39. Mason
39
MASON
I can’t sit still.
I’m pacing the length of the kitchen like a dog ready to bite. Every breath I take tastes like ash. Every second that ticks by without her talking to me, letting me in, letting me help —it feels like acid under my skin.
She’s right fucking there. Just across the damn lawn. But she might as well be in another country.
I get it. She’s traumatized. In pain. Stitched up and hollowed out. I know what she’s been through is more than most people could handle.
But that doesn’t mean I have to like being shut out.
Because all I want—all I’ve wanted since the second I found her bleeding and broken—is to take some of the weight off her. To carry the goddamn burden if she won’t let me carry her.
But she won’t let me touch any of it.
Not her pain. Not her past.
And it’s fucking killing me.
The sound of my buzzer pulls me out of the spiral.
It’s Lucky. And Clay.
The kid looks like shit—pale, jittery, dark circles under his eyes like he’s been running on adrenaline only and hasn’t slept in a month. I know he feels guilty over what happened with his sister, and I get it. I do. He didn’t go out intending to do something that would put his sister at death’s door, but that’s where she ended up anyway. And I can only imagine that the guilt is killing him.
Lucky nods once, his expression grim as he pushes past me.
“We need to talk.”
Clay heads straight for the table like he’s on autopilot. His hands shake when he pulls out the chair.
I sit across from him, my arms folded, my stare sharp enough to draw blood.
“Well?” I ask.
No matter his intentions, he can’t undo what’s come to pass. And I can’t keep holding him accountable. But I can sure as hell still be angry.
Clay doesn’t waste time.
“It’s about the hard drive.”
My jaw tightens.
He swallows hard.
“I’ve been compiling evidence on David Eddy for over a year. Trying to find leverage. Something that would make him back the hell off and away from Shelby. Anything that would give my sister her life back.”
I don’t let the fury show on my face, but it’s crawling up my spine, threatening to rip out of me in a scream. I glance at Lucky, who nods, confirming everything.
My fingers tap once against the table.
“And what did you find?”
Clay goes on, his voice low, heavy.
“At first, I just wanted dirt on David. But the deeper I went, the more I found. It wasn’t just about him anymore. He’s tied to something huge.”
He pulls out a flash drive from his hoodie pocket and sets it on the table like it’s poison.
“There’s a whole fucking network,” he continues. “Not just Eddy. Politicians. Judges. CEOs. Defense contractors. Old-money families with connections to private military firms and shell corporations I couldn’t even trace at first. They call it The Orchard .”
“The Orchard?”
“It’s what they named the project,” Clay says, his fingers twitching. “On the surface, it looks like a string of offshore accounts and encrypted communications—but the files I cracked? They point to organized trafficking rings. Underground auctions. Women. Children. Entire lives bought and sold like commodities.”
My stomach turns, cold and hard.
Clay swallows.
“Eddy wasn’t just part of it—he helped run one of the smaller circuits in the city. That’s how he kept leverage over people. Lawyers, cops, even federal agents. He supplied them with what they wanted… and kept receipts in case they ever turned on him.”
“Insurance,” Lucky mutters, jaw clenched.
Clay nods.
“Every transaction. Every conversation. Hidden in encrypted folders with boring names—tax returns, shipping manifests. But it’s all there. Coded, sure. But I decoded enough. I have the names of at least a dozen people who should be rotting in a cell.”
I stare at the flash drive.
Twelve names.
And that’s just what he cracked .
Clay’s voice drops to a whisper.
“The man who paid to have Shelby taken? He’s on the board of one of those ‘humanitarian’ foundations. Public face, millions in donations, smiling in photo ops with senators. Behind closed doors, he’s buying women to break them in.”
The silence that follows is thick. Heavy. Electric.
I can feel my blood humming with it.
Burning.
Clay looks at me, guilt sharp in his eyes.
“I didn’t mean for her to get dragged into this. I just wanted to protect my sister. I didn’t know how far down the rot went.”
I nod once.
Then reach for the flash drive like it’s a loaded gun.
Because that’s exactly what it is.
And I’m going to pull the trigger.
I stare at the drive, then back at him.
“Anything else?”
Clay’s eyes meet mine.
“I have a name.”
The room shifts.
The air thickens.
My muscles coil tight like I’ve just stepped into a fight and someone rang the bell. Ready, set go !
Lucky’s jaw ticks beside me, the muscles in his neck tight like he’s holding back a snarl. I can feel the heat coming off him, simmering under his skin. Controlled, but lethal. Same as me.
We’re ice on the outside, fire underneath.
For the past few years, we’ve done nothing but tear these operations apart—trafficking rings, black-market brothels, underground auctions. One after another, we shut them down. We bury the bastards who run them.
But still… they grow back.
Like rot. Like weeds. Like the city itself is infected and we’re just carving tumors out of it with dull knives.
And this?
This one’s bigger.
This one goes all the way up .
