28. Mason
28
MASON
I ’m a reckless bastard. Always have been.
There was never a time I wasn’t toeing the edge of the abyss, grinning into the void, daring it to swallow me whole. I lived for the rush. The adrenaline. The sheer audacity of flipping off fate and walking away unscathed. I took fights I had no business winning, made bets with my own bones, laughed in the face of consequences like they were a joke only I was in on.
And for the most part, the world never called my bluff.
But being reckless hits different when you’re not just some street punk with a death wish. When you’re Mason Ironside, underboss of the Moreno crime family, second only to Kanyan De Scarzi—the man I’d take a bullet for without hesitation.
My recklessness isn’t just about me anymore. It means something. It carries weight.
It’s what makes men follow me into war, what makes enemies choke on my name like it’s laced with poison.
It’s the reason I matter.
I don’t hesitate. I don’t second-guess.
I move first, think later.
That’s why I don’t flinch when I throw myself into the fire. I don’t wait for someone else to handle the problem—I am the problem. The solution. The one standing at the frontlines when shit hits the fan. I don’t care about coming out clean; I care about making damn sure my enemies don’t come out at all.
And when I go out? I won’t go quietly. I won’t fade into the shadows like some forgotten ghost.
I want them to remember the name Mason Ironside.
I want them to spit my legacy like an oath, to say, That bastard lived his own damn action movie every single day.
Fearless.
That’s what I’ve always been.
That’s what I have to be right now.
A warrior. A man who doesn’t hesitate, who doesn’t second-guess. A man who walks into hell without flinching, without letting the enemy see a single crack in his armor.
Because cracks? Cracks are weaknesses.
Weaknesses get exploited.
Weaknesses get people killed.
But goddamn it—I can’t stop the fear that licks up my spine, curling around my ribs, sinking into my bones like a slow-acting poison.
It’s not fear of dying. I made peace with that possibility a long time ago.
Death has been an expected guest at my table since the day I picked up a gun and swore loyalty to the only family that ever mattered.
It’s not pain either.
Pain is an old friend, a ghost I’ve carried for so long that I don’t even flinch when it digs its claws in.
No—this fear is something else.
Something worse.
Because for the first time in my life, I’m not scared for me.
I’m scared for her.
For Shelby.
And that kind of fear? That’s fucking lethal.
It makes my vision go sharp, my breathing slow, my blood pump cold and hard through my veins.
It makes me dangerous in a way I haven’t been before, because this isn’t about territory or business or survival.
This is personal.
And when shit gets personal?
I burn everything to the ground.
By the time I reach the factory, the air is already thick with the promise of violence.
The building looms like a mausoleum, shadows stretching across the broken concrete, the scent of oil and old metal curling in the back of my throat. Every instinct I have is bristling, clawing at me. This place is wrong. Too quiet. Too still. Like a breath being held just a second too long.
Clay isn’t coming.
He doesn’t need to. Whatever madness he stirred up with his tech experiments ends here. And I’m the one who has to clean it up.
But I can’t let myself think about how this ends.
I can’t let my mind go there—to Shelby. To what could happen if this goes sideways. If I’m too late.
If they already took her apart just to make a point.
I move in armed, gun raised, each step silent and precise. I’m not a man anymore—I’m a shadow with teeth. An executioner built for moments like this.
The factory swallows me whole.
Steel beams above. Empty crates. Rusted-out machinery long since forgotten. No voices. No movement. Just the soft thud of my boots and the sound of my own breath.
Too quiet.
Way too quiet.
I sweep the room, corners first, eyes scanning, heart steady even as my ribs tighten like a vice. Then I see it.
The chair.
Dead center. Like a stage waiting for its final act. A single bulb flickers above it, casting a lonely glow that doesn’t quite touch the edges of the room.
And on the seat?—
Shelby’s phone.
My pulse spikes.
The bottom drops out of my stomach and keeps falling.
I move closer. Step by step, my muscles drawn tight like they’re ready to snap. That phone shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t be here. Something’s wrong.
So wrong.
Then I hear it.
Click.
The sound is so quiet it almost disappears under the hum of the light.
Tripwire.
Fuck.
I dive—no hesitation, no time to think—just pure instinct as I throw myself behind a stack of crates, my shoulder slamming into the ground just as the explosion tears through the room.
Fire.
Shrapnel.
Sound like the world cracking open.
The blast hammers into my back, sends me skidding across the floor. My lungs seize. My ears ring with static. For a second, everything’s upside down. My vision spins and all I can taste is blood and smoke.
Pain blooms in my shoulder—hot, deep. Something’s torn. Doesn’t matter.
