Page 26 of Mason

Mason

“Look at you, you spooky son of a bitch!” Grady booms.

He grins at Mark from the head of the table as Mark lumbers into the room wearing a t-shirt with a ghost stretched across the chest, his head barely clearing the doorway.

“Trick or treat, rub my feet, give me some good pussy to eat,” Mark greets, delivering the singsong rhyme in his baritone voice on the way to an empty rolling chair around the long table.

For the first time today, I crack a smile.

It’s Halloween, so the shirt and rhyme are fitting, but the day doesn’t feel like a celebration. Instead, the ghoulish decorations that crept out of hiding all around bring back memories I want to forget.

It’s been four long days since finding Spencer, but the image of his pulp of a face still lingers in from my subconscious. It makes sleep almost as elusive as his killer.

Grady chuckles and brushes at his jacket, smearing a clump of cigarette ash across its sleeve. “The Kozlov fucks might help with that. I don’t know any girls with a hole wide enough to park your dump truck of a dick in.”

Mark rumbles with a laugh and sits, the last of our men to arrive at the Friday meeting. The rundown boardroom isn’t the same without Spencer. It doesn’t feel right to see Grady in his chair, and as he puffs away on a cigarette, I miss Spencer’s obnoxious overpriced cologne. I might go buy a bottle and spray it around.

Dad’s too busy drinking his life away at home, so we’re stuck filling in for him and Spencer most days, whether it’s at the docks, the car lot, or in the field. We even sat with Mom to plan Spencer’s funeral that’s set for tomorrow morning. Dad was too trashed to make the trip, failing her when she needed him most.

Sitting there looking at casket after casket in some chintzy pamphlet was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But it paled compared to telling Mom that she couldn’t have the open casket viewing she wanted. She lost it, and Grady and I had to finish the rest of the planning ourselves.

“Obviously, it’s been a fucking week,” Grady breathes, scanning the oak table surrounded by our top men—Paulie, Leo, and Duck, from Dad’s era, and Mark, Travis, and Billy from ours. Each fills a specialized role in our operation, whether it’s Travis handling security here at the docks, or Duck running the vehicle sales at the car lot. “And we’re all left holding our dicks and bracing for what’s next.”

A round of yeses sounds from our men.

“A lot of what we were working on doesn’t seem as important anymore, ya know?” he says, rubbing a hand over his jaw as his voice constricts with emotion. “But we will move on and we will come out stronger.”

Another round of yeses circles the table, this time with the addition of a few of the guys drumming on the wood.

Grady smiles at the rise in enthusiasm amongst the usually stone-faced men. “We will find who did this, kill the motherfucker, and show the world who we are!”

Cheers reach a fever pitch, and a swell of heat rises in my chest. I want his words to come true so much that it physically aches. Hearing the rally of our men makes it feel like a possibility for the first time since finding Spencer.

The mood cools as Grady rattles through the usual morning housekeeping bullet points. The next hot shipment’s contents. Movement of cars to the lot. Security updates about the latest Kozlov fucks—two of which gave Billy a hard time last night on the way over. A positive note that the Italians have seemingly stopped their creeping. It goes on in a drone of regularity until suddenly it doesn’t.

“We’ll be increasing our hot shipments from only Wednesdays to Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. There’s a spike of demand coming in now that the streets are on edge.”

What the fuck?

I flick my eyes to his, but he’s looking down at a piece of paper, his notes scrawled in black marker.

We didn’t discuss any of this with Dad yesterday, and this is major. We can’t triple our intake overnight. That’s insanity. It’s an easy way to draw heat from all sides.

I clear my throat to draw his attention, but he doesn’t look at me. He’s already onto the next bullet point. “As far as our Giambelli issue, I want traps installed. It’s time we catch them like the rats they are when they come back. I’m sure they’ll start singing information about Spencer with a leg in a snare.”

I glance around the table, finding nothing but serious faces lacking surprise. Did I fucking miss something? How is no one questioning this shit? This is the exact opposite of how we run our ship.

“Grady.” I eye him.

He continues to ignore me, breezing through his list without a care in the world. He’s slid into this new role better than I imagined, though his eyes lack the twinkle of humor they usually do. “Next up is the Giambelli girl. He has a million-dollar bounty out on whoever took her and another million on her return. I want information, and I want that finder’s fee. Two million will go a long way here, and it’s two million less in his pocket.”

Two million? Oh, fuck. This just went from bad to worse.

“Grady,” I say it louder this time, and he shushes me. He fucking shushes me like a child.

“That, or we kill her,” he declares, shrugging. “If we find out he’s had anything to do with Spencer’s death, it’s the fairest option. After we get the money, obviously.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

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