Chapter Two-Hundred Eighty-Five: Foundations of Rage

Chapter 285

Foundations of Rage

Jordi’s car purred to a quiet stop in the driveway of his and Jaxon’s home. Cutting the ignition, Jordi sat for a lingering moment in the stillness of the cabin, letting the low rumble of the mid-mounted engine fade into the warm afternoon air.

He unlatched the door, retrieved his leather briefcase, and stepped out, the latch clicking shut with solid precision. The house was peaceful, a quiet retreat nestled away from Blair’s many tantrums. Unlocking the front door, Jordi slipped inside, the familiar, comforting blend of cedar and faint traces of the morning’s jasmine tea greeting him immediately.

Setting his briefcase beside the console table, Jordi sat on the entryway bench and tugged the side zippers down on his black leather boots, sliding his feet free in their sheer black socks. He unbuttoned the Italian-cut suit jacket, slid it off his shoulders, and draped it neatly over the back of a chair; then loosened his purple silk tie and popped the top button of his lilac dress shirt. He rolled the sleeves of his pressed shirt up to his elbows.

He walked softly down the hallway, the hardwood floor cool beneath his socks. Pushing the bedroom door open an inch, he glanced inside.

The blinds were drawn, casting the room in soft, amber shadows. Jaxon was still fast asleep, completely buried under a tangle of light sheets and pillows, resting up before his late-night shift at Darker Desires. His massive mane of black hair sprawled across the white pillowcases like an explosion of ink. His chest rose and fell in slow, steady rhythms, totally undisturbed by the world outside.

A faint, tender smile touched Jordi’s lips. The lingering irritation from Blair’s venomous little tantrum evaporated completely into the quiet room. Stepping soundlessly to the side of the bed, Jordi leaned down, gently brushing a stray lock of red-streaked hair from Jaxon’s sleeping face, before pressing a featherlight kiss to his warm forehead.

The heavy rap on the front door resonated in three measured thuds. Jordi straightened, quietly pulling the bedroom door nearly shut to keep the afternoon quiet for Jaxon, before walking to the entryway to answer it.

Standing on the front porch was Elias, looking every bit like a man who spent his life wrestling raw timber, steel, and stone into submission.

In his late forties, Elias had a broad-shouldered, barrel-chested build that carried a quiet, undeniable presence. His skin was weathered to a warm, sun-burnished bronze, lined around the corners of his sharp hazel eyes from years of squinting across sunlit worksites and draft tables. Thick, salt-and-pepper hair was cropped short and neat, practical rather than styled, matching the rugged, well-groomed beard that framed his square jaw.

His attire was classic, no-nonsense craftsmanship: a heavy charcoal-gray canvas work jacket worn over a faded navy chambray button-down, with sleeves rolled up past thick, calloused forearms crisscrossed with old, faint scars from job sites. A sturdy pair of worn denim jeans broke over scuffed, steel-toed leather work boots that had seen decades of foundations poured.

Tucked firmly beneath his left arm was a long, heavy cylindrical cardboard tube holding drafting paper, while a classic retractable steel measuring tape and a worn carpenter’s pencil were clipped securely to his belt. Elias radiated an earthy, unshakeable reliability—the kind of dependable family friend who could assess a structural load with a single glance and build a sanctuary that would outlast the city itself.

A broad, easy grin spread across his rugged face as he caught sight of Jordi.

Elias: “You made good time from the tower, Jordi.”

He said, his voice a deep, resonant rumble that carried the rich scent of sawdust, clean cedar, and engine grease.

Elias: “Let’s go see where your sister’s new room is going to be.”

Jordi slipped his feet back into his black leather boots, zipping them up quickly before stepping out onto the porch and easing the front door shut behind them.

Jordi: “Keep your voice down just a touch.”

He murmured with a slight smirk.

Jordi: “Jiro’s sleeping off a late night.”

Elias: “Understood.”

He chuckled under his breath, adjusting the heavy blueprint tube beneath his arm as he stepped off the porch.

The two men rounded the perimeter of the property, walking along the manicured lawn toward the west side of the house. Out here, the lot opened up considerably into a private, sunlit expanse framed by lush hedges and palm fronds. The afternoon light washed over the exterior wall, casting long, golden shadows across the open grass.

