Page 3 of Mason

He’s too busy trying to get his dick wet to notice the cracks in our foundation. We may feel the Carlyle tie to the bone, but others aren’t wired the same. Taking a bullet scares them. They see every drop of their blood shed as one too many, while Carlyle-born see it as blood spilled for their own. An honor. We all have our share of scars, but carrying them with pride is another beast entirely.

“I… I…” he sputters, taken aback. For once, the quick-witted fuck is speechless.

I step into him, chest to chest with my one-year-older brother. “Shooting blindly is foolish.” It would also seal our fate. He knew damn well what he was doing when he egged Dad on in his office. He knows how hard it is to reel him back when he goes off the rails. He’s just too childish to see the long-term consequences.

His features sharpen. “What do you want to do about it then, big shot? Sit back and let them run recon on us unchecked? That’s weak.”

I lock eyes with those as wild and blue as mine, lowering my voice before we attract Dad’s attention in the house or worse—our men overhear. A few of them are always on the property, a large sprawl we moved onto when Dad took over the helm from Mama’s father. “I want to talk to Spencer and get the truth about what happened today.”

There has to be a reason he opted out of going to a Giambelli meet. Dad is never a man of few words, so something has to be lurking in the weeds and is likely poised to bite.

Grady swallows hard, his throat bobbing as he studies me. “Dad wouldn’t keep anything from…”

I dip in close, cutting him off. “We need to figure out what we’re facing. Anything to keep control before this all goes to shit.”

* * *

We drive in tandem to the docks, though a vehicular pissing contest breaks out within a few blocks. Grady, being the dick he is, hugs my bumper in his sports car and I, forever an asshole, brake-check him nonstop. It’s Carlyle for exchanging I’m sorry in a family where apologies come as frequently as Halley’s Comet.

The path is the same we’ve taken a million times, but I scrutinize the streets with fresh eyes. Any car that slips behind us can be a tail. Every delay ahead purposeful. Giambelli is a pushy son of a bitch, and if he wants in on our operation, he’ll make a path.

When we pull onto the pier, our guards tug the gate wide, and we ease behind the barbed wire fencing. The area is light with men, our next delivery not due until Wednesday. With straight cars onsite, we don’t need as much heat around. Heavy forces are only on hand when the cargo’s hot. As one of the top weapons smugglers in the region, our merchandise has a lot of eyes on it and not everyone wants to pay.

I park near the receiving building’s entrance, surprised not to see Spencer’s red Cadillac here already. He always takes the first slot to avoid getting his Balenciagas dirty. He keeps those boots shinier than his damn car.

Seagulls shriek with frantic calls as I slide out from behind the wheel, scanning the lot for the Cadillac and scrunching my nose at the stench. The port always smells like day-old fish and truck exhaust, and regardless of the steady breeze off the river, it doesn’t disappoint this morning.

“You’re a real cocksucker.” Grady hurls the insult as he adjusts the 9mm in his waistband, a twin to the one nestled in mine. “I almost hit you on I-10.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t ram your head up my ass,” I suggest with a shrug.

He clenches his jaw, sliding his sunglasses on top of his head. “What would you have done if I hit you?”

“I would’ve left you and your piece of shit where you fell.” I cross to the building’s entrance, our operation’s resident enforcer, Travis, manning the door.

“That’s not funny, dickhead.”

“Really?” I venture, waving at his import laden with aftermarket trash. He wastes more money fixing the lemon than it would cost to buy a brand new, fully-loaded vehicle. “You shouldn’t pick fights you can’t win.”

He pats the side of his coupe. “I can smoke you in a race any day.”

I grin and exchange raised brows with Travis. “What good is speed if a car breaks down if you look at it wrong?”

Grady’s nostrils flare at the barb and he charges over with clenched fists, ready to defend his car’s honor with a punch. “It hasn’t broken down in…”

I pat his shoulder, his body tense beneath my fingers. “Relax. I’m fucking with you, Grady. It’s a joke, not a dick. Don’t take it so hard.”

Travis hoots, the laugh coming out like thunder from above before Grady finally cools enough to follow me inside.

“Everything good here?” I ask, studying the crop of cars lining the warehouse from the doorway. The mix of sedans are nothing special, but they’re mid-level movers and keep the dock and car lot looking busy between real shipments. Every new vehicle undergoes processing and detailing onsite, making it easy to strip the hardware from hot receipts unnoticed.

Travis’s smile melts into its typical hard line. He’s a jovial son of a bitch, but with business, he’s lethal. “Yeah. Quiet as hell. Nothing on the patrol last night or on the cameras.”

“Good.” Grady reaches into his pocket for a cigarette. “Where’s Pretty Boy?”

“He’ll get you for that,” I crack. I might’ve thought it, but I never utter Spencer’s nickname aloud around our men. I’m scrappier, but once he takes over for Dad, I don’t want to get stuck with the shit jobs again.

“Fuck him.” Grady laughs, undeterred.

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