Page 15 of Mason

“Emily Rose,” Dixon corrects. “She’ll die in the coming days.” He says it so casually, like he’s reciting the local news.

Warmth hits my face. Women and children are forbidden, regardless of family. One might use them to lure a target into the open, but they aren’t harmed. Crews are monsters to one another, but we aren’t savages. It’s a rule that all crews follow. “How do you know?”

“I overheard a conversation. Giambelli has his place on lockdown, but she’s not safe there.”

I run a hand over my face. The last thing the streets needs is a warring Giambelli family on top of Spencer’s murder. Blood will inevitably spill over and mix in the melee. But I’m only one man. “I hate to be the asshole here, but I have a dead brother on my hands. I can’t be looking after Giambelli’s…”

“It is your problem. It smells southern. This was a sloppy street crew, but they had an in somewhere with both families. Something is cooking.”

I flip the heater on as a chill runs through me. “Dad wouldn’t order a hit on a girl, and Anthony wouldn’t kill his own daughter.” I’d never met the man, but Giambelli’s loyalty is known to be as strong as a Carlyle’s. He’d die to protect his own. Marrying off a daughter is a hell of a lot different than killing one.

“I’m not pointing fingers at exactly who. I don’t have those answers yet. But I need you listening on the inside while I work my leads.”

Glancing at the time on the dashboard, I push aside the weight in my chest. “If someone on the inside wants her gone, she’ll be dead by morning.” It’s terrible, but it’s the truth. And like so many things, it’s out of my control.

“That’s why we act now.”

I grip the wheel, squeezing the leather hard enough to make my knuckles crack. “What am I supposed to do? Barge into Giambelli’s mansion and let him know that someone’s about to kill his kid? I’ll be dead before I reach the front door. The city is on fire with what happened to Spencer. Everyone’s on edge.”

The papers might not have a whiff of his death yet, but the region’s underworld does. Dad spent the afternoon calling patriarchs and leaders from Tucson to New York between drinks, attempting to connect the dots before the alcohol won.

“We take the girl.”

I laugh, shaking my head. He’d lost it too. Everyone in my fucking life has gone insane. “Right. We sneak into Giambelli’s fortress and steal his daughter. What do we do with her? Put her in a bubble until the dust settles?”

Giambelli has a compound outside of the city he keeps stacked with guards. I’d have better luck breaking into a bank vault with a tampon.

“Something like that,” he agrees. “And the work is done.”

My stomach twists. “What do you mean, it’s done?”

“I have the girl. Meet me at our spot.” He doesn’t give me a chance to argue, hanging up.

I immediately try to call him back, but the bastard must’ve called from a blocked number. An angry dial tone follows.

“Motherfucker.” I punch the wheel.

Glancing back at the dingy streets, I swallow, taking it all in. The relative peace of the late night hour. Passersby heading to and from the dive bars down the way. The cracked sidewalks carrying secrets of past sins.

Soon they’ll be red.

In one reckless move, Dixon Roberts damned us all.

* * *

By the old spot, Dixon meant the back side of Hillar Park.

More specifically, the middle of fucking nowhere: the back side of seventy-odd acres where people seldom come to play.

The dense forest is almost an hour outside of the city, with miles of desolate greenery offering a buffer against society unless an errant hiker or camper crosses your path.

Dad had a few dumping grounds around the area in the past, but we haven’t used them in years. When needed, we call in a crew more than eager for corpses to sell. The obvious bullet wounds don’t raise questions.

Driving along the empty roads, my anxiety stirs. Not a single car passes mine as the miles tick by, and only the vehicle’s high beams stand between me and pitch black forest. More pressing, I’m wandering into the wilderness to meet a killer.

Dixon doesn’t frighten me, but the thought would make any man a little queasy. I’ve seen the things he’s done. I’ve killed men when necessary, but I’ve never enjoyed it. He, on the other hand, seems to get a rush from watching the life slip from a person’s eyes. It makes him uniquely equipped to take care of other people’s problems, however they deem necessary.

Dad was a fool not to treat him better. He’s worth the weight of ten men, easily. And he knows it, which is precisely why he got the fuck out of the Carlyle fold. Bound by blood, I love my family, but I’m not blind to Dad’s shortcomings.

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