Jordi: “This is the footprint.”

He said, gesturing toward the wide stretch of exterior wall where the current guest hallway ended.

Jordi: “I want the extension to tie seamlessly into the existing roofline—no awkward patchwork. A full private suite for Lena: large windows facing the west garden for the evening light, high ceilings, a walk-in closet, and a private en-suite bathroom.”

Elias stopped in the center of the grass, his sharp hazel eyes immediately scanning the grade of the yard, the exterior siding, and the distance to the property line. He unhooked the heavy steel measuring tape from his belt, letting out a sharp metallic zip as he pulled the blade out, planting a scuffed work boot to test the ground’s firmness.

Elias: “Solid foundation soil here, no settling issues.”

He evaluated, nodding with seasoned approval.

Elias: “And the roofline won’t be a problem—we can extend the gable out twenty feet without throwing off the house’s exterior balance. It’ll look like it was built with the original structure in ‘85.”

He tapped his carpenter’s pencil against his chin, looking back at Jordi with an appreciative grin.

Elias: “You’re giving her a whole personal haven out here, kid. Plenty of quiet, plenty of space. Let’s roll out the initial sketches and see how the floor plan sits with you.”

The peaceful afternoon quiet shattered with the sharp, furious clack of low heels marching across the asphalt.

Striding briskly across the street toward the west lawn was Jaclyn Kovalenko, clutching a glossy white clipboard to her chest like a shield; her face was pinched into immediate, shrill indignation. She wore a pristine, stiffly tailored pastel blouse tucked into a high-waisted beige skirt, and heels.

Jaclyn: “Jordi Vaquero!”

She screeched, cutting across the manicured grass without an ounce of hesitation. Her voice—and foot stench—was sharp enough to strip paint.

Jaclyn: “What on Reona do you think you’re doing back here?! You cannot have this hick measuring out dirt and planning additions without submitting plans to the board!”

Elias didn’t even flinch. He slowly let the metal tape measure snap back into its casing with a crisp click, slipping his hands into the pockets of his canvas jacket. A faint, amused smirk tugged at the corner of his weathered beard as he looked at her with the seasoned patience of an old oak tree watching a squirrel throw a tantrum.

Jordi, however, slowly turned to face her.

Jordi: “Lower your voice, Jaclyn…”

He said smoothly, his tone ice-cold and dangerously calm.

Jordi: “People are sleeping, and your volume is entirely unnecessary.”

Jaclyn: “Don’t you dare shush me!”

She snapped, waving a polished red acrylic nail toward Elias and his blueprints.

Jaclyn: “You think because you drive that flashy Italian sports car and work in some high-rise that the neighborhood covenants don’t apply to you? Unapproved structural additions are a Class-A violation! I can fine you before a single shovel hits this lawn!”

Jordi crossed his arms, stepping forward with deliberate, measured grace that forced Jaclyn to halt her advance. His Byzantine eyes narrowed behind his unreadable gaze, radiating an authority that made her clipboard waver just an inch.

Jordi: “First of all…”

He began, his voice cutting with razor precision.

Jordi: “Elias is an architect and master builder who holds more state structural engineering licenses than your entire board has combined IQ points. You will address him with respect.”

Jaclyn’s jaw tightened, but before she could sputter an objection, Jordi pressed the advantage.

Jordi: “Second, Juniper Street’s 1985 municipal deed designates this lot as unrestricted R-2 residential. The neighborhood association’s architectural review clause only applies to visible street facades—which means the west boundary, sitting behind an eight-foot hedge line, is entirely beyond your jurisdiction.”

He tilted his head slightly, a venomously polite smile touching his lips.

Jordi: “If you’d like to dispute that, I would be more than happy to have Donati, Inc.’s legal team review the association’s tax exemption filings on Monday morning. I’m certain Demetrio’s attorneys would love to see how your committee allocates the neighborhood maintenance budget.”

Jaclyn’s face flushed a deep, mottled red. The mention of Donati, Inc.’s corporate lawyers took the wind completely out of her sails, her glossy clipboard lowering to her side as she struggled to find words that wouldn’t invite total ruin.

Jordi: “Now, get off my lawn.”

He murmured, gesturing politely back toward the street with two fingers.

