Page 14 of Mason

Mason

Fuck grieving.

Staring at Mom while she cries won’t get me any closer to answers. Nor will watching Dad and Grady drink themselves into oblivion. We all mourn in our own ways, but I refuse to sit around while a killer runs free, so I leave to make sense of what leads I have: none.

Street by street, I search for the faceless monster that annihilated my brother. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, other than a beast. No one else would murder a man in his own bed as he slept. It’s the mark of a coward.

I have nothing to run on. No tips. No hunches. Jack fucking shit.

A late night text from Spencer to Dad said he’d be at the docks instead of the Giambelli meet, and until there’s a time of death from the medical examiner, I have to trust that Spencer sent the message. Dad shelled out a small fortune to make sure we’re the judge, jury, and executioner of the matter. The story didn’t even hit the papers.

I replayed yesterday in my head a thousand times over, dissecting every interaction, but nothing was amiss. We had Sunday dinner at our parents’ house, as usual, and Spencer was his same old self, laughing and busting my stones about not tucking my shirt in. If he’d feared for his life, he hadn’t shown it. Instead, he chatted about expansion plans for the import operation, wanting to slowly add more weapons to our portfolio now that our supplier offers more goods we can turn up here.

Now those are on permanent hiatus. They don’t matter anymore. Nothing does. Nothing will until we get justice. I want nothing more than to annihilate the threat. I can’t bring Spencer back, but I can put an exclamation point behind why no crew should fuck with us in a way that will leave fear running through the veins of enemies for generations.

The streets pass in a blur of gray roads and red brick. Truth be told, I fucking hate the city. I’ve never found peace within it. I miss lawns and uninterrupted blue sky overhead. Smelling grass without a side of pollution. Hearing birds chirp or the glory of silence. The constant car horns and bright lights are more than nauseating.

But the temporary torture is a means to an end. Within the maze of concrete, I’ll find answers. The streets speak louder than any forensic lab. Always have and always will.

My cell phone rings at a red light in the southeast. I press the answer button on the steering wheel’s command panel as I study the sidewalks; the stretch littered with bottles and loose leaf flyers. “What is it?”

I’m not in the mood for Grady to try coaxing me into drinking again. We don’t have time to get shit-faced. I don’t know how he and Dad can sit around with beers in hand, even if it takes the edge off. Spencer is dead. Murdered. Destroyed. The pain will still be there when they sober up.

A somber voice floods my car speakers. “I’m sorry, Mason.”

I’d know that throaty voice anywhere, a unique mix of Biloxi and Chicago that came from a youth split between cities.

Dixon.

My fingers flex on the steering wheel. “Where the fuck are you?”

Dixon Roberts is a ghost whose presence haunts the streets since he went underground, leaving the Carlyle fold entirely. There are flashes of him once in a while. A bloody hit in the papers. Reports of a John Doe pulled from the river missing body parts. A local politician going down for porn most people would vomit after viewing. I smile when I see them, knowing my long-lost friend—and brother-- is alive and well.

“Where the fuck are you?” he echoes, mockingly.

I keep my eyes on the sidewalk, annoyed that the answers I need will take time to uncover. I want to put a bullet in someone’s head tonight. It’s the only thing that will fill the void in my chest. “Driving.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes,” I reply, uneasy at his question. I should’ve known he isn’t just calling to offer condolences. Dixon is the eyes and ears of the shadows. “The family’s at the house. I couldn’t sit around any longer.”

“Swear on your mom’s life and Spencer’s memory that you’re alone.”

He doesn’t trust me. That hits my chest like a shotgun blast, adding to the damage already inflicted this morning.

We’ve gone into gun fights together. Grown up shoulder to shoulder. I’d give my life for his a hundred times over without hesitation and didn’t doubt for a moment that he’d do the same for me. We’re brothers. We share a father. And he doesn’t trust me.

I stare at the road ahead, willing him into the streetlights. I need to see him. If anyone can help, it’s Dixon. He sees a side of the city I’ll never know. The underbelly’s belly. The taint of the beast. And he’s a master at navigating it. “I swear on Mom and the Carlyle name. What the fuck is going on?”

He exhales roughly into the receiver before speaking. “What do you know about Giambelli’s daughter?”

“Anna?” Odd that he’d bring her up since she was the butt of a joke this morning in Dad’s office. She isn’t exactly everyday conversation. Women and children never are.

“The younger one.”

I turn onto a side street, a tight squeeze with cars lining either side of the road. “He doesn’t flash that one around much. Eliza or something? What about her?”

I’d seen pictures in the papers years back when Anthony was on trial for murder—one of the many times he got off the hook, thanks to his connections. She must’ve been a teenager back then. Maybe fourteen at most. Pretty like her mother, with dark hair. Nothing like her poor sister. Christ, that nose.

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