Chapter Thirty
Connor
T he drive to Jax’s was a blur of traffic lights and honking horns as I weaved through the city streets more aggressively. The tires crunched over the crushed shell driveway leading to Jax’s beach house, the sound like bones grinding beneath the weight of what we were about to discuss.
The property was a monstrosity of old money and marble perched on the edge of the Atlantic, all white pillars and gold surfaces that mirrored the storm brewing inside me.
Palm trees bent like supplicants in the coastal wind, their fronds hissing secrets to the tide. I killed the engine, the sudden silence dampened by the crashing waves against the shore.
Sierra’s duffel bag sat in the passenger seat, her home wrapped into one package. The memory of Jerry’s note flared.
‘Why are you ignoring your father, Sierra?’
Adrian's obnoxious lime green Lamborghini was already in the driveway beside me, its finish challenging the fucking sunlight.
My knuckles ached from how hard I'd been clenching them during the drive. I forced myself to breathe through the rage, the familiar coppery taste of violence coating my tongue.
The grand entrance swung open before I reached it, revealing Jax silhouetted against the warm glow of recessed lighting.
“You look like shit,” he said by way of greeting, stepping aside to let me enter.
The air inside smelled like saltwater and money; polished stone floors heated to just the right temperature, and intricate walls hand-carved with art.
“Where's Adrian?” I asked, shrugging off my leather jacket and tossing it over one of the white armchairs that looked more like sculpture than furniture.
“Second floor.” Jax jerked his chin toward the grand staircase that led to the second level of three. “Already tearing into Jerry's financials. Claims he found something interesting.”
Jax led me to the “war room”—a sunken living area walled by floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean. The glass was hurricane-rated, the kind that could withstand a Cat 5 hurricane or bullets.
“Took you long enough,” Adrian muttered without looking up. He had his gear dumped onto a marble table and slapped a manila folder down.
“Our friend Jerry's been a busy little cockroach. Been squatting at an all-inclusive with your million.”
I flipped open the folder. Surveillance photos showed Jerry shuffling across a pool deck, a convenience store bag dangling from his wrist. In one shot, he paused to light a cigarette, the flame illuminating the deep grooves in his face.
He looked like the kind of man you’d pity if you didn’t know the rot festering beneath his skin.
Adrian tapped a key on his laptop, zooming in. “Recognize him?”
The breath left my lungs in a rush. Even after a decade, I'd know that hulking silhouette anywhere—the way he carried himself like a bear trying to walk upright, the distinctive tilt of his head from where I'd shattered his jawbone.
Mason fucking Vogel. My biggest opponent in the underground circuit. The man I'd left choking on his own blood in a San Francisco warehouse. The man in the footage.
“Where was this taken?” My voice came out rough, memories from that time resurfacing. I could still smell the damp concrete of that fighting pit and feel the give of cartilage beneath my fists as Mason's nose crushed under a right hook.
“Outside Sierra's apartment building.” Adrian pulled up another feed, time-stamped from a week ago. Mason and Jerry together under a flickering streetlight, Jerry's rat-like face twisted in a smirk. “Looks like your old pal's been mentoring our neighborhood child abuser.”
The screens blurred as memories crashed over me—Mason's wet laugh echoing off warehouse walls, the way he'd taunted me about slumming it in fights.
“He's working with Jerry? That doesn't make sense. Mason hated nobodies.”
“People change,” Jax said from the doorway, holding two tumblers of scotch.
He handed one to me, the ice cubes clinking.
“Or they get desperate. According to Adrian's deep dive, Vogel's been living off disability checks since you rearranged his face. Chronic pain, addiction issues...” He nodded at the medical records on screen.
“Morphine script big enough to kill a horse.”
Adrian twisted in his seat, eyes gleaming with the thrill of the hunt. “Here's the kicker—Vogel's the one who gave Jerry the warehouse footage. Guess he snuck a camera in the night you fought him. He’s been sitting on it all these years, waiting for the right moment to screw you over.”
The tumbler creaked in my hand. “And he chose now because...”
“Because of her,” Jax finished, pinching his eyebrows.
On the center screen, Adrian pulled up a news article about Sierra’s and my relationship from the conference. “Vogel's been tracking your career. He knows you've got something precious to lose now.”
Mason had videoed that night, he had footage of the animal I became when the adrenaline and rage took over, of how I’d essentially beat him to death .
“Where is he?” The words came out feral, my throat tight with the need to destroy. “I'll tear him apart. Slowly.”