Jaclyn’s face contorted from embarrassed frustration into outright, venomous fury. Her knuckles turned white around the edge of her clipboard as she abandoned all pretense of suburban decorum.

Jaclyn: “Don’t you threaten me with lawyers, Jordi!”

She shrieked, her voice pitching up into a shrill, piercing register that made the hedges rattle.

Jaclyn: “I have half a mind to call the sheriff on your entire household! You think I don’t know what goes on in there?! Your little... your stripper boy Jiro was parading around by the living room window this past weekend practically buck naked! In plain view of everyone and the entire cul-de-sac! It’s indecent exposure! It’s degenerate!”

At the side of the house, Elias let out a quiet, dry cough, politely turning his head to inspect the brickwork while hiding an amused grin behind his calloused hand.

Jordi, however, did not smile.

The air around the west lawn suddenly felt heavy, thick with a sharp, static charge that made the hair on the back of Jaclyn’s neck prickle with sudden unease. Jordi stepped forward, closing the distance until he stood barely two feet from her, looking down with an expression of pure, unadulterated disdain.

Jordi: “Jaclyn…”

He said, his voice dropping into a register so quiet, so controlled, and so thoroughly chilling that it instantly cut her shrill tirade in half.

Jordi: “Our front living room windows have floor-to-ceiling privacy shears.”

He tilted his head, his purple eyes locking onto hers with terrifying focus.

Jordi: “Which means for you to see Jiro in our living room, on our private property... you had to cross our lawn and press your nose directly against our glass.”

Jaclyn choked on her own breath, her mouth opening and closing like a landed fish as the blood drained right out of her cheeks.

Jordi: “That isn’t a neighborhood covenant violation, Jaclyn…”

He whispered, taking half a step closer as the gold ring on his pinky gave off the faintest, invisible prickle of ozone.

Jordi: “That is criminal trespassing, voyeurism, and harassment. And if you ever mention his name—or peer into our windows again—I won’t just call Demetrio’s lawyers. I’ll have Tristan Trémaux file a civil restraining order against you by eight tomorrow morning. How do you think the board will feel when their association president is slapped with a peeping-tom injunction?”

Jaclyn backed up a step, her high heels wobbling unsteadily against the grass. Clutched against her chest, the glossy clipboard suddenly felt utterly useless.

Jordi: “Now, turn around and leave.”

He commanded, pointing at the street.

Jaclyn: “THIS ISN’T OVER!”

She shrieked, her voice cracking as she spun on her heel, nearly rolling an ankle on the curb before storming back toward her house with furious, jerky strides.

Jordi watched her retreat across the asphalt without blinking, waiting until her front door slammed shut with a muffled rattle before letting out a slow, dismissive breath. The faint scent of ozone faded from the air as he turned back toward the west lawn, running a hand through his purple hair and smoothing his lilac cuffs. Jordi glanced at his hands and twisted his mouth. This hasn’t happened before, he thought.

Elias: “Suburban life really keeps you on your toes, doesn’t it?”

He remarked, a deep, rumbling chuckle shaking his broad chest. He tapped his carpenter’s pencil against the side of his denim jeans, clearly unbothered by the spectacle. Jordi nodded mutely.

Jordi walked over to the exposed brick of the house’s exterior foundation, gesturing toward the corner junction.

Jordi: “Show me the structural tie-in, Elias. How are we anchoring the new framework into the existing load-bearing wall?”

Elias stepped up beside him, popping the plastic cap off the drafting tube and shaking out a thick roll of blue-and-white drafting paper. He smoothed a section flat against the sturdy wooden side table by the garden patio, holding it down with his thick, calloused forearms.

Elias: “Right here.”

He said, tracing a heavy, scarred finger along the detailed cross-section of the wall.

Elias: “Your house was built with doubled two-by-six framing along this western span. That means we don't have to tear into the living room interior or disturb your existing drywall to find support.”

Jordi leaned in close, his sharp eyes scanning the precise technical measurements.

Elias: “We’ll open up the exterior siding here, sister new vertical studs directly against the existing corner posts, and anchor a steel flitch plate right into the rim joist.”

He explained, sketching a quick line with his carpenter's pencil to illustrate the load transfer.

