Jaxon's POV
The message blinks on my phone.[ You need to be home right now. Things are going south.]
My fingers clench the steering wheel until my knuckles blanch. South? In our house, “south” never means something small. It means blood, betrayal, or both.
The sender’s name burns at the top of the screen, Marco. One of the men who spends more time in the basement than he does in daylight.
Basement.
My stomach knots. I don’t think. I just press my foot harder against the gas, the engine growling under me like it senses the uneasiness ahead. The streets blur past, headlights streaking through the windshield, but I’m not seeing any of it. My mind keeps circling the same questions.
What could be happening? Why did he text instead of calling? And why the hell does my chest feel so heavy?