“Say it,” I tell him, voice flat.
Clay hesitates, then says the name.
My back stiffens. Lucky goes still.
“That guy’s connected ,” he says, voice dark. “Old money. Real protected. If he goes down, half the state goes with him.”
I smirk, but it’s all teeth.
“Then let’s start the fucking fire.”
Because I don’t care how many people fall with him. I don’t care how many dominos topple or how deep the rot goes.
He touched her.
And now?
Now he belongs to me.
I rise from the chair, grab the drive off the table, and pocket it.
“Where are you going?” Clay asks, voice quiet, almost scared.
I look him dead in the eye.
“To do what I should’ve done the second Shelby bled on my hands.”
I move to the door.
“Which is what?” he asks.
Lucky doesn’t bother sugarcoating it.
“Hunt.”
We’re back in the war room.
The hard drive sits in the center of the table like a live grenade.
No one touches it.
Scar leans back in his chair, the tip of a cigar burning low between his fingers, smoke curling toward the ceiling like a ghost rising from the grave. Kanyan stands behind him, arms crossed—a silent mountain of muscle and menace, his eyes dark with thought.
Brando paces near the wall, restless and sharp-edged, like a dog that smells blood and wants it. His jaw’s tight, fists clenching and unclenching like he's holding something back, but just barely.
Anytime the word trafficking is mentioned, he unravels in his own quiet, violent way.
Because Mia didn’t just lose a sister to it.
She lost two.
One came back, shattered but breathing.
The other?
Dead.
We couldn’t save her.
Brando’s never stopped carrying that. And every time we go after these rings—every time we deal with the likes of men like Eddy or Sloane—it’s like he’s trying to claw justice out of someone else's skin.
Because he never got it for Sophia.
Me? I’m sitting still.
But I’m the most wired I’ve ever been.
Rage isn’t screaming anymore—it’s whispering.
And that’s worse.
“The mayor,” Scar mutters, tapping ash into a tray. “Our fucking mayor.”
Lucky scoffs. “Figures. Always thought he was dirty.”
“He’s not just dirty,” I say. “He’s command central for this whole goddamn circus.”
Lucky grunts. “And he sent that piece of shit Sloane to handle Shelby.”
I don’t say anything.
My fists speak for me—tight, clenched, itching.
Scar exhales smoke through his nose. “Isaiah Sloane’s a small-town enforcer with a reputation for being loyal to the highest bidder. Ex-military. Dishonorable discharge. Been on our radar before.”
“He shot the two kidnappers before we could get to them,” Lucky adds, voice like a blade. “He didn’t count on Shelby surviving. But he was trying to send a clear message to Clay—that he would be next.”
“She wasn’t supposed to make it,” I say, my voice low.
The room falls into a heavy silence, my words hanging between us like smoke.
No one speaks, but I can see it in their eyes—they’re thinking about her. About what she endured. About the fact that she’s still breathing. Still standing.
After everything that was done to her.
Shelby must’ve had fire in her.
Something fierce.
A will to survive that refused to be snuffed out.
Coming back from that?
That takes more than strength.
That takes something primal. Something unbreakable.
She’s not just a victim.
She’s a survivor.
And I think we all feel it now—quiet and unspoken, but understood: Shelby is a fighter.
Scar stubs out the cigar, his eyes sharp.
“Taking out the mayor and Sloane won’t kill this ring.”
“No,” Kanyan agrees, “but it’ll cripple it. Send the others underground. Slow shit down.”
“Buy us time,” I add.
Scar leans forward, steepling his fingers.
“Which is something. We cut off a limb and watch the body bleed. Fine by me.”
A phone buzzes on the table.
Scar answers it, saying nothing. Just listens.
Then he nods once and puts it on speaker.
Dante’s voice fills the room—low, commanding, and cold as ice.
“The decision’s been made,” he says. “Isaiah Sloane dies. So does the mayor.”
No one argues.
Dante continues. “But I want Jayson Caluna to take the hit on the mayor.”
Scar lifts an eyebrow. “Caluna?”
“He’s been circling us for long enough. He wants to wear the jacket, he needs to bleed for it. He wants in—this is how he proves himself.”
Lucky snorts. “You sure he’s got the balls?”
“He’ll have them when I’m done with him,” Dante says flatly. “Give him the target. You tell him failure isn’t an option. And if he fucks it up… Mason, you clean it up.”
I nod once, sharp, even though he can’t see me.
“Gladly.”
The line goes dead.
Scar sits back again, smiling without humor.
“Well. That’s settled then.”
Kanyan picks up the drive—finally—turning it in his hand like he’s holding someone’s soul.
“I’ll make copies. Spread it to our allies. Let them know we’re cleaning house.”
“Let them watch us do it,” Lucky mutters.
I rise from the table, blood roaring in my ears.
Because the countdown’s started.
Jayson might pull the trigger on the mayor.
But I’ll be the last thing Isaiah Sloane ever sees.