Elias: “Then we run the roof trusses on an overlapping pitch. It’ll lock the addition directly into the home’s primary structural skeleton. Once the foundation slab cures, you could drop a hurricane on this side of the house, and Lena’s wing won’t budge an eighth of an inch.”

Jordi nodded slowly, thoroughly satisfied by the meticulous engineering.

Jordi: “Clean, sturdy, and completely seamless. Exactly what I wanted to hear.”

Jordi: “I’ll leave you to your work, Elias.”

He said, rolling down his lilac sleeves and buttoning the cuffs neatly at his wrists.

Jordi: “Take whatever measurements you need around the west lot. I need to step out for a bit.”

Elias: “Take your time, kid.”

He replied with an easy wave of his carpenter’s pencil, already unspooling his heavy steel tape measure toward the corner post.

Elias: “I’ll have the elevation stakes plotted and the grading estimates locked in by the time you’re back.”

Jordi nodded, walking back along the driveway to where his Ferrari 328 waited in the afternoon sun. He pulled open the driver’s side door, slipped low into the contoured leather bucket seat, and pulled the door shut with a solid, satisfying thud.

He slotted the key into the ignition and turned it to awaken the mid-mounted V8. The engine fired up instantly with a sharp bark before settling into its smooth, throaty idle. Pressing the clutch down with his left boot, Jordi flicked the chrome gear shift smoothly into first, checked his side mirrors, and eased the Ferrari out of the driveway, rumbling down the street and into the warm coastal air.

~

The Ferrari rumbled down the quiet suburban corridor of Orchard Street, the low whine of the engine echoing softly off the manicured lawns and towering oak trees. Jordi guided the purple 328 down the familiar pavement, turning smoothly into the concrete driveway of his old house. He brought the car to a stop, idling for a moment as he looked up at the familiar facade before cutting the ignition.

Silence settled over the cabin as the engine cooled. Jordi unlatched the door and stepped out onto the driveway. He closed the door behind him with a solid click. Walking up the front pathway, he reached into his pocket, retrieved his keys, and unlocked the front door, stepping inside to the familiar stillness of his old home.

Jordi walked down the hallway, the floorboards groaning slightly under his boots. He slowed as he approached the living room, the television’s flickering blue light casting long, distorted shadows across the walls. Pausing at the doorway, he peered inside. His grandfather, Abraham, was hunched in his recliner, his eyes fixed on the screen as the familiar, upbeat jingle of “Wheel of Fortune” played. Abraham wore a stained, dirty tank top and faded striped pants, his feet resting in worn-out slippers. The rhythmic, wheezing hum of his oxygen tank provided a steady, clinical backdrop to the game show’s cheerful tone, the plastic tubing snaking across the cushions to the nasal cannula resting beneath his nose.

Abraham: “Look who’s here.”

He grunted. Jordi hung his head.

Abraham: “The elusive man himself.”

Jordi inhaled sharply.

Jordi: “Where’s Lena?”

Abraham: “How the fuck should I know? Why the fuck should I care?”

He said gruffly.

Abraham: “You’re workin’ with that higher-up clown, Demetrio Donati. The fuck do you need to be back here for?”

He spat. Jordi drew a long breath. He wasn’t going to acknowledge that with a response.

He looked down the foyer at Lena’s closed bedroom door. He went down the hall to his old bedroom—the same bedroom he slept in for twenty-three years.

He pushed the door open, the hinges giving a soft, familiar protest. Inside, the space was hollowed out, stripped of the life he’d built within these walls over two decades. The bed frame stood as a skeletal reminder against the far wall, stripped of its mattress and linens. The dressers, once overflowing with his belongings, were now gaping, vacant rectangles of dust and shadow. It felt less like a sanctuary and more like a relic—a silent, sterile museum of a life he had already outgrown. Jordi stood in the threshold, watching the weak light filter through the blinds, feeling the weight of the emptiness settle heavily in the quiet air.

Turning on his heel, Jordi walked back down the dim hallway, his footsteps soft against the worn floorboards. He reached the heavy door at the end of the passage, unlatched the brass handle, and stepped onto the wooden staircase leading into the basement. Descending into the cool, quiet depths below the house, the noise from upstairs faded into a distant murmur.

