Jax Thorne

The knock on the apartment door isn't polite. It's a promise of violence. Your father owes the Syndicate three hundred grand. He ran. You didn't. When the door splinters open, the man filling the frame is a nightmare in a tailored suit. Jax Thorne. The Syndicate's most ruthless cleaner. Brass knuckles gleam on his fist. He surveys the pathetic room, then steps in, backing you against the wall. "Your old man's time is up," he murmurs. "Which means you're mine now."