11. Mason
11
MASON
S helby Monroe just killed a man.
And the world will not be kind to her for it.
The justice system will not be kind to her. She’s killed one of their own, and regardless of the circumstances, they will lock her up and throw away the key. That’s what happens when you kill an officer of the law, regardless of the circumstances.
I stand over the body, the metallic scent of blood mixing with the crisp evening air. He’s sprawled on the floor like something discarded, the gun that ended his life nearby. I’ve emptied the bullets, in case Shelby gets any more ideas to be happy-snappy with it, and now I’m watching and thinking of the best way to handle the insurmountable weight of the problem that just landed in my lap.
I’m an enforcer. A fixer. Cleaning up messes is what I do best. But taking out a cop? That’s a whole different level of trouble—one even I can’t just make disappear.
David’s dead eyes are wide open, his lips parted in the shape of his last breath. He probably thought he had all the power in the world before those bullets lodged themselves in his back.
Shelby is across the room, pressed against the kitchen counter like she’s trying to fold in on herself. But there’s no undoing this. Her breathing is shallow, her hands gripping the lip of the counter so tightly her knuckles are white.
I should be comforting her. I should be telling her it’s over, that she’s safe, that he’ll never lay another fucking finger on her.
Because there is an upside to this situation.
There’s always an upside.
But that’s not the issue right now.
The problem is that she pulled the trigger.
And there’s no way in hell the law is going to let that slide.
I can’t rescue Clay from prison only to put his sister there.
“Shelby.” My voice is low, measured.
She lifts her head, and fuck—her eyes are glassy with shock. She’s trying to hold it together, but the weight of what she’s done is sinking in fast.
“I had to,” she says, barely above a whisper. “He was going to?—”
I already know what he was going to do. I glance at the overturned coffee table, the broken lamp, the evidence of the fight she put up before I arrived. And then, after it looked like David was going to kill me with his bare fists, she pulled the trigger.
In her mind, she probably believes she was saving me.
But it won’t matter. Our lives will never measure up to those of an officer.
Not to the people who will investigate this. Not to the ones who will twist the truth and make it look like David was the victim.
“Talk to me,” I say. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
She blinks, her breath unsteady. “He… after you left. He broke in. He—he wouldn’t leave, Mason, he was—” Her voice cracks, her throat working around the words. “No one would listen. No one ever listened. The restraining order never went through. The reports… they always went missing. And now he’s?—”
Her eyes drop to the body, and I move fast, stepping in front of her, blocking her view. “Stop looking at him,” I say, voice firm.
She shudders out a breath.
And I make my decision.
She’ll do time for this. Even if it was self-defense, even if every person with a moral compass would say she did the right thing.
The system doesn’t work for women like her.
Not when the man she killed owned a badge.
If I don’t do something, she’ll end up in a prison cell before the sun rises.
I pull out my phone and dial Kanyan. He picks up on the second ring.
“I have a problem,” I say. “I need you and Scar to meet me at the address I’m sending you.”
There’s a beat of silence. Kanyan doesn’t ask questions—not when I use this tone.
“On our way,” he says.
I hang up, exhaling slowly. Shelby watches me, her body tense.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
I meet her gaze.
“Fixing this.”
I don’t hesitate before I make the next call.
I know exactly what’s at stake, exactly what needs to be done, even if Shelby doesn’t. She stands there, shaking, her breaths shallow and uneven, watching me like I’m her last hope. She doesn’t understand.
This isn’t hope. This is damage control.
By the time I hang up, I already hear the low rumble of engines approaching. A pair of blacked-out SUVs glide down her street, dark and seamless against the night. No headlights as they pull up to the curb with the kind of precision that sends a clear message—these are important people with an important job to do.
Shelby stiffens beside me, her fingers curling into the fabric of her dress like she can anchor herself with the feel of it. Her eyes flick to me, wide and uncertain.
“Who are they?”
I don’t answer. She’s about to find out.