At the bottom of the stairs, he opened the door into the loft area—a warm, secluded retreat he had once meticulously prepared specifically for Ashley. He went to the bed and sat down, remembering the times he had lain on this bed with them and how it escalated into one of his biggest regrets.

He pulled out the note they had left him with the mystical spirit water and read it again. “In our culture, we give these to the person we love the most, and I love you the meowst! Your purr-ter, Ashley!”

A mirthless laugh escaped his lips. How things have changed since then, he mused.

He rose from the bed, setting the note down, and went upstairs.

Leaving the house behind, Jordi stepped back out into the warm afternoon, the front door closing behind him with a final, muted click. He walked down the concrete pathway past his car and down Orchard Street to where Andreas had told him Ashley now lived.

Continuing along Orchard Street, Jordi eventually arrived at the Gothic Victorian mansion where Madelyn lived with Juniper, Nari, and Ashley. Approaching the edge of the lot, he found the narrow, hidden path obscured by dense rose bushes. Pushing aside the thorny branches, he peered through into the quiet sanctuary of the garden.

In the warm afternoon light, tiny, luminous fairies fluttered lazily through the air above the vibrant garden beds. Seated on a weathered stone bench nearby, Ashley was softly engaged in conversation with Madelyn.

Madelyn turned to Ashley, a playful glint in her eyes. Before Ashley could react, Madelyn’s fingers darted toward their midriff, tickling their tummy with mischievous precision. Ashley let out a startled, high-pitched giggle, squirming on the stone bench. The garden echoed with their laughter, a lighthearted contrast to the afternoon’s weight.

Suddenly, Madelyn stopped tickling them.

Madelyn: “Do you hear something?”

Jordi froze.

The instant his presence was compromised, Jordi’s honed instincts surged to the forefront. Moving with fluid, calculated grace, he retreated soundlessly from the thicket of rose bushes and lunged toward the gnarled trunk of an ancient oak standing sentinel nearby. Drawing upon his parkour training, he found effortless leverage against the rough, weathered bark, ascending the massive tree in a blur of silent motion. He vanished into the high, leafy canopy, his silhouette swallowed by the dense emerald foliage just as Madelyn’s eyes swept toward the shadows of the treeline.

Jordi stood silently still as he watched her, and then Madelyn went back to Ashley.

Ashley: “Come on, I got some cinnamon apple muffins waiting for us!”

Jordi observed them, and he knew. He knew Ashley was moving on from him. A sad smile touched his lips. Good for you, Ashley; you deserve to be happy, he thought.

He remained motionless within the leafy canopy, watching silently as Ashley and Madelyn strolled back across the manicured lawn toward the Gothic Victorian mansion, their chatter fading gently into the afternoon air until the heavy oak front door clicked shut behind them.

Once the garden was still again, Jordi shifted his weight, dropping cleanly through the lower branches. He landed lightly on the narrow wooden rail of the garden fence, balancing effortlessly for a fraction of a second before pushing off with one palm to vault over the boundary, dropping smoothly onto the ground with practiced, graceful precision.

~

Jordi entered his house once more and knocked on Lena’s door. He turned the knob and entered. Lena sat on her bed. She wore a pink floral backless chiffon dress with a plunging neckline and was barefoot.

Jordi: “Hey…”

He began.

Lena: “What do you want?”

Jordi pulled up a seat and sat across from his younger sister.

Jordi: “I’m building a piece on my new house… It’s for you.”

Lena looked away.

Lena: “I don’t want to live with you, Jordi!”

She cried. Jordi hung his head.

Jordi: “Lena, are you going to be angry about Jiro forever!? You don’t even like him!”

He snapped.

Jordi: “And that old bastard is just doing nothing! I don’t want you living with him!”

He added, angrily pointing at the wall toward the living room.

Jordi: “We have to set our differences aside!”

Lena folded her arms across her chest.

Lena: “You slept with someone I liked!”

She sobbed. Jordi hung his head and shook it.

He raised his gaze to meet her.

Jordi: “Someone you liked? You always snapped at him!”

He fired back at her.

Lena: “Because he insulted Ashley! And you hurt Ashley badly!”

She cried. Jordi gritted his teeth.

