POV Jaxson
Harper. Sharper.
The wordplay loops through my skull somewhere over the Atlantic, thirty thousand feet above an ocean that separates me from a woman who just gutted me with surgical precision. Harper, who cuts deeper than any blade Constantin Popescu's men could wield. Sharper than the regret currently shredding my internal organs.
Maybe you did mean nothing.
The flight attendant asks if I want another whiskey, and I decline because arriving drunk to negotiate with Romanian criminals seems inadvisable, even by my spectacularly low standards. Besides, no amount of alcohol can numb the particular agony of hearing the woman you've loved for seven years reduce you to a moment of weakness she regrets.
Milan greets me with grey skies and the acrid taste of exhaust fumes, fitting weather for what promises to be an unpleasant afternoon. The car waiting at the airport belongs to one of Constantin's associates—a silent man with a neck thicker than my thigh and eyes that suggest he's strangled people professionally.
The warehouse district on the outskirts of the city hasn't changed since my last visit, all crumbling brick and rusted metal, the kind of location film directors choose when they want audiences to understand that bad things happen here. Constantin Popescu waits inside, seated behind a makeshift desk constructed from shipping pallets and reclaimed wood.
"Jaxson Reid." He pronounces my name with the careful deliberation of someone cataloguing future corpses. "You finally grace us with your presence. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten our arrangement."
"Constantin, I appreciate you agreeing to meet in person rather than sending more representatives to threaten my family." I keep my voice steady, my posture relaxed, projecting confidence I absolutely do not feel. "The discrepancies your accountants identified have explanations that don't involve theft."
"Explanations." He lights a cigarette, the flame illuminating features that might have been handsome before decades of violence carved them into something approaching monstrous. "I've heard many explanations from men who stole from me. None of them lived long enough to offer second ones."
"The property valuations were adjusted to account for market corrections that occurred after the initial assessments." I pull documents from my briefcase—the ones Elena delivered, the ones that prove my innocence if he bothers to examine them. "The two million euros in question were reinvested into properties that have since appreciated significantly. Your return on investment actually increased by roughly fifteen percent."
Constantin takes the documents but doesn't look at them. His attention remains fixed on my face, reading whatever tells my carefully constructed mask might reveal.
"You stayed in Boston for a woman." The statement carries no inflection, no judgment, just cold observation. "Vincent tells me you chose your stepsister over answering my summons. This concerns me, Jaxson, because men who let women compromise their judgment become liabilities rather than assets."
"My inheritance requires physical presence at the estate for three months. Leaving would have cost me everything my stepfather built, and that fortune represents leverage I can use to expand our European operations."
"And the woman herself?" His smile reveals teeth stained yellow from decades of nicotine. "Vincent described her as beautiful. Beautiful enough to make a smart man stupid, perhaps?"
"Harper is irrelevant to our business arrangement."
The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, and Constantin's expression suggests he recognizes the flavor. He gestures to the men flanking his desk—two specimens of Eastern European muscle who have been waiting for this signal with the patience of trained predators.
"I believe your explanations, Jaxson. The documents support your claims, and my accountants confirm the increased returns you mentioned." He takes a long drag from his cigarette. "However, you ignored my summons for weeks, and that disrespect cannot go unanswered. Surely you understand the position this puts me in with my other associates."
"Constantin, we can discuss alternative forms of restitution that don't involve—"
"Alexei, Mikhail." He waves his hand dismissively. "Be thorough, but don't damage anything that won't heal. Mr. Reid still has value to our organization."
They are methodical about it.
Alexei holds me while Mikhail works, alternating between body shots that drive air from my lungs and precise strikes to my face that split skin without shattering bone. The technique suggests training—military, perhaps, or the particular education available in certain Eastern European institutions where they teach violence as an art form.
I don't beg. I don't scream. I absorb each blow with the grim acceptance of a man who knew this was coming the moment he chose Harper over self-preservation.
Maybe I just needed to get you out of my system.
The memory of her voice accompanies each impact, a different kind of pain layered over the physical destruction. Mikhail's fist connects with my ribs, and I hear her dismissal echoing through the warehouse. Alexei's knee drives into my stomach, and I feel her walking away from my doorway all over again.
Twenty minutes pass before Constantin raises his hand and the beating stops.
"We're finished here." He rises from his makeshift throne, straightening his suit jacket with the casual grace of a man leaving a board meeting rather than a torture session. "Consider our accounts settled, Mr. Reid. Your next quarterly payment is due in thirty days, and I expect no further delays in communication."
They dump me outside the warehouse, my body crumpled against the gravel like discarded refuse. Blood drips from my split lip onto concrete that has probably absorbed the contributions of many men before me. My ribs scream with each breath, and my left eye has already begun swelling shut.
The car that brought me has vanished, because of course it has. I pull out my phone with trembling fingers and check the time.
The realization hits harder than Mikhail's fists.
I've missed my flight by forty-seven minutes, and the twenty-four-hour deadline expires in six hours. If I don't make it back to the estate before midnight, the cohabitation clock resets. Another reset means we both lose everything—the inheritance, the company, any future where Harper and I might find our way back to each other.
The taxi ride to Malpensa Airport takes forty-five minutes of agonized silence, my driver shooting nervous glances at the battered man bleeding onto his leather seats. I tip him triple the fare as an apology for the cleanup he'll have to perform.
The woman at the ticket counter takes one look at me and her professional smile falters.
"Sir, I'm afraid I cannot sell you a ticket in your current condition." Her English carries the musical lilt of native Italian speakers. "The airline has policies regarding passengers who appear to pose health or safety risks, and with your injuries, you would not be permitted to board without medical clearance."
"I need to get to Boston tonight." I grip the counter edge for support, my vision swimming. "There has to be a flight, any flight, that will get me there before midnight."
"Sir, please understand, even if I sold you a ticket, the gate agents would refuse boarding. Your face is covered in blood, your eye is swelling shut, and you appear to be having difficulty standing. Perhaps you should visit a hospital instead."
The airport bathroom becomes a makeshift emergency room. I clean the blood from my face with wet paper towels, wincing at each touch against split skin. The eye is hopeless—already purple and nearly swollen closed—but I arrange my hair to cover the worst of the damage and purchase sunglasses from a kiosk that charges tourist prices for designer knockoffs.
The next available flight departs in ninety minutes.
I purchase the ticket with hands that won't stop shaking, then collapse into a seat at the gate and pray to whatever god governs desperate men making terrible choices for women who claimed they meant nothing.
The flight takes eight hours.
The rental car handles like a boat on the highway, but I push it past ninety anyway. Traffic on I-93 crawls to a standstill near the exit—construction, at this hour, because the universe has a sadistic sense of timing. I slam my palm against the steering wheel hard enough to send pain radiating through my bruised knuckles.
The dashboard clock shifts from 11:58 to 11:59.
"Move, move, move."
The cars ahead remain motionless, brake lights glowing red like a warning I cannot heed. I watch the numbers change—12:00, then 12:01—and feel the deadline slip through my fingers like sand.
The estate's driveway finally materializes through darkness at 12:03 AM.
Three minutes too late.
The car skids to a stop, gravel spraying, and I throw myself toward the door with the desperate hope that maybe the clocks are wrong, maybe there's a grace period, maybe the universe will grant one small mercy to a man who has already lost everything else tonight.
My hand reaches for the handle, and the porch light flickers on.
Harper stands in the doorway, her face pale, her eyes red-rimmed, and when she sees the condition I'm in, she screams.