Page 33 of Mason

Mason

Driving to Hillar Park takes an obscene amount of time. Everyone’s cruising at the speed of shit on the highways, and more than once I want to run a soccer mom off the road or shoot out a tire.

There’s a state of emergency now that the storm’s expected to bring plunging temperatures and a foot and a half of rain to the area, making an in and out trip vital in avoiding a travel headache.

I grab a blanket and a sleeping bag from a department store on my way out of the city, knowing the cabin isn’t heated. I don’t care if the girl’s comfortable, but I need her alive. I might get more information out of her in exchange for warmth, too. The cold will bring even the humblest of men to their knees.

Women in the Carlyle fold are completely in the dark about our business, but they’re also well-behaved and know respect. Giambelli’s daughter is practically feral in comparison, so there’s a decent chance she might know something. Giambelli has no sons, so he could plan for her to take over someday. She’s the jewel in his crown. He married off Anna to a washed up loser at eighteen. He’s kept Emily for a reason.

If anything, she could've overheard something. A lot of secrets must echo off the walls of that Lake Como knockoff manor north of the city. Little Emily doesn’t seem like the type of girl who’d ignore them, either.

Either way, I’m getting answers, and I’m not opposed to forcing that smart mouth of hers into the toilet to get them. She might be a little chattier when faced with a mouthful of filth.

I pull onto the dirt road and park in a wide enough spot to turn around later before making the long walk to the knotted tree. I’m still in fucking dress shoes, which given the mud isn’t the best choice in footwear, but I forge ahead before cutting onto the path and traveling the thorn-laden trail with a familiarity I hate. I hold the bundle of bedding under one arm, cupping the other over my eyes to keep the rain out of them. It’s coming down hard and the temperature is dropping, so it’s good I got here now instead of later. My little captive might’ve frozen to death otherwise.

If she’s a good girl and shares some information, I might let her sit by the fireplace. Dixon didn’t leave handcuff keys, but I keep a pick handy at all times. She’ll probably behave for some warmth. If she doesn’t, I’m not opposed to putting a gun to her head.

The hike to the cabin is rough, but the rain weighs the thorns down somewhat, so I can step over the barbs most of the time. It beats the hell out of taking briers to the calves again.

When I reach the cabin, there’s kicked up ground at the base of the porch like an animal ran through recently. Sticks. Mud. Old leaves. Probably a fucking deer. They’re everywhere out here. Like the last time, I skip the squeaky parts of the steps and right my keys to open the door, but this time, it’s unlocked. I know I locked it when I left last. I checked the damn door twice to be sure.

My heart plummets before doing a quick rebound. Dixon might’ve dropped in earlier. Maybe that’s why he was giving me the okay at the funeral. If it was something important about Spencer, he would’ve called.

I open the door and step inside, finding the interior not much warmer than outside. The room is in its usual state of deplorable, but the bathroom door is wide open, sending my heart into an all-out free fall of panic. Dropping the blankets, I rush over, connecting my fist with the wall when I see the empty bathroom.

My pet mafia princess has escaped her cage. Her restraints lay in a discarded heap, a tattered bra the only sign that she’s ever been in these four walls. The black satin looks like a dog got to it, the underwire excised beside it, undoubtedly used to pick her handcuffs.

When I catch her, she’ll wish the thought never crossed her mind, and she’d better be thankful that I’m the one making this discovery and not Dixon. He might’ve put a bullet in her for the trouble.

She has a lead on me, but I’ll find her. I’ll rip this forest apart from top to fucking bottom. She’s next to naked in a scrap of a dress and my coat. She won’t make it far. Not without shoes.

That is, if she escaped today. Had she made it out earlier in the week, she might’ve found her way to freedom by now.

I move to study the chains, lifting the metal and scanning each link.

Did Anthony already know she was here?

If he did, why didn’t he shoot me in the face on the spot at the funeral? Why not off me the moment he found her?

I shake the thought away.

Giambelli isn’t as emotionally driven as a Carlyle nowadays. He’s ruled this long with good reason: He’s a smart man. He doesn’t let conflict throw off his game. If he knows, he’s plotting a long game. Explains the bald fuck at the docks.

Tossing the chains away, I head outside, making a beeline for the disturbed earth at the base of the porch. From this angle, I see definite toes in the soupy mix of mud and pine needles. I track the prints, battling a wave of annoyance and relief when I realize they head right rather than left—the way out of this hell hole. Instead, she ventured straight into thick greenbriers and underbrush, leading to nowhere but pain.

And I have no choice but to follow her.

Fuck my life.

Not even a stride into the thorns, I see the first sign of trouble: blood. The droplet is diluted to a pale pink, the falling precipitation dulling but not entirely concealing my prey’s path. The deeper I step into the patch of wilderness, the more I find. Crimson streaks the branches in a cluster of dots. Bits of fabric cling to thorns, the tangled cloth frosted in red. Eyeing the trail, it spans into the distance, charging right through the brambles that any sane person would avoid. And she’s done it barefoot.

I forge ahead along her path, swallowing the irritation that rises with every vine and thorn.

In and out trip, my ass. It could take hours to find her out here. Days, even. And she’ll be dead by then. A recovery rather than a search and rescue.

The wind howls through the trees; the storm churning gray clouds overhead that I can barely make out between the slush-laden branches. The ran is now falling straight and hard, and the trail of pink grows more faint, spiking the need for me to hurry the fuck up and find her.

The forest only goes thicker from here on out, with fallen trees and berry patches occasionally interrupting the briers. Hillar Park is state land, and this part is rarely used. There’s nowhere to hide or seek shelter. Just forest and swamp. She’s exposed in the worst way possible.

Even when I stop and listen for signs of her, there’s nothing but my blood rushing in my ears.

I can’t help but swear at my luck.

Had Emily Giambelli stayed put, she would’ve seen the night through, resting in a blanket, protected from the storm. By running into the forest, she might’ve sealed her own fate. And mine along with it.

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