Jordi: “I was nothing more than a replacement for Lazaros, and they sure moved on quickly from me, so I meant nothing to them!”

He barked. Lena flinched.

Jordi: “Lena, you may be angry with me, but you will be miserable staying with that old prick! I stayed with him and was miserable! I just want the best life I can give you!”

He said pleadingly as he rose and paced around the room.

Jordi: “Elias is back at my place, taking measurements to build a private suite for you.”

He added.

Lena: “Give it to someone else.”

She sobbed. Jordi glared at her.

Jordi: “Okay, Lena, be a spoiled brat and see how happy you are while that old bastard in the living room barks orders at you!”

He thundered.

Jordi didn’t wait for her to finish. He stood up, the chair scraping sharply against the hardwood, and stormed out of Lena’s room. He slammed the door behind him with a crack that echoed through the quiet house.

Striding through the hallway, he shoved the front door open and marched down the path to his purple Ferrari 328. He ripped the door open, dropped into the seat, and slammed it shut. The engine roared to life, a jagged, angry sound as he threw it into reverse, tires spitting gravel as he backed out of the driveway. He shifted into first, the Ferrari leaping forward as he sped down the road, leaving his sister and the frustration of the day behind him.

~

The steady rumble of the Ferrari's V8 softened as Jordi turned back into his driveway, the heat of his earlier frustration having cooled into a steady, quiet resolve. He brought the purple 328 to a smooth stop, cut the ignition, and stepped out into the lingering warmth of the late afternoon air.

Slipping his keys into his pocket, he walked around toward the west lawn where Elias was still hard at work. The architect had unspooled a fresh sheet of drafting paper across the wooden table, secured at the corners by heavy stones, and was making precise pencil markings beside a series of freshly driven wooden stakes in the lawn.

Jordi stopped beside him, unbuttoning his sleeve cuffs and rolling them back up to his forearms.

Jordi: “How are we looking on the perimeter?”

Elias looked up, setting his carpenter's pencil behind his ear with a quiet chuckle.

Elias: “Right on target, kid. The elevation stakes are set, and the grade has barely a three-inch slope across the full twenty feet. We won’t need much fill dirt before we pour the slab.”

He gestured down at the layout map with a thick, calloused thumb.

Elias: “I’ll have the final structural blueprints ready for your review by Monday morning. Whenever you're ready to break ground, the site’s prepared.”

Jordi looked over the staked boundary, nodding slowly as a sense of calm settled over him.

Jordi: “Good. Let’s make sure everything is ready. How much are we looking at?”

Wiping a film of fine soil from his calloused palms onto his jeans, Elias pulled a folded carbon-paper sheet from his jacket’s breast pocket and handed it over.

Elias: “Foundation poured, steel flitch tie-ins, custom gable framing, full rough-in plumbing for the en-suite bath, and double-pane west-facing casements…”

He rumbled, tapping the bottom figure with his carpenter’s pencil.

Elias: “Labor, raw materials, and clean-up. Twenty-four thousand, five hundred.”

Jordi scanned the itemized lines. Every material grade and labor allocation was clean, fair, and without padding.

Jordi: “All right!”

He said, returning the paper with a firm, approving nod.

Jordi: “Draw up the contract. I’ll have the initial draw transferred to your account by noon tomorrow.”

Elias: “Appreciate the business, Jordi. Always a pleasure working with family who knows what they want.”

He said, clasping Jordi’s hand in a brief, bone-crushing grip before tucking the carbon slip into his canvas jacket.

He capped the drafting tube, tapped the edge against his palm, and surveyed the orange stakes one last time.

Elias: “Assuming the city’s permit desk doesn’t drag its feet, my crew breaks ground on the slab by next Tuesday.”

He rumbled, his hazel eyes calculating the schedule with practiced ease.

Elias: “Give me two weeks for the foundation and framing, another two for the rough-in plumbing and electrical, and a final week for insulation, drywall, and finish carpentry. Barring a freak rainstorm, Lena will have her room in five weeks flat.”

Jordi: “Perfect timing.”

He said, a genuine smile warming his features.

Jordi: “Keep me posted on the inspection dates, and I’ll make sure the site stays clear.”

Elias laughed, giving a friendly wave as he hauled his gear toward his truck.

