44. Mason
44
MASON
T he sun is a bastard.
It burns through my eyelids like judgment, and for a second, I forget where the hell I am. My skull feels like it cracked open in the night, and my throat is drier than death. But it’s not the hangover that gets me—it’s the memory.
Mia. Kneeling in front of me. Crying. Telling me she’s pregnant.
Telling me she needs me.
And all I gave her was the stench of whiskey and the weight of disappointment.
I drag myself to the kitchen on shaking legs, pull a glass from the cabinet, and stare at the bottle of bourbon still sitting on the counter. Half-empty. Like me. I don’t touch it.
The knock at the door isn’t polite. It’s a bang. A threat. A warning.
I already know who it is.
I open the door.
Brando storms in like he owns the place—and maybe he does. He’s the only man in my life who’s been steady, constant. The only one who’s never asked me for anything… except to be better.
“Mason,” he says, voice low and tight. “Sit your ass down.”
I don’t move.
“Sit.”
I do.
He paces the kitchen like a panther ready to snap my throat. He’s still in yesterday’s clothes, dark shirt rolled up to the elbows, jaw set like concrete. His eyes are fire. Controlled, but barely.
“I should knock you out,” he mutters.
“Then do it,” I say, too tired to flinch. “I probably deserve it.”
“You think this is about you ?” he roars, slamming his fist on the table so hard the glass trembles. “You think this is about your bruised ego and your tragic pain and your fucking self-pity?”
I don’t answer.
“I watched Mia carry your weight into the car, Mason. I watched your daughter pick you up off a bar floor like you were her child. And then she had to tell you she’s pregnant—pregnant—with tears in her eyes and fear in her voice, and you were too soaked in bourbon to stand up straight.”
“Don’t,” I say, voice cracking.
But he’s not done. He’s nowhere near done.
“She needed her father, and what did you give her? A drunk. A fucking liability. You’re lucky Maxine was there, or I’d have left you in that bar to rot.”
My hands shake. I curl them into fists.
“You think you’re hurting more than anyone else? Mia’s scared out of her goddamn mind and still showed up for you . She’s carrying a baby and you’re carrying a bottle—how the hell do you think that makes her feel?”
“I never asked her to take care of me?—”
“No,” he snarls, “but she did, because she loves you. Because despite all the ways you failed her, she still sees something in you worth saving. And you’re spitting on that, Mason. Every damn day you pour another drink.”
I stand up fast, the chair scraping back. “You don’t know what it’s like?—”
“Oh, I don’t ?” Brando’s face twists. “Did you forget what I went through when Mia was gone with that bastard Falcone? Don’t talk to me about pain. You think you’re some tragic lone wolf? Get the fuck over yourself. You’re not dark, Mason. You’re just drowning.”
Silence slams between us like a dropped curtain.
And then—his voice drops. Low. Quiet. Devastating.
“She’s pregnant, Mason.”
I swallow hard.
“She’s bringing a life into this world. And she needs her father to show her how to survive it. Not to die in front of her one slow drink at a time.”
I can’t breathe.
Not because he’s yelling. But because every word is true.
“She forgave you,” he whispers, eyes sharp. “And you still chose the bottle.”
My voice is barely there. “I didn’t know how to say no to it.”
Brando nods once. Slowly.
“Then learn. Because if you show up drunk again, if you make her feel like she’s alone in this—then I’ll be the one to bury you.”
He walks past me, shoulders tense, jaw clenched like he’s holding back every other thing he wants to say.
But before he’s gone, he pauses at the door.
“And if you think this baby will fix you,” he says without turning around, “you’re wrong. You have to fix yourself first. Or you’ll ruin them both.”
The door slams shut.
And I’m left alone.
With the bottle.
And the truth.
The silence after Brando leaves is worse than the yelling.
It settles in my gut like decay, like the last drink that doesn’t hit the way you hoped it would.
I stare at the door long after it slams, like it might open again and he’ll come back in, say he didn’t mean it. That it’s not too late.
But he doesn’t.
Because he did mean it.
Every fucking word.
I turn back to the kitchen. The bottle’s still sitting there on the counter like it’s watching me. Like it knows it’s all I have left.
Half a fifth of bourbon and a full load of shame.
I reach for the glass I abandoned earlier, but I don’t pour it. Not yet. I just hold it. Feel the cool weight of it in my hand.
I think about Mia.
Her eyes when she said I want you alive.
Her voice when she said I’m pregnant.
Her goddamn grace when I didn’t deserve a shred of it.
I think about the life inside her—the one she’s going to bring into this world, whether I show up or not. And the fact that she still wants me there. Still believes I might be worth something.
My throat tightens.
I set the glass down, not gently.
Then I grab the bottle.
And this time, I don’t hesitate.
I twist off the cap and walk to the sink. The smell hits me first—sweet and sharp and familiar as sin. I stare at it for a long moment, letting it taunt me one last time.
Then I tip it over.