“Already on it.” Adrian tapped another key, bringing up a map with a pulsing red dot. “Tracked his phone to a house near the docks. The place is a maze of old property.”
Jax caught my arm as I turned toward the stairs, already planning on killing Mason for real this time.
“Connor. This is exactly what he wants. You storm in there, kill him, but Jerry still has the footage. He’ll release it.”
I shook him off, my vision tinged red at the edges. “Then I'll make sure he deletes it.”
“Holy shit.” Adrian spun the laptop around to show Jerry and Mason again. “Watch this.”
The screen showed Mason's scarred face leering into a webcam.
“Hello, Connor. Must be nice living the high life, after all, you’re just a street boy.
” His voice was a ruined thing, all rasp and phlegm from years of damaged vocal cords.
“Meet me here tomorrow night for one last fight.
Come alone, or I'll give your little girl a front-row seat to Jerry and the monster you really are.”
The video ended with a glitchy laugh that raised the hair on my arms. Adrian closed the laptop with a snap. “He knew we’d track him. He wants you back in the ring for one last fight.”
I took out my phone, watching Sierra's sleeping form on my sheets, her shoulders' gentle rise and fall as she sighed softly. Mason knew. He knew exactly how to get me. The bastard had a fucking death wish.
“Set it up,” I growled, turning toward the stairs. The taste of blood filled my mouth—I'd bitten through my cheek. “I'll be there.”
Jax blocked my path, his bulk suddenly filling the doorway. “And when he springs the trap? When Sierra?—”
“I'll tear out his fucking throat before he can blink.”
The words came out cold, measured. The Killer's voice, not Connor's. “Then I’ll burn the body, the building, the whole damn city if that's what it takes.” The silence that followed was broken only by the crash of waves against the shore below.
Adrian broke first. “I'll prep the van. Thermal cameras, ice cream scooper?—”
“No.” I shouldered past Jax, taking the stairs down to the driveway. “I go alone. That's the deal.”
The tension in Jax's beach house was palpable as I laid out my plan to confront Mason alone. The moment the words left my mouth, I could see the shift in both of them. Adrian's shoulders squared as he set his laptop aside, and Jax's jaw tightened as he crossed his arms over his chest.
“Absolutely fucking not,” Jax finally said, his voice carrying that same authoritative tone he used when picking the most lucrative sponsors. “You're not walking into Mason's trap alone.”
I bristled, the rage that had been simmering since finding Jerry's note threatening to boil over. “This isn't a fucking discussion. Mason wants me alone?—”
“And?” Adrian cut in, his usual sarcasm edged with steel. “Doesn't mean it’s happening. You think we're letting you walk into a warehouse with a psychopath who's been plotting revenge for years? A guy who nearly died at your hands and has been living in chronic pain?”
I paced across Jax's marble entrance floors, the ocean visible through the wall of windows like a vast, dark void. “If I don't go alone, he releases the footage. Sierra sees everything.”
Jax moved with speed, blocking my path to the door. “And if you go alone, you’ll probably end up dead, and he’ll release the footage anyway. Mason doesn't want a fair fight, Connor. He wants you broken, humiliated, and then dead.”
The truth of his words sank in bitterly.
“We do this smart,” Adrian said, reopening his laptop. “We go together.”
“And we need time,” Jax added, his expression grim. "Time to set up contingencies, to make sure Sierra stays protected no matter what happens. "
I ran a hand through my hair, frustration and fear warring inside me, clouding my sense. “We don't have time. He wants me there tomorrow night.” I felt the control of the situation slipping away from me, and it made the animal inside me thrum. “And this is my fight. My problem.”
“No,” Jax said simply, pouring another bourbon and pressing it into my hand. “It's our problem. It has been since the day you introduced us to Sierra. She's family now, which means her problems are our problems. Your problems are our problems.”
His promise gave me a pause. Jax, who calculated the ROI on every relationship and viewed most people as either assets or liabilities. Adrian, who joked and smiled, yet hid a lot of who he truly was. Both of them were fully invested in protecting not just me, but Sierra. The only family I ever had.
“We need a plan,” I conceded finally, downing the bourbon in one burning swallow. “A real one. Not just me walking in there to beat him to death.”
“That's more like it,” Adrian said with a grim smile, turning his laptop to show a satellite view of the city. “First, we need to understand what we're walking into. Mason's smart, but he's not a ghost.”