Chapter 13
Conor
Taylor walks into my office at exactly seven on the dot, not a second early, not a second late, which is something I’ve come to expect from him over the years.
Everyone in my family has an obsession with time, with precision, with respect, and somewhere along the way, Taylor picked it up, too.
Hell, he might be worse than any of us. Military training never really leaves, he told me once.
The thought sticks with me. I wonder if Jaxon is punctual.
“He arrived back home around six,” Taylor says, already moving into his report without wasting time. “Once he was inside his apartment, the men checked the perimeter and cleared out per your instructions.”
I nod once, my attention already shifting, already waiting for what comes next.
“I also found out why he’s being made to fight.”
That gets my full focus. Taylor turns the tablet toward me, angling it so I can see clearly, and the first image that fills the screen is Manny, his arm wrapped in a cast, fingers sticking awkwardly out from the end.
My jaw tightens. Taylor scrolls, then taps the screen, bringing up a video. I hit play.
The footage is grainy, pulled from some security camera, but it’s clear enough.
Manny is front and center. There’s a woman on the ground in front of him, her body curled in on itself, trying to protect what she can, and he’s hitting her.
Again. And again. Something cold settles in my chest. He pulls his arm back for another strike, but the hit never lands.
Jaxon. He comes out of nowhere, barreling into Manny with enough force to send him stumbling back, putting himself between the woman and the next hit without hesitation.
I watch it closely, every detail locking into place.
There’s a flash of metal, quick but unmistakable, and then Manny’s arm bends the wrong way, the angle sharp and unnatural enough that I know immediately what happened. Broken. Clean.
Security swarms in seconds later, flooding the frame, and it takes three of them to bring Jaxon down, even with the numbers against him, even with the situation already lost. He doesn’t go quietly.
He doesn’t go easy. Despite the situation, despite what it’s going to cost him.
I feel it, a sharp, unexpected jolt of pride.
Because he didn’t hesitate, he didn’t walk away.
Now I know exactly why he’s paying for it.
“Thanks, Taylor. I’ll let you know if I need anything else,” I say to him, but my eyes are still on the screen. On the paused image of three men with their hands on Jaxon. On what they shouldn’t be touching.
“One more thing,” Taylor says as he straightens, already halfway to stepping out of the room. I look up, giving him my full attention again, waiting.
“This has been going on for about eight months,” he continues, his tone steady, factual. “But Manny has been out of the country for the last two. Apparently, he’s close to his grandmother back in Italy,” Taylor adds. “She’s dying, so he’s been there handling her affairs.”
I lean back slightly, processing that, fitting it into everything else I’ve learned so far.
“His second, Gabriel Delgado, has been running things in his absence,” he goes on, turning the tablet back toward himself as he speaks. “But I can’t find any communication between him and Henry.” A pause. “I think Henry is operating rogue.”
I nod slowly, the pieces shifting again, settling into something that makes more sense than what I was working with before.
If Manny were directly involved, if this was coming from the top, then forcing Jaxon into fights like that wouldn’t track.
It’s too sloppy and risky in a way that could draw attention.
But Henry? Henry would push too far. Would see an opportunity where he shouldn’t. Would take risks that weren’t his to take. If it’s just him, that changes things. That makes this easier. Because Henry is replaceable and can disappear without causing ripples that matter. A man like Manny cannot.
I let that thought settle, quiet and deliberate, already turning over the next steps in my head. If this really is Henry acting on his own, he just made a very big mistake.
It’s after eleven by the time I finally make it back to my place, the drive out of the city stretching just long enough to let the noise, the tension, and the constant pressure of everything downtown slowly bleed off.
It’s all replaced by something quieter, something steadier that settles deeper the farther I get from it all.
Unlike my brothers and cousin, who chose proximity and convenience, I chose distance, space, and a kind of isolation that most people wouldn’t understand but that I need more than I ever expected to.
Ten acres of manicured lawn sit behind a gated entrance, the entire property fenced and secured in a way that keeps the outside world exactly where it belongs, leaving me with nothing but controlled quiet once I’m inside.
I press the button on my visor, watching as the gate opens slowly. The soft mechanical hum cuts through the stillness before I ease my way forward, guiding the car up the long, paved drive that curves just enough to make the house feel hidden until the last moment.