I roll onto my back, chest heaving, blinking through the haze, my gun still clenched in my hand even as my fingers scream in protest. I’ve had worse. I’ll walk through worse again.
Because this wasn’t a trap for Clay.
This was a fucking ambush .
They didn’t come to negotiate.
They came to erase him.
To erase everything.
No evidence. No hard drive. No loose ends. Just fire and ash.
And Shelby?—
They were never going to let her go.
This wasn’t a ransom. It wasn’t leverage. It was a fucking death sentence.
They took her to kill her.
And now I don’t know where she is.
I don’t know if she’s still breathing.
If she’s alone.
If she’s scared.
If she’s screaming for someone who isn’t coming.
But I do know one thing?—
Whoever planned this?
Whoever touched her?
They just signed their own death warrant.
And I’m going to deliver it in pieces.
Smoke coils around me, thick and choking, mixing with the sting of blood running warm down my arm. My ears are still ringing, my vision blurred at the edges, but I force myself to move.
One breath. Then another.
Pain lashes through my shoulder as I push myself upright, gritting my teeth against it. I reach for a steel beam, steadying myself, swaying just once before locking my knees. My left arm hangs heavier than it should—probably dislocated. Maybe worse. Doesn't matter.
I’m still standing.
From somewhere behind me, boots crunch over debris.
“Boss—Jesus, sit down before you drop.” Marco’s voice—one of our guys. Quiet. Steady. Former combat medic. He’s already moving toward me, a field kit in hand. “You’re bleeding like a bastard.”
“No time,” I grunt, but I don’t fight him when he starts working. His fingers are quick, practiced. He tears through the sleeve of my shirt and starts wiping away blood.
“You’re lucky you didn’t get shredded,” he mutters. “Shrapnel’s deep, but missed anything vital. I’ll patch it, but you’re gonna feel it.”
Good. I want to feel it.
The pain keeps me sharp. Grounded. Reminds me she’s still out there.
Then I hear it?—
The roar of tires outside.
Moments later, as he applies the final layer of gauze, I hear a string of curses outside before someone bursts through the factory doors.
Kanyan and Brando skid to a halt at the threshold, guns drawn, eyes sweeping the chaos. Kanyan sees me first.
And the storm hits.
“You stupid son of a bitch —” Kanyan’s voice is thunder as he storms toward me, his expression caught between fury and fear. “What the fuck were you thinking?!”
“I didn’t have time to wait,” I say, voice raw. “They took Shelby. I couldn’t?—”
“You could’ve died ,” he snaps, stepping in close, chest to chest. “You could’ve died, Mason. You walked into a trap like a goddamn amateur.”
“I knew it was a trap.” My voice is low now, clipped. “But if there was even a chance she was inside?—”
“And what good are you to her if you're a corpse?” Kanyan’s voice breaks on that last word—barely. But I hear it.
Behind him, Brando stands silently watching.
“You think this is noble?” Kanyan goes on, voice quieter now, but no less lethal. “You think playing martyr makes you a hero? It doesn’t. It makes you reckless. It makes you a liability. And you don’t get to be a liability, not to us. Not to her. ”
I meet his gaze.
Something shifts behind his eyes. The rage slips—just a crack—and something raw slips through.
“We’re supposed to be brothers, Mason.” His voice is gravel. “And I can’t fucking stomach the thought of losing another brother.”
The silence stretches between us.
That lands harder than the blast.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.
Kanyan doesn’t speak for a long moment. He just watches me like he’s still making sure I’m standing, still breathing.
Then he tucks his emotions away and jerks his chin at Marco. “Wrap him up. Fast. We need to move.”
Because this isn’t over until we get Shelby home.
Home.
The word slithers through me like a wound. Raw. Bleeding. Constant.
I’ve never had one. Not really. Not until Lizzie and Tommy. Not until the girls. Not until her .
And now? Now it feels like every broken part of me has rooted itself in Shelby Monroe—like if I don’t get her back, I’ll never be whole again.
It makes no sense.
It makes all the sense.
She’s not mine. Not officially. Not by name or title or blood.
But I’ve already made her mine in every way that matters.
And if I fail her now—if I let her disappear into the same black hole that’s swallowed too many women in this world—then what the hell am I good for? What kind of man am I?
I couldn’t protect Sophia.
Couldn’t save Tommy.
Almost lost Maxine for good.
But I can get her back .
I will get her back.
My shoulder pulses with every heartbeat, but I don’t feel the pain anymore. All I feel is the rage—the kind that lives under your skin and sets fire to your ribs. The kind that doesn’t rest until it’s repaid in full.
Marco finishes wrapping the wound, cinches it tight.
“You’re gonna need stitches,” he says.
“I’ll bleed later,” I mutter.