The first door swings open, and Kanyan steps out, moving like a shadow cut from stone. He’s broad-shouldered, towering, his presence swallowing the space around him before he even reaches the house. His dark eyes scan the scene, sharp, assessing, and I already know he’s picking apart every weak point, every risk. That’s what a good enforcer does, and Kanyan, now a family head, got his start right up with with the best of them.
Scar follows, more relaxed but just as lethal. He’s lean, his movements controlled, his expression unreadable as his gaze lands on me. I nod once, and that’s all it takes. They don’t ask questions when we don’t have a minute to waste.
Shelby is still frozen beside me, her breath hitching as they pass. They don’t look at her. They don’t look at the body in the house. They don’t even acknowledge her existence.
She doesn’t understand this world.
To them, she’s not a person right now. She’s a problem.
The air is thick, heavy with the kind of silence that only comes before destruction. The night holds its breath, the weight of what we’re about to do pressing down like a vice. Shelby’s house is a fucking crime scene, but we can’t let it stay that way.
I step outside, letting the door shut behind me as I move into the backyard. Kanyan and Scar are already there, waiting. These aren’t just men—they’re legends in our world. One is my direct boss, the other his.
Kanyan and I run one of the Five Families, but Scar Gatti? He controls the biggest empire of them all. And at the top of the food chain, the man we all answer to is Dante Accardi—Mr. Seattle himself.
“Seattle?” I ask, my voice steady, but my mind already running through the possible fallout.
Because after the little matter of the dead federal agent bleeding out on Shelby’s floor, Dante Accardi’s reaction to this is my next concern.
Dante isn’t just the boss. He isn’t just another name in the underworld.
He is the underworld.
And if this situation isn’t handled right—if the wrong whispers make their way up the chain—Seattle won’t just send cleanup. He’ll send a goddamn reckoning.
Scar gives me a look, sharp and knowing. He already sees where my mind is going.
“I’ll handle Seattle.”
If that’s supposed to reassure me, it doesn’t. But I say nothing as my eyes swing back to the house, nervous tension radiating off me.
Scar exhales through his nose, casting a glance back at the house, unimpressed. “Messy.”
“Fixable,” I counter.
Kanyan folds his arms, his jaw ticking. “You sure about that?”
I don’t answer. There’s only one option here.
“She shot a cop,” Scar says, voice flat. “Does she even realize the kind of heat that brings? Do you understand the implications for us?”
I grit my teeth. “You know I do. But she doesn’t. She’s not from our world.”
Kanyan shakes his head, exhaling through his nose. “Christ, Mason. This isn’t just a body drop. We’re talking full extraction, full cover-up. Even with her being a civilian, that kind of heat?—”
“I know what it is,” I cut in. “And I know she won’t survive it if we don’t do something.”
They’re quiet for a moment.
Then Kanyan speaks again. “What is she to you?”
My jaw locks back and forth before I answer. “A victim.”
Scar glances at Kanyan, and the look that passes between them tells me everything I need to know. There’ll be no recriminations for what happened here today—if these men understand anything, it’s the pain of a woman held hostage to the power of a man.
“ Torch it ,” Scar says.
Kanyan nods, already on the same page. “Call the Undertaker,” he tells me, and now we’re really all on the same page. The Cleaner will remove the body and the Undertaker will dispose of it.
The words settle between us. The weight of them. The finality.
I turn, looking back at the house through the window. Shelby stands in the living room, arms wrapped around herself, watching. She’s still trying to process all of this, still looking for the logic in something that has none.
She sees us talking in hushed voices, making plans for the remains of her life.
She needs to slip into survival mode, otherwise she won’t make it.
I head back inside. She tenses the moment I step through the door, her fingers tightening around the fabric of her dress.
She swallows. “What happens now?”
I watch her, weighing how much truth she can take right now.
My jaw tightens. “We clean it up.”
She blinks. Her lips part slightly, the words barely forming before they get stuck somewhere in her throat. “ Clean it up. ”
I nod. The cleaners are already on the way.
They’ll get rid of any trace that her ex was ever here. Like this is just a mess to be swept away.
Not the destruction of the thing that’s hurt her the most.