Out here, everything feels different. The air is cleaner, cooler, untouched by the weight of the city, and the quiet isn’t empty or lonely but deliberate, something chosen rather than forced.
My brothers think I’m crazy for buying this place, for choosing to live out here instead of closer to everything, but they don’t understand what it’s like to spend most of my time surrounded by noise, by people, by constant movement and expectation.
Between the office and then running the club, I need the separation, the stillness. It settles something in me that nothing else can.
The house comes into view as I round the final bend, the modern estate rising out of the darkness in sharp, clean lines, all glass and stone and deliberate design, every angle precise, every detail intentional in a way that mirrors the kind of control I prefer to keep over everything in my life.
Lights glow softly from within, reflecting off the glass and stretching across the lawn.
The indoor-outdoor pool connects seamlessly from the main house into the backyard, extending toward the guest house beyond, creating a cohesive, contained space that feels completely removed from anything outside its boundaries. It’s exactly what I wanted.
I pull into the ten-car garage, the wide space opening up around me as the door lifts, and cut the engine.
But before I can get out of my car, the motion alert that I have in front of Jaxon’s apartment door goes off.
I pull out my phone. If it’s that fucking twat Henry I’m going to find him and relieve him of vital body parts.
I open the app without thinking, expecting the usual, maybe a neighbor getting too close to the sensor, but the second the image loads, my blood goes cold so fast it feels like it stops altogether. I can’t breathe.
Jaxon is crumpled in the hallway outside his door, his body twisted at an angle that immediately tells me something is wrong, something is very wrong, and even through the grainy feed, I can see it. The blood. The bruises are already forming. The way he isn’t moving.
For a second, I just stare, my hand tightening around my phone as everything in me locks up, caught between needing to act and not wanting to look away in case something changes. In case he moves, in case he doesn’t.
I force myself to close the app, even though every instinct in me is screaming not to, and immediately call Taylor. He answers on the second ring.
“Who’s closest to Jaxon’s apartment?” I demand, my voice already tight, controlled by sheer force. “I need someone there now.”
“Me. I’m about ten minutes away from his location,” Taylor replies without hesitation, and I can hear the engine of his car in the background as he’s already moving. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” I snap, already heading back toward putting the key back in the ignition, my pulse hammering. “He’s in the hallway, he’s hurt, and he’s not moving. I’m on my way.”
“No,” Taylor cuts in immediately, his tone firm in a way that tells me he’s not leaving room for argument. “I’ll assess his injuries and call you back. If he needs the ER, I’ll tell you where I’m taking him. If it’s something we can handle, I’ll bring him to you.”
I’m already in the car, already starting it, the engine roaring to life under my hands.
“Give me fifteen minutes,” he adds. “Tops.”
A low growl builds in my chest, frustration and something darker mixing together as I grip the wheel tighter than necessary. I want to be there. No, I need to be there. I need to know who did this.
“Taylor—”
“Fifteen minutes,” he repeats, sharper now. “Let me do my job.”
The line goes quiet for half a second before I force the word out. “Hurry.”
I end the call before I say something else I can’t take back. The car idles in the garage, but I don’t move. Instead, I pull the app back up, my hand not entirely steady as the feed loads again, and my eyes lock onto him immediately. He hasn’t moved. Not even a little.
Something in my chest tightens into something dangerously close to panic.
I’ve never felt anything like it. My thoughts spiral as I watch the screen, willing him to move or show some sign that he’s alive.
I zoom in to see if I can tell if he’s still breathing.
The angle of his body makes it impossible to tell.
I’m so fixated on my screen that it takes me a second to register that Taylor has reached Jaxon.
Taylor places his fingers on his neck. Then he rests his hand on Jaxon’s bare chest. My fingers tighten on the phone so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t crack.
Rationally, I know that Taylor has to touch him, but the irrational side is screaming for him to get his fucking hand off what’s mine.
My brain goes quiet at that last thought. Jaxon is mine. I think I’ve known it for a while, but refused to admit it. I’m not sure why. It makes perfect sense now that I think about it. Why else would he be my fixation?
I answer Taylor’s call.