Page 2 of Mason

I push off the door and step forward, feeling more like a lion tamer than Dad’s son. “Behaving before a meet’s expected, but they’ll be back. We need to have a plan in place to deter but keep quiet.”

I refuse to doom an operation that took years to build. Once bullets start flying, we’ll lose all the ground we’ve gained and it’ll all fall back on me and Spencer to clean up. It always does.

“Spencer can handle it.” Dad waves at the bottle of Eagle Rare, which Grady once again tilts to his glass.

I rub my temple, the vein beneath throbbing as the headache spreads. “What did he think of it all?”

There’s no way Spencer would okay shooting near our spot. He’s the reason the cops finally stopped patrolling the area, even after the shootout. No one believes that handsome mug is up to anything illegal. He’s too damn pretty.

Dad shrugs, closing the cigar box in front of him with a clap. “You second-guessing me, kid?”

Anger nips at my collar. Withholding details from our men is one thing, but we’re his sons. Every decision affects our future. This business is a long game, and he doesn’t always keep that in mind. It’s why we liquor him up when his temper flares. The once-accelerant to his rage now placates the aging tyrant, preventing the brush fires he’s caused in the past with other crews.

“He didn’t speak up in the car?” I press, trying another angle. Spencer never keeps his opinion to himself. I’m not stupid. He’s as pushy as Mom, if not worse.

Dad’s free hand moves to white-knuckle the edge of the desk. “He was too busy playing patty-cake at the docks to bother coming.”

Shit. Here it goes.

“Dad…” I say, aiming to de-escalate, but as soon as I meet his eyes, I clamp my mouth shut.I’d like to keep all my teeth, so there’s no sense pushing him further.

“Hey… hey… tempers, guys, tempers!” Grady interjects, flicking ash in the overflowing tray at the corner of Dad’s desk. “We can handle anything Giambelli throws at us. He’s nudging. If we hold our ground, we’re good. Let’s remind them who they’re fucking with, okay? No killing. No shooting.”

Dad’s eyes stay hard and fixed on me. “Giambelli knows who he’s fucking with, but it seems your little brother here forgot.”

I hold up my hands, exposing the palms in surrender. “I’m not fucking with anyone. I’m just trying to get the details.” Trying and failing miserably.

“You have what you need,” Dad barks before sucking down another drink. “Now get the fuck out of my sight.”

* * *

“Good job poking the bear, numb nuts.”

I shoot Grady the middle finger over my shoulder on the walk down our parents’ loped driveway toward our vehicles. As the usual antagonist to Dad’s nerves, he can’t resist rubbing it in that I’m higher on his shit list for once.

“Come on, on what planet was that a good idea?” He follows behind, dragging his steel-toed boots along the concrete. “You’re lucky he didn’t pop you in the mouth too.”

I roll my eyes as I reach my SUV, the blacked-out vehicle a behemoth next to his sport coupe. “Not a chance. I asked too many questions; you got drunk at his table last night and disrespected him.”

He stops, pointing at his scabbed lips. Dad’s fist did a number last night, leaving an ugly diagonal gash that stretches to opposite corners. “This is what you get for giving too much lip to Thomas Carlyle, yet you still have that baby-soft mouth. You’re lucky you’re the favorite, Mason.”

I snort back a laugh. Favorite? More like the avoided. The writing’s on the wall. He trusts me as much as a duct-taped parachute. I’m tolerated. Hardly the favorite.

I open my driver’s side door. “No, that’s what you get when you’re a belligerent asshole.”

“I deserve a punch in the face for having fun?”

I clasp the top of the door, not in the mood to rehash last night. If I think about it too long, I might start swinging. He’d yet again proven he hasn’t grown up. That he can’t rise to the plate. “You were a loudmouth idiot. You can’t go around singing about clits and tits at the table.”

He’s lucky that all he got was a fist to the kisser. Had our men been there, Dad would’ve taken a bat to him like old times. If that were the case, he’d have a lot more than a split lip to worry about.

He frowns. “You’d bloody your brother? You’d hurt a face that looks so much like yours?” He smirks, knowing how much I hate being mistaken for him at times. Especially by the women he fucks.

A fresh tide of annoyance rushes in, warming my chest. “Really, Grady? I have enough butt-hurt fucks on my plate.” Dad. Half of our men. He needs to grab a number and get in line. I can’t make everyone happy.

“I’m not butt-hurt.” He shrinks back on his heels, a beta when pressed. Not much has changed since we were kids. He still hates confrontation. With family, at least. He doesn’t mind bar fights one fucking bit, apparently. I’ve spent a few grand bailing his ass out this year alone, and I’ll never see that money again.

“Then what do you call it?” I snap. “In case you need a refresher, we have a crew on the verge of leaving us for an operation that can offer more. We don’t have time for this bullshit.”

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