Chapter 5 Mason
MASON
Bang!
The glass thrown at my head hits the painting behind me, splitting the fragile canvas and knocking it off its hooks on the wall. Slivers of the wreckage spray the table underneath, glittering in the amber light from the fireplace in my father’s office, at Grant Manor.
I don’t move.
I don’t wince.
If it were aimed at me, I would be bleeding right now. But it wasn’t. Like me, my father is a tad dramatic.
“You pillock!” Reginald Grant—a tall, large man with a face chiseled from an aged mountain—bellows. “What part of ‘She is off limits’ did not go through that thick head of yours? You don’t decide how we deal with outside threats—The Council does. We have a truce.”
“Who cares? You’re telling me she isn’t here as some kind of a warning shot?” I bark.
“Not a warning, she’s bait,” he spits. “And you’re the fucking idiot who took it. You crossed the line, Mason. The orders apply to you, too.”
“Debatable,” I mutter.
Tom chuckles behind my father. Thomas Pike—Hugo’s dad and my father’s right-hand man—is tall, thin with bleached-blond hair and an unrivalled cunning that runs in the family.
Of course, Hugo went MIA the moment we received the call.
For a guy who wants to conquer the world, he’s pathetically scared of his old man.
If you ask me, he has it easy. I like Tom.
Things would be easier if he were at the helm.
Easier. Faster. Effective. But Fort Council is run by family names, and Grants have always been at the rudder.
My father fixes me with a scowl, eyes full of contempt, then turns to Kane Berkeley—the fucker who grassed me up.
Kane sits on the armchair by the window, like the grim reaper, his dark aura dripping from every strand of the beehive on his head.
Kane is the son my father wanted. Sadly, he isn’t.
As much as he hates it, my father is stuck with me, and I with him.
“This one’s got a fist for a brain.” My father motions toward me. “What’s your fucking excuse?”
“I was promised intel.” Kane lifts a lazy arm, shooting a look at me. “He didn’t say how he was planning on getting it.”
“Did we get anything?” Tom chimes in.
“Luka’s looking into it.” I shrug.
Tom and my father exchange a wary glance, instantly falling into a silent conversation.
Kane, Hugo, and I grew up with this shit, the meaningful glances and covert whispers, only meant for ears they deem worthy, as if their thoughts spoken out loud will light Fort on fire.
Futile attempts to keep us out of the thick of our unsavory operations.
Tough grind. We are at the heart of it, anyway.
“Will you relax? It’s just a girl, and she left unscratched.”
“She’s not any fucking girl,” my father snaps with a hint of… desperation?
The fuck?
Reginald Grant is ruthless, cold, maybe even heartless.
But he is never desperate. The Fort spent a decade ensuring we were never weak against the London monopoly vultures.
Grants, Berkeleys, and Pikes made it happen.
He made it happen. So, why the fuck does a twenty-year-old girl make Reginald Grant shake in his boots?
His fingers grind on the desk, like he needs a break from the weight on his shoulders.
“She won’t talk,” I mutter, taking out the thorn in his side.
I’m the wayward son. The faulty coin in my father’s enormous wealth. The reason for his anger. The source of his disappointment. But I am not his fucking weakness. I don’t leave my tracks uncovered.
“The guard?” Tom raises an eyebrow.
“He lost her on his watch.” Kane stands, placing his hands in his pockets. “He has more to lose than we do. Besides, if he were going to report it, he would have already.”
“Get me a meeting with Jack Romney. Better we give reassurances before he changes his mind,” my father tells Tom, who nods once and starts working his phone. “Let’s try to keep a lid on this. And no more fucking mistakes.”
Slowly, my father’s gaze lifts to the torn Gentile Bellini painting behind me. I bite back a smile. Sure, I threw a wrench in his day—but it’s nothing compared to the throwdown he’s in for when Ma lays eyes on what’s left of her precious Italian collection.
Shame I can’t stay to watch the fireworks.
More urgent matters need my attention tonight.
Like finding out what exactly the Etheridges have on my mighty father that puts him on edge with the mere mention of this girl’s name.
And there’s only one person who can tell me that.
The one who knows everything, all the fucking time.
Like some smug, walking encyclopedia of all the shit no one asked for.
As soon as we step off the porch, I slap a hand on Kane’s shoulder. “Not so fast.”
“What now?” he scoffs, gravel crunching under his boots as he strides toward his Jeep.
“What does the viper have on my father?” I ask, point-blank.
Kane is the oldest of our generation, so watching Hugo and my every move is an old guard-dog habit of his. But to have the balls to go against me on something like this? It means he definitely has a personal interest in this. And he is going to tell me exactly what that is.
“What makes you think I know anything?” Kane shrugs in a pitiful attempt to deflect and throws his jacket onto the back seat of his Jeep.
I lean against the driver’s door, blocking his way and patting my pockets to find a cigarette, then cup my hands to light it.
“Because you know everything, fucker.” I take a long drag. “He confides in you before he trusts Tom with Fort secrets.” I tilt my head toward Grant Manor, the ivory-washed estate, perched like a crown on top of the hill, currently shaking with Ma’s rapid-fire Italian tirade.
Kane’s lips turn up at the corner, toning down the serial killer vibe. A smidgen.
“Careful. Your jealousy’s showing, heir.”
“Keep dreaming, spare,” I drawl, blowing smoke in his face. “So are you going to tell me or do I have to—”
“Turn into a little bitch and fuck shit up again?” he cuts in, fanning the smoke away like the purist he pretends to be.
“Hell yeah!” I slap the Jeep’s black metal, just to piss him off.
His brows knit together until that familiar vein pulses at his temple. “Get the fuck off my Jeep,” he growls, shoving me away from the door.
I let him settle on the wheel before I lean through the open window.
“Spit it out,” I bark, my patience wearing thin.
Kane’s packed for his slender frame, but he’s got nothing on me. I’ll rip the door off his steel mule and drag him out if I have to.
“I’m not telling you anything. You’ll just make it worse.”
“Yeah? Suit yourself. If you won’t tell me, she will. When I have her tied to my bed.” I smirk.
Kane glares at me, debating murder. We may not be blood, but we are as close as brothers. Same as our fathers. He knows better than anyone I’m more than capable of keeping my word. And yet, he refuses to budge. Interesting. First, he had the nerve to cross me. Now, he dares to keep me in the dark?
He just raised the stakes. And I’m going to enjoy getting the truth out of him. My way.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” I pat the metal surrounding his window.
His eyes narrow at me, nostrils flaring, then he punches the accelerator and takes off into the wind, spraying gravel.
I stare after Kane’s jeep, when, out of nowhere, a sharp crack slices through the air.
My head snaps toward the house, cigarette slipping from my fingers, burning a hole in my leather boot. Birds explode from the oak tree, screeching into the gray sky.
The sound, like a car backfire. Only it wasn't.
That familiar, unmistakable sound was my grandfather’s shotgun.
Fuck. I really hope Ma shot that decrepit grandfather clock and not the Grant family coat of arms hanging above the fireplace.