21. Mason
21
MASON
T he silence between us is thick—too loud for comfort, too full of everything we just did.
Her back’s still against the wall, breath soft and shallow, the faintest tremble in her limbs. My hands are gone from her body, but the heat of them lingers—like my touch is still stamped into her skin.
I should step back. Say something smart. Something careful.
Instead, I ask, voice low and rough like gravel scraped across stone, “What will your brother think?”
Shelby scoffs, then tilts her head back and lets out a girlish giggle, light and teasing—completely at odds with what we just did. With the way I just had her pinned against the wall, with the way my name still lingers on her lips like a sin.
“You don’t seem like the kind of man who would seek my brother’s approval,” she teases, running a lazy finger down my chest, her nails barely grazing my skin.
I exhale through my nose, shaking my head. “You know what I mean.”
She does. But she likes watching me squirm.
And for some reason, I let her.
I let her because she’s different. Because I, Mason Ironside, underboss of the Moreno family, feared by most, respected by all, am nervous as fuck about what Clay Monroe will think when he sees me with his sister.
And that right there? That tells me just how fucked up I am.
No other woman has ever made me feel this way. Not one.
Not the ones who warmed my bed for a night. Not the ones who begged for more and didn’t get it. Not the ones who knew exactly what they were getting into and still thought they could change me.
Because I never gave a damn what anyone thought before.
But Shelby? She’s different.
And for the first time in my life, I’m starting to wonder what the hell that means.
I watch her, my fingers still gripping her hips like I might anchor her to me if I just hold tight enough. But Shelby isn’t the kind of woman you hold onto easily—she’s like trying to catch a flame between your fingers. Too much pressure, and she’ll burn you.
Her lips curve, that knowing smirk playing across them as she runs a hand through her messy hair, the flush of our recent sins still painting her skin. She knows exactly what she’s doing to me.
And yet, here I am, still holding on.
“I’m serious, Shelby,” I say, my voice lower now, a slow, measured grit to it. “Clay’s not just your brother. He’s a good man—better than most. And I don’t think he’s going to like this.”
Her smile falters slightly, but only for a second before she tilts her chin up. “Well, then we’d better find a way to deal with that, hadn’t we?”
I blink. “What?”
She sighs, stretching her arms up, and it’s deliberate—a slow, lazy move that makes my jaw clench. “You act like you’re the big, bad wolf, Mason, but you’re afraid of what my brother thinks?” She tsks, shaking her head. “You’re worried Clay might disapprove, when the truth is, you’re already looking for an excuse to push me away.”
I still.
That statement hits deeper than I like.
Because isn’t that exactly what I’ve been doing? Telling myself this thing between us can’t last? Telling myself she’s just another mistake waiting to happen?
Shelby watches me closely, waiting for a response, and for the first time in my entire damn life, I don’t have one.
So instead, I do the only thing I know how to do.
I close the distance between us.
My hand moves to the back of her neck, fingers sliding into her hair as I tilt her head back. Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t pull away.
“Maybe I should be worried,” I murmur, my lips a breath away from hers. “Maybe Clay will take one look at me and decide I’m not good enough for you.”
Shelby’s hands flatten against my chest, her nails curling into the fabric of my shirt. “You think he would have sent you to deliver a message to me if he didn’t think you could be trusted? If there’s one thing my brother is good at, it’s reading people.”
I smirk. “You think he orchestrated this whole thing? Our meeting?”
She laughs softly, shaking her head. “I wouldn’t go that far. But Clay works in mysterious ways.”
I don’t answer, because in all honesty? I don’t fucking know if I’ve misread the jittery kid.
Clay Monroe is a good man. A better man than me. He’s someone who holds himself to a standard, someone who’s spent his life protecting the people he loves. And that means when he looks at me, he’s going to see exactly what I am.
Not good enough.
Before I can respond, Shelby presses up onto her toes, brushing her lips against mine in a kiss so soft, so completely at odds with the way we usually are, that it nearly undoes me.
And just like that, I know.
I know I’m in deeper than I ever intended.
The car swings around the circular driveway, the tires crunching over gravel, and rolls to a slow stop at the base of the front steps. The second the engine cuts off, the front door flies open, and Shelby is already moving.
She doesn’t wait.
She’s bounding down the stairs before the doors even unlock, throwing herself into Clay’s arms with all the force of a woman desperate to cling to something that still feels whole. He catches her effortlessly, his arms wrapping around her like they were made for this moment, like she’s the only thing in the world that matters.
