragged it back into the light.
His eyes meet mine. “When the FBI started talking about reopening the case, I knew I needed to finish what I started. Eliminate the risk.”
“Eliminate,” I repeat, the word heavy on my tongue. “So you sent one of my own security guys to—what? Silence her?”
“Yes,” he says easily. “John warned me what would happen if her testimony reached prosecutors. Your life would be stripped away. So I made arrangements. I took responsibility so you wouldn’t have to.”
I don’t buy his noble act for a second. My father isn’t generous. If he gives a shit, it’s because he’s getting something out of it.
His gaze slides to the floor, then back up to me. “You were always meant for more than her. You can’t lead the Burning Crown with a liability attached to your arm.”
Those words light a fire in me. My pulse roars in my ears, and for a moment I can’t see him, only the wreckage he’s left behind. The senator’s blood. Ava’s silence. Our broken family. Three years of lies.
Behind me, Roman and Lucas don’t move. They don’t have to. They already know how this ends.
I step up to him and repeat Article Three from the Burning Crown Bylaws, slow and even. The rule he etched into my skull. The rule we live and bleed by: “Any member of the Burning Crown who is known to have committed violence against a past or present member…”
My father exhales, like he already knows the rest. “Don’t make me your enemy, Jackson.”
I look him dead in the eye. “It’s about three years too late for that.”
He exhales slowly, almost…annoyed. “I know you’re angry, but you’re still my son.”
I stare at him, at the man who turned me into this. “Not anymore.”
Before I even think, I yank the knife from my waistband and bury it in his throat. The panic in his face lights something sharp and hungry inside me. He claws at my arm, but I don’t let go. I twist until the sound dies. Everything goes quiet except for the hum in my veins.
The rush is ugly and perfect.
Roman swears under his breath. Lucas moves to step forward, then stops. Ava gasps, a broken sound that splits the quiet.
I look down at what I’ve done. My chest heaves. My pulse pounds in my ears. A thick pool of my father’s blood spills onto the tile. He’s looking up at me with a vacant stare. And for the first time in my life, he has finally shut the fuck up.
“Article Three,” I whisper, dropping the knife onto his chest. “Tribunal complete.”