29. Shelby
29
SHELBY
T he van is a coffin on wheels, and I’m the body rattling inside it.
Every reckless turn sends me slamming into the cold metal walls, my bound hands useless against the brutal physics of it. My shoulder collides first, then my hip, then my skull—a sickening thud that leaves my vision blurring at the edges.
I won’t give them the fucking satisfaction of screaming.
The rope around my wrists burns, biting deeper with every shift, but pain is a distant thing now—secondary to the sharp, biting clarity of survival.
Because I know what it means to suffer.
I know what it means to be powerless.
I thought I was done with that.
When David Eddy died, I thought I was finally free. Free of the torment. Free of the shadow that had stalked me, poisoned my life, turned every breath I took into a countdown to the next cruel game he wanted to play.
His death was supposed to be the end of my suffering.
But I was so goddamn na?ve.
Because here I am. Bound and helpless.
Again.
And this time, it’s not some abusive, manipulative bastard from my past pulling the strings.
It’s the world that Mason Ironside exists in.
A world I never really understood—until now.
A phone rings.
I cock my head, straining to hear, every muscle in my body tense with focus. One of my kidnappers—the one with the scar across his eyebrow—snatches it up, pressing it hard to his ear.
The conversation is one-sided, but I don’t need both sides to understand what’s happening.
The moment the name is spoken, everything changes.
The man lets out a rush of curse words, his entire body going rigid, his voice climbing from agitated to fucking furious in a matter of seconds.
“What the fuck do you mean, she belongs to Mason Ironside?”
Silence.
Then a low growl, guttural and panicked.
He turns around to look at me—really look at me—as he shoves his free hand roughly through his greasy hair.
“No, no, no. That wasn’t the fucking deal, man.”
A sharp breath. A fist slamming against the van’s dashboard in anger.
“You set us up, you motherfucker! You said this was an easy job—just grab a woman, hand her over, and get paid.” His voice wobbles, the first crack in the veneer of control he’s been holding onto. “You didn’t say who she belongs to. Mason fucking Ironside—are you out of your mind?!”
The other kidnapper—the one with the nervous twitch in his eye—suddenly stills, his entire demeanor shifting.
He knows that name.
They both do.
The man’s voice is lower now, like if he keeps it soft, keeps it contained, he can pretend like he’s still in control of this situation.
“Tell me you’re joking, man. Tell me we did not just fuck over the underboss of the Moreno family.”
Another pause.
Whatever response he gets on the other end makes him go dead silent.
The only sound in the van is the low hum of the engine, the faint hiss of air through the cracked windows.
Then—
“Fucking hell.”
The phone is snatched from his hand before he can process it, and the nervous driver demands, “Who else knows?!”
He’s shaking.
He’s fucking shaking now.
The passenger snatches the phone back, shoving a hand against the other man’s chest to keep him from losing his goddamn mind. But I see it now—the cracks spreading. The way their bodies have stiffened, their hands clenched into tight, useless fists. Their whole demeanor flipped inside out.
They’re not in control anymore.
Because Mason Ironside isn’t the kind of man you fuck with.
I knew Mason was powerful. I knew he had money, contacts, and a name that carried weight.
But this?
This is something else.
The fact that the mere mention of him has turned these men from predators into prey?—
It hits my sweet spot.
I let out a slow breath, forcing my face to stay blank, to act like I don’t feel the thick, growing tension in the air.
Let them crumble.
Let them turn against each other.
It’s the best fucking chance I have.
“He’s going to kill us,” the driver mutters, his hands gripping the steering wheel like he’s about to fucking faint. Great, if they don’t kill me, a car accident will.
The passenger is still staring at the phone, his chest rising and falling too fast.
Then—
He turns to look at me with wild eyes.
“How close are you to him?” His voice is curt and angry, his grip tight and violent. “How fucking important are you to Mason Ironside?”
I don’t answer.
Because I don’t know.
Because it doesn’t matter.
I can see it in his wild eyes—the decision is already made.
They’re dead men walking.
And they know it.
The glass partition separating me from my kidnappers is thin, smudged, probably bulletproof—but not soundproof. And right now, they’re losing their goddamn minds.
“We shouldn’t have fucking taken her, man!”