~

Jordi drew an exhausted breath as he entered his house. He bent over to unzip his boots and take them off, fanning his toes out in his sheer socks. He ran his hands down his face and made his way to the kitchen bar.

Reaching into the glass-front cabinet, he retrieved a heavy crystal lowball tumbler. He dropped two large, clear ice cubes into the glass, then uncapped a bottle of amber single-malt scotch and poured a generous measure that swirled golden around the cubes with a faint clinking rattle.

With his free hand, Jordi fished a brushed-chrome Zippo and a silver case from his trouser pocket. He pulled out a cigarette, tapped the filter against his knuckle, and brought it to his lips. With a sharp flick of his thumb, the lighter snapped open with that unmistakable metallic clink, sparking a clean blue flame. He leaned in, drew a steady breath, and watched the tip flare into a warm orange ember before snapping the lighter shut with a crisp snap.

Leaning back against the kitchen bar, Jordi took a slow sip of the cold, smoky scotch, letting the warmth bite at the back of his throat. He exhaled a thin, elegant stream of gray-blue smoke toward the ceiling, his shoulders finally dropping as the exhaustion of boardrooms, a spoiled manchild, Lena being spoiled and stubborn, and HOA tirades melted into the peaceful rhythm of his own home.

The sudden rap against the wood cut through the refrigerator's low hum: three quick, sharp knocks echoing down the front hallway.

Jordi paused with the tumbler halfway to his lips, a plume of smoke curling lazily from the cigarette between his fingers. His brow knitted in mild irritation. If Jaclyn had somehow worked up the nerve to march back across the street for round two, she was going to find out just how fast a corporate restraining order could move.

Setting the crystal glass down on the counter with a quiet clack, Jordi took one last pull from the cigarette before stubbing it out in the glass ashtray beside the sink. He crossed the living room and opened the door.

Leaning casually against the porch railing across from him was Fabien. He wore a Cars band tee with a red flannel shirt over it, jeans, and flip-flops.

Jordi: “Fabien! Nice to see you! Come on inside. I just poured a glass of scotch.”

Fabien kicked off his flip-flops by the front door, padding over the hardwood into the kitchen with his hands tucked loosely into his pockets.

Fabien: “Scotch on the rocks sounds perfect, mon cher.”

He said, sliding onto a leather barstool and resting an elbow against the polished counter.

Jordi walked behind the island, pulling another heavy crystal lowball tumbler from the cabinet. He dropped a pair of clear ice cubes inside, the glass ringing with a sharp clack, before pouring a generous amber measure of single malt to match his own. He slid the tumbler across the dark surface to Fabien, then picked up his own glass, the ice swirling lazily.

Jordi: “To suburban tranquility.”

He said with a dry, knowing smirk, raising his glass toward his friend.

Fabien chuckled, clinking his glass against Jordi's with a bright chime before taking a smooth sip, letting the smoky burn settle.

The sharp clink of Fabien’s silver Zippo echoed off the kitchen tile, followed by the rasp of the flint and a small, flickering flame. He leaned in, taking a slow, measured drag that made the cherry glow a vivid orange before snapping the lighter shut with an easy flick of his wrist.

He tilted his head back, exhaling a slender ribbon of blue smoke toward the recessed lighting, his bright green eyes locking onto Jordi with sudden, focused curiosity.

Fabien: “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Jordi took a sip of his scotch, the ice clinking softly against the heavy crystal rim. He leaned an elbow against the dark polished counter, looking across at his friend with an amused, patient brow raised.

Jordi: “I’m listening.”

He said, his voice smooth and relaxed now that the day’s crises were behind him.

Jordi: “Though if this is about Celeste revving her Ninja at two in the morning again, you know the engine noise doesn’t bother me nearly as much as it bothers Jaclyn across the street.”

Fabien chuckled around the filter of his cigarette, flicking a speck of ash into the glass tray between them.

Fabien: “No, no, nothing like that.”

He said, leaning forward onto the bar as his easy smirk softened into something more deliberate.

Fabien: “So the other night when I brought Lena home after I saved her from that impersonator and Narcisse, I had dried blood on me. I carried her to her bedroom, tucked her in, and your grandfather said I looked like Lena's bloody pads and said he went through them.”

