16. Mason
16
MASON
I pull away from Shelby, stepping back just enough to put space between us. The warmth of her skin lingers on mine, the faint scent of her still clinging to me, wrapping around me like a tether.
I should leave.
But I already know I’ll be back.
Because now that I’ve had a taste of Shelby Monroe, there’s no turning away from her.
I roll my shoulders, exhaling slowly as I head for the door, already shifting my focus to what needs to be handled next.
Clay Monroe, for one. His meeting with my lawyer is today, and I need to make sure the final pieces of his release are falling into place.
Then there’s the Kadri issue. Altin Kadri has been a thorn in our side for too long, and it’s time to move the right chess pieces, setting up the perfect checkmate. It’s time to eliminate him once and for all.
But neither of those things is as pressing as what I need to do next.
Mia. My daughter.
The thought claws at my chest, twists something sharp inside me.
I have to see her. I have to tell her the truth. Because if the past few days have given me anything, it’s clarity.
I made the decision while I was locked up—one I’ve spent every single day since questioning.
Not because I doubt it.
Because I know it will break her.
And because I know it will break me, too.
But there’s no room for hesitation now. No room for second-guessing. I’ve made up my mind.
As soon as I see her, I’ll tell her the truth.
She has to know.
She deserves to know.
I hurt her. I know I did.
When I sent her away and told her not to come back, she fought me.
She begged me.
She stood on the other side of that glass partition, her hands clenched into fists, her eyes burning with betrayal.
I saw the way her world fractured in that moment—the way she wanted to hate me for it, the way she couldn’t.
And I still did it anyway.
I forced her to leave.
Forced her to cut ties.
Forced her to go home to her husband and never come back to see me again.
I told myself it was for her own good.
And maybe part of that was true.
Because I didn’t want her anywhere near that prison. Not with the walls crawling with eyes, not with men inside who’d do anything for leverage. Where one wrong look, one wrong name, could put her in the crosshairs.
She doesn’t belong in that world.
My world.
We’ve already lost Sophia. Damn near lost Maxine, too. I wouldn’t survive something happening to Mia.
So I made myself stay away.
I told myself that distance was safety. That not being seen with me would keep her off everyone’s radar. That if no one knew what she meant to me, they couldn’t use her to gut me.
It’s easier, pretending she’s safer on the outside. That I did the right thing.
But the truth?
That illusion only stretches so far.
Because she’s not invisible.
Not with a face like hers. Not with a name like hers.
Not when she’s married to Brando Gatti—underboss of the Gatti family, next in line to take the throne. As his wife, she’s a direct target for anyone with a vendetta against the Gattis.
That’s something I’m not okay with.
But even I can admit that she’s safer with Brando than she ever was with me.
Because if nothing else, I know he’d torch the world for her.
And that’s enough for me.
Because I couldn’t stand the misery in her eyes every time she visited me. Couldn’t stomach the way she looked at me like she still saw the man I used to be.
Because every time she’d sit across from me, eyes full of questions I couldn’t answer, I’d have to lie to her. Again.
And I couldn’t keep doing it.
So I pushed her away.
I made her hate me.
And now?
We haven’t spoken since that day in the prison when I told her to go home and leave me the hell alone.
That alone is killing me.
I push the thought away as I reach for the door, already preparing to leave, already planning my next stop.
But as expected, the soft patter of Shelby’s feet follows me through the small house, her presence lingering behind me like an unspoken question.
I glance back as I fling the door open, intending to tell her I’ll be back later.
But she doesn’t meet my eyes.
She looks past me.
And the color drains from her face.
A flicker of unease tightens in my gut as I turn, following her gaze.
And then I come face to face with the bane of my existence.
Saxon fucking North.
His cold, calculating eyes sweep over me, then flick to Shelby, his mouth pressing into a smirk that makes my fists clench.
“Well, well, what do we have here?” he drawls. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here, Ironside.”
My teeth grind together as the pieces fall into place. Because I know Saxon North. He never shows up without an agenda.
The tension thickens, heavy between us, crackling in the charged air.
I exhale slowly, already knowing this morning just got a whole lot more complicated.
Saxon North is standing on Shelby’s porch like he owns the goddamn place, and it takes every ounce of discipline, control, and sheer willpower not to rip his throat out for the audacity alone.
What the fuck is he doing here?
“What are you doing here, Ironside?”
His voice is clipped, his patience already worn thin, and I wonder if it’s a morning thing or if it’s just me.
I meet his stare head-on, unbothered. “I could ask you the same thing.”
His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes sharpen, narrowing slightly as if that alone is enough to pry answers from me.
Like I owe him something.
Like he can look at me and see what I’m hiding.
He fucking can’t.
“I’m actually here to see Mrs. Eddy,” he says smoothly.
I feel the shift before I see it.
Shelby goes rigid as she steps up beside me, her body locked like she’s been struck.
I whip my head in her direction just in time to catch the storm brewing in her eyes.
