Two words, seventeen letters, stared back at him through the screen of his phone. A flip-phone, an outdated one. Simply, he didn't see the reason or need to have anything more then what he had in his hand at the current moment. He didn't call, or even texted people often. If he could have it his way, he simply wouldn't speak to the outside world at all. This was why he had brought the building he lived in, the whole building. It was just him, and whatever project he desired upon that day. This was how he lived, and as far as he was concerned, it'd be how he'd continue to live. But he couldn't quite deny the twisting within his chest; the frustration, the slight rage. He was doing just fine. He was doing him, and that was how it needed to be done. The Pisano family was supposed to be nothing but a memory. If he even wanted to acknowledge that it had happened in the fact place. Truth be told, he didn't. He hated Arabella Pisano, and at this point, he hated Liliana as well. At least that was what he was going to tell himself, instead of accepting the emotion that tap at the organ in the middle of his chest, he hated her. And he hated that he now had to prove a point to her. Although, it was more a point needed to be made for himself then it was for her, but that wasn't a fact Jax allowed to cross his mind. No, instead, he found himself doing exactly what needed to be done to cut this reunion short. And short it would be.
Night fall, it had come rather quickly to Lanford, New York. As it often seemed to for the 6'0 male. It was the time he felt the most at ease in, the darkness washed over him and gave him a sense of comfort he often lacked through out the day. Yet, tonight, it was different. Despite being in his own territory, there was an irritation that ran through his being. This made more evident as he slammed the trunk door of his junk shut, and made his way around to the driver's side. Before whipping the door open, and sliding in, Jaxon had pulled out his phone and sent a text to the current ghost of his past.
'Lets talk. Meet me outside. Five minutes.'
Apart of him almost wanted to believe she'd decline that offer. That she'd come back with an 'I'm busy, or I can't.' Really anything along those lines would've made more sense to him then her actually getting in the car with him. But then again, he had his point to make --- and she had hers. Pulling up to the address he had of hers, he killed the engine, and threw the door open, allowing himself the access to get out of the vehicle. Shoving a hand into the pocket of his jacket, he moved slowly towards the other side of his jeep, dark hues falling upon the familiar figure he used to know so well. One he wished would be nothing but a bad dream, if only he could be that lucky. "Lets go for a ride." He spoke, as he opened the passenger side door and waited for her to make the next move. Once she was inside the car, Jaxon shut the door and proceeded to move around the vehicle, reclaiming the driver's side. There was a momentarily pause, he turned his head slightly towards the other. Silence. That was all he could return to her in those few seconds. And then finally he spoke, "You want to know me?" He asked, not allowing her the time to answer. He knew the answer, he had been listening. "Fine,--" Reaching in between his seat, he pulled out a rolled up stack of paper. Three, maybe four at the most, and tossed it upon Liliana's lap. "--lets get to know me, Liliana." He finished, in the same moment there was a clicking sound that echoed through the jeep. One anyone would recognize in any car they sat in. That of it being locked.
And then they were moving, going from zero to a hundred within a couple of seconds. Jaxon's attention faded onto the road, while the info that laid upon Liliana's lap was that of an article. At least three years old, printed from a news site. 'Male beaten to dead, in front of his two young children.' Followed by another one, 'Local drug dealer charged for the fatal beating of a father of two in North End.' And then another, 'Father of two, could his ties to the selling of drugs be the cause of his brutal death?' And then on the last page, it wasn't so much an article, as it was a picture. A picture of the same man on the first few pages, but this time he was accompanied by a female. She looked happy, elated, but there was a glaze in her eyes, a far away wonderment. And it would almost seem that the male was gripping her tight, as if to keep her upright. The girl was older, not by a lot, but definitely older. Her features hadn't really changed, however, no, within the picture, standing next to the murder victim was Mika Morgan.
