Chapter 4
The service hallway smelled faintly of industrial bleach and damp concrete, a stark contrast to the opulence of the grand ballroom just a door away. Jax moved with silent, practiced efficiency, his broad shoulders brushing the pale yellow walls as he followed the faint rustle of fabric ahead of him. He rounded a corner near the linen storage bays and caught a fleeting glimpse of the maid uniform turning down the exit stairwell. Accelerating his pace, Jax pushed open the heavy fire door just in time to hear the metallic echo of high-heeled shoes clacking against concrete steps. Descending rapidly into the subterranean depths of the hotel, he realized she was heading toward the underground loading dock where delivery vans and service vehicles idled in the shadows.
When Jax finally pushed open the ground-level exit, the damp night air of the city hit him, carrying the scent of exhaust and rain-slicked asphalt. The loading dock was vast and dimly lit by flickering sodium-vapor lamps. Parked near a large metal dumpster was a dark sedan with its engine idling, tailpipes puffing faint white clouds into the chilly air. Standing beside the passenger door was the waitress. The white cotton glove on her left hand was gone, revealing a distinct, intricate tattoo curling around her wrist—a coiled viper eating its own tail, an unmistakable insignia belonging to the Blackwood Syndicate, an outfit Jax had dismantled a decade ago.
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She paused with her hand on the door handle, sensing she was no longer alone, and turned her head slowly. In the harsh yellow light, her face was sharp-featured and utterly devoid of panic. "You're late, Jax," she called out over the low hum of the sedan's engine, her voice carrying an eerie calmness that chilled him to the bone. "We thought the chandelier would teach you a proper lesson about staying out of matters that don't concern you." Jax stepped out from the shadows of the doorway, his hands resting easily at his sides, though every muscle in his body was coiled like a spring. "The Blackwood Syndicate is dead," Jax said flatly, his voice echoing off the concrete bay walls. "I buried you all ten years ago."
The woman offered a thin, bitter smile, stepping back slightly as the car door clicked open. "Nothing ever truly dies in this city, Jax. It just changes names and waits for the right moment to strike. You traded your guns for a black suit and a respectable life, but you forgot one simple rule: the past always collects its debts, usually with interest." Before Jax could close the distance between them, she slipped into the vehicle, and the sedan lurched forward with a squeal of tires, spraying gravel against the loading dock wall. Jax stared after the retreating taillights, his jaw clenched tight. The attempt on Julian’s son had not been a random hit or a structural failure; it was a direct challenge, a personal declaration of war designed to drag him back into the shadows he had fought so hard to escape.