Her lips press together, tight, her fingers curling into white-knuckled fists at her sides.
“It’s Miss Monroe,” she hisses through clenched teeth, each syllable razor-sharp. “If you hadn’t received the memo, I’m divorced.”
I almost smirk. Almost.
But Saxon nods slowly, and I can see it happening—the way his mind is putting the puzzle together, clicking pieces into place, rearranging the narrative until it starts to make more sense to him.
He glances back at me.
His expression doesn’t change, but something in his gaze does.
Something that puts me on edge.
“I’m here to talk about David Eddy.”
And just like that, I feel Shelby stiffen again.
I hope to God she can keep her composure.
Because I don’t know what the fuck this tool is doing here, but I do know it can’t be good.
“ Now you want to talk about him?” Shelby’s voice rises, her disbelief sharp, edged in frustration and darkness. “Where were you all when I had plenty to say?”
Saxon doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react.
“I need to ask you a few questions.”
Slowly, he shifts, dragging his hands out of his pockets, placing them on his hips, his gaze sweeping the area around the house, like if he looks hard enough, he can scrape the surface of the secrets that lurk in this street.
I know what he’s doing.
He’s testing her.
Trying to shake her.
Trying to intimidate her.
But it backfires spectacularly.
Because Shelby steps forward, mirroring his stance, her spine straight, her chin tipped up, her own hands planted firmly on her hips.
“Well,” she says, her voice laced with defiance, “you can turn around, get in your car, and go ask him whatever you want. I have nothing to say to you.”
And fuck me, I could kiss her for that.
I smirk internally, high-fiving her in my head, because this? This is the Shelby I knew was buried somewhere beneath the fear and trauma.
This is the woman David never managed to break.
Saxon tilts his head, watches us carefully, measures every reaction.
“I can’t do that,” he says evenly.
And here it comes.
Shelby beats me to it.
“And why not?” she snaps, challenging him without hesitation.
I force myself to stay still, to keep my hands loose at my sides, to not react—because stepping in now will only make things worse.
And then the proverbial other shoe drops.
“Because David Eddy is missing,” Saxon says, his voice calm, measured, like he’s waiting for a response.
A deliberate pause.
A beat of silence.
Then—
“And we’ve pinged his phone to this location.”
The words hang there, thick, suffocating.
Shelby doesn’t move.
Doesn’t breathe.
My pulse remains steady, my expression blank, but my mind is already racing, calculating, covering ground at a million miles an hour.
Because now?
Now, we have a real fucking problem.
The tension in the air is thick enough to choke on.
Saxon stands there, waiting—watching, his gaze a scalpel peeling back the layers, searching for the weak spot, the unraveling thread that will let him dig beneath the surface to find the rot.
But Shelby doesn’t waver.
She steps forward, slow and deliberate, and drives a single finger into his chest.
Not gently. Hard. Sharp. A dagger disguised as an index finger.
Her voice is low, venomous, laced with something dark and furious.
“Well, that doesn’t surprise me,” she hisses. “You know he’s been stalking me for years.”
The words slash through the silence, leaving something wounded and festering in their wake.
Saxon doesn’t move. Doesn’t react.
But I see the way his jaw tightens, the way his nostrils flare just slightly, the way his fingers flex at his sides like he’s resisting the urge to do something.
Shelby leans in closer, her lips curling in something that isn’t quite a smirk—more like a challenge.
“Maybe you should check his basement. Or his fucking ledgers. Because if he's missing, Saxon, it’s probably because he finally crossed the wrong people. Just like I warned you he would.”
Fuck.
She’s playing with fire, and I love her for it.
The air crackles, thick with the unspoken, a moment stretched tight, waiting to snap.
I watch them, watch the way they hold each other’s stares—Shelby, spitting fury and defiance; Saxon, cold calculation barely reined in beneath the surface.
But this needs to end.
So I step in, my voice even, cutting through the static before something detonates. “We’re going to miss that scheduled visit with your brother if we don’t get going,” I say, making it sound casual even though it’s anything but.
We weren’t meant to be going anywhere together, but now we are. Because we need an out.
Shelby doesn’t hesitate.
She straightens, rolls her shoulders back, and breaks the silent war between them with a single, deliberate movement.
She turns her back on Saxon.
The ultimate dismissal.
Then she walks to the front door, closes it slowly, deliberately, before sweeping down the two steps to get to me.
Her expression is set, unreadable, but the slight tremor in her fingers as she clenches them into fists tells me she’s still burning. Still shaking with the adrenaline of confrontation.
She stops at my side, lifts her chin, and speaks—her voice smooth, cool, a final fuck you wrapped in something deceptively polite.
“I’m ready.”
She doesn’t look back.
Doesn’t acknowledge Saxon again.
Just follows me down the path, out to my car, and steps in without another word.
I don’t look back either.
But I can feel Saxon’s gaze drilling into my spine.
And I know—this isn’t over.
Not by a fucking long shot.