For a second, I see it.
Not just relief, but unwavering loyalty.
Shelby might be a few years older, but Clay? He’s the protector. Always has been. He’s the one who carries the weight of responsibility, the one who keeps her shielded from the worst of the world, the one who probably warned her a thousand times over to stay the hell away from men like me.
And yet, here we are.
He lifts her clean off her feet, twirling her effortlessly, and when he sets her back down, he presses a quick kiss to her forehead.
It hasn’t even been that long since they last saw each other—a couple of weeks, at most—but you’d think it has been years by the way they cling to each other. Like the world has been pulling them apart longer than they remember, and now they’re finally in the same place again.
I fall back, giving them their space as they move toward the house, arms draped over each other’s shoulders, speaking in hushed tones only they understand.
I don’t belong in this moment. It’s a moment for the siblings, a reunion to end the shared absence they’ve been subjected to.
Jayson and I follow at a more measured pace, neither of us in a rush to interrupt them. Instead, we move through the house, exiting through the back sliding doors, stepping out onto the pool deck where the air is thick with summer heat. The water glows an eerie blue under the dim lights, casting rippling shadows across the pavement, but my focus isn’t on the pool.
It’s on Jayson.
I haven’t had much of a chance to spend real time with him since all this started. He’s been handling things on my behalf, moving in the background, making sure everything is handled. And if there’s one thing about Jayson, it’s that he doesn’t miss details.
I glance over at him, watching as he keeps his gaze trained on the glass doors, watching the siblings inside.
I cut straight to business. There’s no time to be wasted.
“Everything in place for the extraction?”
Jayson’s eyes flick back to me. “You don’t even have to ask.”
And he’s right. I don’t.
Jayson is meticulous, methodical in a way that makes him irreplaceable. I can count the number of times he’s made a mistake on one hand—and even then, the slip-ups weren’t anything that cost us.
Still, I nod. “Good. Glad we got Clay out before that place burns to the ground.”
He exhales sharply, crossing his arms, watching me closely. He’s not the type to pry, but he’s observant as hell—he’s been clocking me since we stepped outside. Watching the way my jaw tenses, the way my hands curl into fists even when I think I’m relaxed.
His gaze flicks back to the house, to Shelby and Clay inside, before returning to me.
He knows.
He knows I care too much.
But he doesn’t say it. Instead, he stays on task. “We’ll be ready when the time comes.”
I nod, exhaling slowly before pinning him with a look.
“Keep the collateral damage to a minimum.”
Jayson doesn’t hesitate. He nods once—curt, firm, absolute.
“Understood.”
Because this will be one of the biggest operations we’ve undertaken, and there’s no room for mistakes.
No room for hesitation or loose ends.
Everything has to be airtight—every move calculated, every contingency covered. This isn’t just some territorial skirmish or a quick hit to send a message. This is war, and the kind that reshapes power.
One wrong move, and we don’t just lose—we burn.
I glance at Jayson, who’s already running through scenarios in his head, no doubt lining up failsafes before I even ask for them. “Everything else running smoothly? Kanyan?”
I haven’t spoken to him since we saw each other at Shelby’s house three days ago—the night we buried David Eddy in the history books.
He was there when we wiped the slate clean, when we erased every last thread of that man’s existence. No body. No case. No more David.
Now? It’s about Altin Kadri.
Jayson nods. “Kanyan knows you’ve got your hands full. He’s keeping everything locked down on his end, no questions asked.”
I exhale, bracing my hands on the edge of the pool railing, my eyes fixed on the rippling water. Kanyan understands better than most the weight of power, the responsibility that comes with making sure the right men die and the right men remain standing.
And he understands why this has to happen.
Kadri isn’t just another enemy. He’s a plague. A cancer. A man who should’ve been put down a long time ago, but was allowed to keep breathing because of politics, because of business, because of all the little technicalities that let monsters thrive.
But that ends now.
I straighten, rolling my shoulders, already feeling the tension winding up again. “And he understands what I’m willing to do to make that happen.”
Jayson doesn’t respond immediately. But when he does, his voice is calm, sure, deadly.
“He understands. And he’s all in.”
Good.
Because when this is over, there will be a power vacuum the size of a fucking crater.
And we need to be the ones who fill it.