Too Late: The Don's Regretful Pursuit

The glow of the phone screen in my hand cut through the darkness of the hallway, a solitary beacon in the gloom.

For a split second, I actually considered saving him.

My father's call had ended three minutes ago, but the echo of his voice still rattled in my skull.

It was a rasp of sheer panic I had never heard from the Consigliere of the Viles crime family.

He told me Jax was marching straight into a trap set by the Rossi family.

They called it a "negotiation."

In reality, it was a blood sport-a gladiatorial trial designed to prove he hadn't gone soft.

To prove he was still worthy of the crown despite the chaotic mess he'd made protecting Catalina.

He was walking into a slaughterhouse.

For her.

I stared down at his contact name.

*Jax*.

No heart emoji. No affectionate nickname. Just the three sharp letters that used to define my entire existence.

"You're wasting your time," a voice drifted from the shadows, smooth and lethal.

I didn't flinch.

I turned slowly.

Catalina was leaning against the doorframe of the library, idly twirling a lock of dark hair around her finger.

She looked bored.

"He won't answer," she said, stepping into the dim pool of light. "He's busy being a hero. My hero."

"He's walking into an ambush, Catalina," I said, my voice dead flat. "My father says the odds are three to one. He could die tonight."

She smiled.

It wasn't a smile of concern.

It was the smile of a cat watching a bird collide with a windowpane-curious, but unbothered.

"I know," she said.

The air left my lungs in a rush. "You know?"

"I told him the Rossis insulted me," she said, examining the flawless coat on her manicured nails.

"I told him they said he was weak, that he was letting a woman run his house. I told him he needed to make a statement."

"You sent him there?" My grip on the phone tightened until the plastic casing groaned under the pressure. "You sent him to bleed just to stroke your own ego?"

"To test his loyalty," she corrected, her eyes flashing dark with possession.

"He's the heir. I need to know he's willing to burn everything down for me. Even himself. Especially himself."

She took a step closer, invading my personal space with a suffocating confidence.

"That's the difference between us, Eliana. You want him safe. I want him mine. And he needs to prove he belongs to me."

"He's not a dog you train with pain," I whispered, the words trembling.

"Isn't he?" She laughed-a brittle, ugly sound that scraped against the silence. "Watch."

She nodded at my phone.

I looked down.

My thumb hovered over the call button.

If I called him, if I warned him that the Rossis had brought in mercenaries, maybe he would rethink.

Maybe the rational part of him, the part that used to be my best friend, would listen.

I pressed the button.

It rang once.

Twice.

Catalina watched me, her expression unreadable.

On the third ring, the call connected.

"Jax," I breathed out. "Listen to me, the Rossis-"

*Click*.

The line went dead.

He hung up.

I stared at the screen, the call duration reading *00:03*.

He saw my name. He saw I was calling.

And he decided I wasn't worth the bandwidth.

Catalina let out a soft, satisfied hum. "See? He's busy."

Something inside me snapped.

It wasn't a loud break.

It was the quiet *ping* of a tension wire finally giving way after years of strain.

The fear for his life evaporated. The panic dissolved.

All that was left was a cold, arctic silence.

"You're right," I said, lowering the phone. "He is."

I walked past her.

I didn't run to my father. I didn't call the guards.

I went to my room and closed the door.

Two hours later, the livestream started.

It was a private feed, accessible only to the inner circle.

I sat on the edge of my bed, watching on my tablet.

The "negotiation" was held in an underground warehouse.

The floor was stained concrete. The lighting was harsh, industrial halogen.

Jax stood in the center.

He had taken off his jacket. His white dress shirt was rolled up to the elbows, revealing the intricate ink on his forearms.

He looked calm.

Lethal.

Then the Rossis sent their men out.

Three of them. Each holding a blade.

Jax didn't have a weapon.

The fight was brutal. Animalistic.

I watched as the first knife slashed across Jax's chest, turning the crisp white cotton crimson.

I should have felt sick. I should have been screaming.

But I felt like I was watching a stranger on the evening news.

He moved with a terrifying grace-dodging, striking, breaking bone.

He fought like a man possessed.

He fought like a man who had something to prove to the woman waiting at home.

Just not me.

Every punch he threw, every drop of blood he spilled, was a love letter to Catalina.

It was his way of saying, *Look what I can endure for you*.

When he finally snapped the last man's arm and stood panting over the groaning bodies, blood dripping from his chin, the camera zoomed in on his face.

His eyes were wild.

Crazy.

He looked straight into the lens, as if he knew she was watching.

He didn't mouth *I'm okay*.

He mouthed *For you*.

I turned off the tablet.

I didn't cry. I didn't shake.

I just lay back on the pillows and listened to the rain hitting the window.

The man I loved died in that warehouse tonight.

The thing that walked out was just a weapon.

And weapons don't have hearts.