The liquid spills out in a smooth, golden arc, glugging like it’s protesting, like it’s mourning me too. It splashes into the sink with a wet hiss, and I swear I can smell the finality in the air.
I pour every last drop.
Even when it’s empty, I keep holding the bottle. My fingers tighten around the neck like I want to shatter it against the wall, like I want to punish it for everything it ever did to me.
But the bottle didn’t do this.
I did.
I drop it in the trash instead.
It lands with a hollow clunk, and for the first time in weeks, the silence in the kitchen doesn’t feel like a noose. It feels like space. Like breath.
I lean against the counter and drag a hand over my face. My whole body aches—sore in places I didn’t know could hurt. Not from drinking.
From trying.
There’s still a long way to go. I know that. This isn’t some magical turning point where I suddenly grow wings and become Father of the Year. This is just… a choice.
One I’ll have to keep making every hour of every damn day.
But it’s a start.
I look around the kitchen—bare, dull, cold—and realize I can’t stay in this house much longer. Too many shadows here. Too much dust and old blood. If I’m gonna change, I need to move. Act.
Something constructive.
Something that proves I’m not just wallowing anymore.
I go to the bathroom, turn on the shower, and let the scalding water peel away the sweat, the shame, the stench of the bar floor. I watch it all swirl down the drain, steam rising like smoke from the wreckage of the man I used to be.
I don’t know who the hell I’ll be when this is over.
But I swear on everything I’ve broken—I’ll be better than the bastard staring back at me now.
I’m halfway through tying my boots when I hear the knock.
It’s not aggressive like Brando’s was. It’s softer. Deliberate. Feminine.
Hope burns in my chest, slow and defiant—like it doesn’t care there’s poison in my veins, only that it still has room to grow.
It’s Maxine. I open the door.
She stands there in a long coat, hair pulled back, no makeup. Still looks like a queen. There’s something in her expression that feels like both a question and an answer.
She doesn’t say anything for a beat. Just takes me in—my clean shirt, wet hair, no booze in sight.
Then she nods.
Good. You’re trying.
“Mind if I come in?” she asks, already brushing past me.
I shut the door.
She moves through my house like she owns the place. Not rudely. Just… confidently. She sets a small paper bag on the counter and opens it, revealing fresh croissants and two black coffees.
She’s not here to talk about feelings.
She’s here to fortify me.
“Did Brando send you?” I ask, half-joking.
She raises a brow. “Brando’s still trying to lower his blood pressure. I told him I’d make sure you were alive and not curled up in the fetal position on the bathroom floor.”
“I thought about it.”
“Yeah,” she says, handing me a coffee. “But you didn’t.”
I take it. Sip. Burn my tongue a little. It’s worth it.
Maxine leans against the counter, arms crossed, studying me like I’m a puzzle she’s halfway figured out. Not judging. Just blank.
“She loves you, you know. That’s not always a given.”
“I don’t know why she does,” I admit.
“Because despite everything, you’re hers. And deep down, Mia’s always believed in fixing what’s broken.”
She lets that sit there. Lets me sit in it.
“But belief isn’t enough, Mason. Not this time. You’ve gotta do the work. You’ve got to earn her trust—day by day, hour by hour. That’s how it works when you’ve scorched the earth.”
I look up. “You think I can?”
Her gaze softens, but not with pity. With truth.
“I think you have to.”
She walks over to the sink, eyes scanning the empty counter. No bottle. No glass. No stink of defeat.
“You dumped it?”
“Every drop.”
“Good.” She turns back to me. “Now start filling yourself with something better.”
Like what? I want to ask. But I don’t need to. Because she keeps going.
“You’ve got work to do. And I don’t mean the ‘go burn the world down for vengeance’ kind. I mean real work. Show up. Go to meetings. Talk to Mia. Take her to the doctor. Rub her back when it hurts. Build the damn crib. Be there.”
She crosses the room and presses a hand to my chest.
“Here,” she says. “That’s where it starts. Not with a gun. Not with revenge. With this.”
My throat gets tight.
“I’m not good at this,” I admit.
“None of us are,” she says, with a sad little laugh. “But we’re learning. And so will you.”
I want to believe her.
Hell, maybe for the first time, Ido.
She steps back and reaches into her coat pocket. Hands me a folded piece of paper.
“What’s this?”
“Group schedule. AA meetings. Places where no one gives a damn as long as you show up.”
I unfold it. Look it over. Monday. Wednesday. Saturday.
“Pick one,” she says. “Or all three. Just start.”
I nod slowly. My fingers curl around the paper like it might vanish if I let go.
“Thanks,” I say. It’s not enough, but it’s what I have.
Maxine nods once, grabs her coffee, and heads to the door. But before she leaves, she looks back at me over her shoulder.
“Hey, Mason?”
“Yeah?”
“You may have broken a lot of things, but this—” she taps her chest, “this is still beating. So keep it that way.”
She’s gone before I can answer.
And I stand there, in a house without bourbon, holding a list of places to rebuild the pieces of myself I’ve ignored for too long.
It’s a start.
And for the first time in a long time, I want to try.