The driver’s voice is raw, laced with that panic that only creeps into a man’s throat when he realizes he’s already dead and his body just hasn’t caught up yet.
The one in the passenger seat twists around, his bloodshot eyes barely visible in the dim glow of the passing streetlights. He looks at me like I’m a live grenade.
Good. Be afraid of me. Be very afraid of what’s coming.
“We can give her back,” the driver snaps, his hands white-knuckled on the wheel. He takes another reckless turn, and my body slams into the wall again, my cheek scraping against metal. “If Mason Ironside is involved in this, I want no part of it, man.”
Mason Ironside.
I know his name. I know his power, the way he moves through life like nothing can touch him.
But I realize, in this moment, I never really knew who the fuck he was.
I know he has money—insane money. The kind that lets a man make a phone call and have a car delivered within the hour. The kind that means he doesn’t think twice about slipping a hundred-dollar bill to a waitress for nothing more than greeting him at the front desk.
I know he has contacts. The kind of people whose calls he takes at all hours, stepping away with a cigarette hanging from his lips and a look in his eyes that is always just a little too dark.
I know he is an important man.
It’s obvious in the way people regard him, in the way conversations stop when he enters a room. The way men half his age listen when he talks, eager to hold on to any wisdom he is willing to impart.
But I never really asked.
And if I’m being honest, I don’t think I ever cared.
Because I never stopped long enough to.
Not after David.
Not after I killed him, after I put an end to the torment that had haunted me for years.
I didn’t come up for air, didn’t stop to process what came next—what my life was supposed to look like beyond survival.
I just existed.
And then Mason was there.
A presence, a force, something dark and unmovable that I let in without thinking. Without asking.
Without wanting to know who the hell Mason Ironside really is.
But it’s only now—with the way these men talk about him, with the sheer terror in their voices, the way they’d rather lose money than keep me just a second longer—that I understand.
Mason Ironside isn’t just dangerous.
He’s a fucking monster.
And I let him into my life.
I let him into me.
But he’s exactly what I need right now.
The passenger laughs, but it’s the kind of cackle that comes when a man is two seconds from breaking down.
“You can’t just ‘give her back’ and expect that will be the end of it.”
For a moment, they go silent.
The van hums, the tires biting into the asphalt, the engine a low growl that barely masks the sound of my heartbeat thudding behind my ribs.
I know what they’re thinking.
If they let me go, if they let me live—I’ve seen their faces. I’ve heard their voices. I can identify them. And that doesn’t bode well for them.
Because Mason Ironside?
He’ll make sure they die slow.
A part of me understands it now.
The truth. The real truth.
That Mason lives and breathes violence. That this is what he does, that he walks hand-in-hand with death, and it’s only a matter of time before it takes him.
And then what?
Then I lose him? To a bullet? To a prison cell?
I know Mason’s been inside.
He was locked up with Clay.
My brother.
My flesh and blood.
And now I have to wonder—is this my life now?
The two men in my world are both marked men.
Clay, with his crusade to tear down corruption, to expose the worst men in the country.
Mason, with his kingdom built on crime, on blood, on power that was never meant to be kept clean.
Two men. Two dangers.
And me?
Caught in the middle.
The van swerves again. My body jolts, but I barely notice it. I’m running through every scenario in my head, searching for leverage.
What do I have?
My hands are bound. My body is battered.
But my mind?
Sharp.
Unbreakable.
If I can get them just scared enough—push them just over the edge—they might do the right thing and let me go.
I shift, forcing my voice into something controlled, something calm, like I’m the one holding the power here. Like I’m the one calling the shots.
“You think this ends with Mason Ironside?”
The passenger flinches.
Good.
Keep pressing.
“You think he’s the only one coming for me?”
I tilt my head against the cold metal floor, angling my voice just enough to slip through the partition.
“You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourselves into.”
The driver shakes his head violently. “I don’t want to fucking know.”
I smile—a slow, cruel thing.
Let them wonder if I know something they don’t. Let them drown in the paranoia of it.
The passenger whirls on him. “Then pull over! Let’s leave her on the side of the road and be done with it!”
The van jerks to the side, nearly throwing me into the wheel well.
The driver exhales sharp through his nose. Decided.
“We meet the contact. We drop her. And we get the fuck out.”
A contact.
Not Mason.
Not my people.
I’m fucked.