Page 28 of Mason

Mason

The November wind off the water is unforgiving in the morning, a storm threatening Spencer’s service with gray skies as far as I can see from my place in the receiving line. The family’s spread throughout it, with Mom and Dad graveside, Grady in the center, and me at the start. Countless flower arrangements fill the space between us, the tethered decorations giving each of us room to mourn.

I appreciate the buffer.

I need it more than ever.

Grady might’ve thought his joke about Spencer after the meeting yesterday was funny, but it was too far, even for him. I haven’t talked to him since, and I don’t intend to for a while. I need time to think. He’s clouding my judgment with all his Giambelli talk. I’m crossing wires that shouldn’t be crossed. Seeing shadows that aren’t there.

The entire service is being held at the cemetery, the venue chosen to keep tensions low. Stuffing a bunch of crime families into one space is never a good idea. At least the open sky gives everyone’s ego a chance to fit in the door without feeling pinched.

The casket hovers over the hole in the distance, a stack of white roses resting on its lid. Like the floral arrangements, they’re tied down, the wind only growing fiercer as we stand here in the open field overlooking the river surrounded by death and sorrow.

I haven’t been here since Mom’s father passed, a bullet to the throat taking out Prather Harris at his sixtieth birthday party. Sprayed blood all over the cake and everything. Fitting for him. Bloody end for a bloody man. The crazy old bastard probably would’ve lived to be a hundred if he didn’t fuck another man’s wife. And to think, he ruled for years without catching heat until he touched a woman who didn’t belong to him. He’s probably rolling in his grave seeing this Emily shit play out.

The line of mourners stretches into the street, and the police are directing traffic to make sure rubbernecking accidents don’t put anyone else in the ground out there. People from all walks of life dot the stream of bodies. Southern Mafia. Italian. Armenian. Irish. Bikers. Jamaicans. Kozlov. I’ve shaken more hands and given more hugs today than I have in my thirty years on this planet. I can’t even tell who’s here because of Spencer and who’s here because they’re afraid of Dad. I’d like to think it’s split fifty-fifty, but I know better.

This one in front of me—Donato Bianco—he’s the real deal. Our families have been tight for years, and genuine tears shine in his eyes when he gives me a hug and firm handshake. The portly patriarch of an Italian crew out of Jersey, he’s the kind of guy you could listen to for hours while he rattles on about the old days with a fat cigar in one hand and an amaretto sour in the other.

“Crazy fucking world we’re living in,” he mutters, shaking his head. He releases my hand and goes to shuffle on. There isn’t much time for small talk in a line this long.

Not even a heartbeat passes before a tanned hand grasps mine, its owner practically shouldering Donato out of the way. I glance up, ready to rip into whatever pompous fuck is rushing one of the most dangerous men I know when I meet the eyes of the deadliest: Anthony Giambelli.

Nearly black irises burn into mine, just as soulless as Dad said. I’ve never met this man, but I’d know him anywhere. His face was all over the news a few years back when he was on trial for murder, one of the many times he skated free despite a mountain of evidence that’d make Everest seem miniscule.

A formal duster coat covers his crisp black suit, a red tie peeking from the top. Inky hair slicks back into a perfect sheen, not a single strand daring to blow in the near-constant breeze. I see hints of Emily in his olive skin and piercing eyes, but I push away the recognition as if he can see it mirrored on my face.

“Anthony,” I greet, shaking his hand. It’s baby soft, which is strange at first, until I remember that this motherfucker doesn’t do any of his dirty work. He pays people to do it now. He has that luxury as a king of the city’s underworld. He wouldn’t even need to wipe his own ass if he didn’t want to. Fuckers would probably line up for the chance. Makes me sick. “Thank you for coming.”

He nods curtly. “My condolences.” It comes out as rough as sandpaper, and rather than move on like I expect, his hand stays in mine for two shakes too many before falling to his side. He plants himself in front of me like a fucking landmine. People move around him, knowing their place in the pecking order.

“I heard about your daughter,” I say, maintaining eye contact. I won’t give this motherfucker an inch. I don’t know if he’s involved in Spencer’s death or not. His designer suit hides a lot of sins, but not enough to cover what he’s capable of. “We have our eyes open for information. No one should have to face this.” I gesture at the coffin in the distance.

Now I’m not a fucking expert in body language or even remotely in tune with emotions, but this man looks every part the broken father at the mention of Emily’s disappearance. He maintains the stiff upper lip approach, but he can’t hide the flash of pain in his eyes when he studies Spencer’s black casket.

He clears his throat after a long moment. “I have my eyes open too, Mason.” His eyes drift back to me with indifference, like I’m nothing more than the dirt beneath his designer shoes. “This city, it keeps no secrets.”

I want to ask what he means by that exactly, but he stuffs his hands into his pockets and continues on in the line. Two massive bodyguards follow close at his heels, making it impossible to pursue an answer.

* * *

Two hours of handshaking and hugs pass before it’s finally time for the service itself. The priest is rambling about sins and damnation, and I’m doing my best not to tally Spencer’s as I look out into the attendees.

Dad and Mom are sitting graveside while Grady and I stand, each of us taking a post behind a parent’s chair while we face the crowd in solidarity. A Carlyle unit that projects strength despite the fractures pulling us apart from the inside out.

The temperature has dropped enough for every inch of exposed skin to burn. My hands are in my pockets, and even that isn’t helping much. Especially with the wind ripping through.

I feel like Spencer’s getting the last laugh here, knowing how much we all hate the cold. This is his payback for everyone in the family calling him Pretty Boy for all those years.

God, I miss the hell out of him.

Life’s gone to shit since Monday, and he hasn’t even been gone a week. Dad’s eternally hammered. Mom can’t stop crying. Grady and I are at each other’s throats. I’m terrified to see what next week will look like if someone doesn’t grab the fucking reins and start steering us off this path. We might wind up destroying ourselves before enemies get a chance.

Figuring out who put him in this casket is the first step in getting back to normal.

Our men are in a jumble, a sea of black suits spread around with copper carnation boutonnieres on their coat. I had one earlier too, but the hours of back-to-back hugs left it a mangled mess. Now it’s sitting at the bottom of some old broad’s purse who swears she’s known me since I was knee high.

After a few minutes of mindless crowd browsing, I realize I’m looking for Anthony out there in the wave of suits but come up empty. He’s probably dipped back into whatever gold-trimmed jacuzzi he slipped out of to show his face.

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