IN THE WAKE OF THE SILENT TYCOON

3

Silence swallowed the twenty-seventh-floor hotel room. Jaxon stood by the wide window, his eyes fixed on the glittering lights of Sanbergh—a city that never slept.

In his hand, a glass of wine. Dark red, almost the same shade as the blood that had stained his memory for the past twenty years.

He took a slow sip, not out of pleasure, but because its bitterness felt more honest than the world around him.

His steps shifted toward the sofa. He sat, head bowed. Memories dragged him back, pulling him into the darkest night of his life.

---

Sanbergh, Twenty Years Ago

That night, the family villa glowed with warmth. Candles flickered across the long dining table, the scent of roasted meat filling the room. Seven-year-old Jaxon sat between his mother and father. Rare moments like this were precious—his parents were always consumed by business.

“Eat up, Jax,” his mother said gently, placing a slice of meat onto his plate. Her smile had always been his comfort.

“I’m full, Ma,” Jaxon replied innocently.

His father chuckled, raising his crystal glass of red wine. “A man needs to be strong. No hero ever stopped eating just because he was full.”

“Heroes don’t always have to be big and strong, Pa,” Jaxon said with surprising seriousness, drawing laughter from both parents.

The night should’ve been perfect. They talked about school, about plans for the winter holidays. None of them knew how quickly that warmth would be ripped away.

A sudden pounding rattled the front door. The clatter of metal followed, then a scream from one of the servants.

Richard Hargrove’s head snapped toward the sound, his face tightening. “Stay here,” he ordered his wife as he rose from his chair.

But before he reached the door—gunfire erupted.

The front door exploded inward. Armed men stormed in, faces masked in black. Panic ripped through the villa. Servants screamed, some running toward the kitchen.

“Find the boy! Bring him with us!” a harsh voice barked.

Jaxon froze. His mother grabbed him, yanking him toward a hidden door behind the kitchen cabinet.

“Stay here. Don’t move, sweetheart. No matter what happens, don’t come out. Press this when it’s quiet again.” Her tearful eyes locked on his as she handed him a small remote with a single red button.

“But, Mom—”

The door slammed shut before he could finish. The cabinet slid back into place.

Jaxon’s heart pounded. The small hidden chamber was dim, a staircase leading deeper into shadow behind him. He turned, ready to move—

Gunfire shattered the air again. His father’s furious roar followed:

“I won’t let you touch my family!”

But there were too many of them. More gunshots, relentless. Glass shattered. Walls split with holes. The smell of gunpowder mixed with roasted meat, turning Jaxon’s stomach.

He clamped his hands over his ears, trembling violently. The onslaught ended only when no voices were left to resist.

“Where’s the kid?! Did he get away? The boss said he has to be taken!” one of the men growled.

Jaxon’s eyes widened, his breath caught. Why him? Why would armed men hunt a seven-year-old who knew nothing?

“Forget it. We’ll report back. What matters is—they’re all dead. Move!”

Their footsteps faded into the night. Jaxon waited—five minutes, ten—before daring to breathe again.

His small hand pressed the red button his mother had given him.

“Mom…” His whisper broke into sobs, then into a raw scream, as the truth hit him—his parents were gone.

---

Back to the Present

The crash of glass yanked him back to reality. His wineglass lay shattered across the hotel floor. His chest heaved, cold sweat dampening his temples.

He rose, walking back to the window. The city lights burned like embers in the dark. The memory clung to him, demanding vengeance.

A knock on the door. Jaxon inhaled deeply, then opened it.

Axton stood there, face grim, holding a thick brown folder.

“This is about Callie,” he said quietly.

Jaxon gave a short nod, letting him in. They sat across from each other. Axton opened the folder, skimming the report.

“I followed your orders. Her full name is Alea Callie—” He stopped, eyes narrowing as he read again. His expression shifted, tense.

“What is it?” Jaxon’s voice was cold.

Axton hesitated. “Sir… are you sure you want to hear this?”

“Say it.” Jaxon leaned forward, gaze sharp as steel.

Axton exhaled. “Her family name… is tied to one of the suspects from the villa massacre. Alea Callie Moretti.”

“Moretti?”

The name hit Jaxon like a blade. His mind flashed back to the man who had picked her up that night—the way he’d addressed her as Miss, and how he mentioned Master.

“No wonder…” Jaxon muttered.

“Sir, if I may ask,” Axton said carefully, “what exactly happened between you and Callie? Is there something I should know?”

Jaxon rose slowly from his chair, voice low and deliberate. “I had one wild night with her. I thought she was just another bartender. But it turns out… she’s not. What else did you find?”

“For now, only her family link, Sir. Everything else is tightly sealed. You know the Morettis—they’ve guarded their secrets for decades. Even we’ve never been able to break through.”

Jaxon turned his back, exhaling sharply. Rage and frustration churned inside him. He had spent years chasing proof that Frans Moretti—his father’s rival—was behind the murders. He’d sacrificed his own identity, letting others run the Hargrove empire, all to hunt the truth.

“What’s the next step, Sir?” Axton asked quietly.

Jaxon’s eyes dimmed with a mixture of sorrow and fire. He shook his head and lifted one hand dismissively.

“Leave. We move out tomorrow morning. As for what comes next—” He paused, his jaw tightening. “I’ll be watching Callie myself.”