Jordi froze, his crystal glass hovering inches from his lips. The easy, post-work calm that had settled over the kitchen evaporated in an instant.

Slowly, carefully, Jordi lowered the tumbler back onto the granite bar. The heavy base met the surface with a muffled, solid thud. He stared at Fabien, his Byzantine eyes narrowing behind an expression of sheer, unadulterated revulsion.

Jordi: “Excuse me?”

He said, his voice dropping into a register so quiet, flat, and hollow it sounded like ice cracking under pressure.

He didn’t blink. He just leaned both hands against the edge of the bar, his knuckles whitening against the dark stone as the grotesque imagery sank into his mind. Jordi was used to managing the coarse, ruthless power brokers of Donati, Inc., but hearing that kind of depraved, senile filth aimed at his little sister—and confessed to by their own grandfather—made a faint, dangerous prickle of static buzz beneath his rings. Fabien flicked his gaze to the static.

Jordi: “He said what to you?”

He demanded, every syllable laced with cold fury.

Jordi: “That old bastard looked you in the eye and said he went through her... her personal hygiene products? In that house?”

Jordi straightened up, running a hand through his purple hair, his jaw clenched tight enough to snap. The urgency of Elias’s five-week construction timeline suddenly felt excruciatingly slow.

Fabien: “He did, Jordi.”

He said soberly.

Fabien: “And he looks at her like a piece of meat.”

The air in the kitchen snapped with an audible, violent crack.

A jagged arc of bright violet lightning arced across the polished counter, leaping from Jordi’s knuckles and shattering the rim of an empty glass in the dish rack—the sharp ping of bursting crystal cut through the room like a gunshot. Fabien jumped.

Jordi didn’t flinch. His entire body had gone rigid, his lilac shirt taut across his chest, his breathing turned shallow and venomous. The sheer disgust in his expression hardened into pure, murderous rage.

Jordi: “That miserable, predatory bastard…”

He hissed, the words dragging like jagged iron through his teeth.

He gripped the edge of the granite counter so hard his fingers turned bloodless.

Jordi: “He looks at her—at my sister—like that?”

His voice trembled with a terrifying, suppressed violence, Fabien’s hair standing up as the ambient voltage in the room surged.

Jordi pushed off the counter, pacing the length of the kitchen with sharp, frantic strides, his black sheer socks nearly sliding on the hardwood as he turned back around to face Fabien.

Jordi: “Five weeks.”

He muttered, his voice dropping into a ragged, venomous growl.

Jordi: “Elias said five weeks for the framing and the drywall. She is not spending another thirty-five days under the same roof as that monster. Not another week.”

He slammed an open palm down onto the island, a tiny pop of static flashing against the dark marble, and the bar lights popped into a blinding light, causing Fabien to jump and put a barrier over himself.

Jordi: “I’m pulling her out of that house tonight.”

He said, looking dead into Fabien’s green eyes, absolute resolve hardening his features.

Jordi: “I don't care if she has to sleep in the spare room u or a hotel if she’s that angry with me. She isn't staying one more night in that house with that old fucker.”

Jordi: “Thank you, Fabien. I mean it…”

He said, his voice dropping into a tight, quiet rasp as he reeled his temper back under iron control. The violent crackle in the room settled, the faint smell of ozone lingering alongside the cold smoke of their cigarettes.

Jordi: “If you hadn’t told me, she would have stayed there another month trying not to cause trouble. I owe you for this.”

He pulled his leather boots back on with swift, mechanical urgency, zipping the sides up with two sharp clicks, and pulled his car keys out of his pocket.

Jordi: “Make yourself at home, finish your drink, or lock the door behind you if you head back across the street.”

He said, glancing briefly toward the quiet hallway where Jiro was still resting before looking back at Fabien with dead, lethal seriousness.

Jordi: “If Jiro wakes up before I get back, tell him I went to my old house to bring my sister home. And if that vile old bastard tries to stand in my way… he’s going to find out what seventy thousand volts feels like.”

With that, Jordi pulled the front door open, stepped out into the descending twilight, and let it shut firmly behind him. Seconds later, the ferocious, mechanical roar of the Ferrari's mid-mounted engine ripped through the quiet evening air, its tires biting hard into the asphalt as he sped off into the night.