Page 43 of Mason

His eyes flick from the falling snow to me. “Francis?”

“I don’t know your name,” I explain, shrugging. “You look like a Francis, so I’ll stick with that.” He didn’t, but if his name is Francis, I’ll need to rethink the name’s heat level.

“That’s not my name.”

“Harold?” I ask, smiling when he shoots me a hard look that says shut it. “Clyde? Homer? Dick? Douglas?”

He’s not at all amused. “Keep it up and I’ll lock you in the bathroom.”

I wave a dismissive hand. “And miss out on this entertainment? Come on, Frank. You know you’d miss me.”

He’s six feet of glowering misery at the window. “Did you annoy your father’s men like this? Maybe that’s why one decided that enough’s enough.” He means it as playful—I hope so, at least—but his words still sting on impact.

“I don’t know why someone wants to kill me,” I admit, pulling my eyes away from him. “I’m nothing but nice to them. I make sure everyone gets birthday cookies and Christmas gifts. It’s the least I can do. They’ve kept me safe from people like you since I was born.”

“People like me?” He scoffs.

I clutch at the blanket, my hands suddenly clammy. “Kidnappers. The Chicago family, you know? Or maybe the Southern guys.”

“Chicago?”

I chew on my lip for a second, steeling my nerves. “Your buddy has an accent. Not that hard to put two and two together, mister. And if you were Russian, you would’ve already forced me to fuck a busload of old guys.”

I know the Southern Mafia and Chicago family as foes to avoid, but the Russian gang’s arrival in Biloxi came with a stern lecture from Papa. I know they run girls up and down I-10, selling their bodies and raking in the money. This man didn't look at me in a tub because I asked. He’s not one of them. He’s got some morals somewhere in there.

He doesn’t give me an inch, crossing his arms instead and staying silent. God, he’s a broody son of a bitch.

“Look, we’re stuck together for now. Maybe I know something that’ll help you figure out who this son of a bitch is and get me out of your hair.” I’m desperate. I’ve lived off bottled water and gas station food for close to a week. I would do despicable things for a hot meal and a decent shower with soap.

His eyes finally wander over after a moment, but he doesn’t look entirely convinced. “Are there any new men on your father’s crew?”

“Not at the house, but he could have some elsewhere. I don’t meet anyone until they’ve worked with him for years. His best men have been with us since before I was born.” Carlo, Donny, Piero. They’ve known Papa longer than he’s been with Mama. They’re practically my uncles.

I feel like a traitor for revealing anything to this man, but it’s nothing that could get anyone hurt. I’m not that dumb. Besides, I doubt I know enough to get anyone into trouble.

“Has Anthony gone off on anyone lately? Given them a reason to want to hurt him?”

I laugh bitterly. “It’s not the Giambelli house if Papa isn’t yelling at someone.”

“Anyone the night you went out? The night Dix-” he asks before stopping himself. He almost slipped with something. It’s all over his face. “The night you went to Down Under.”

“We went into lockdown that afternoon,” I explain, wringing my hands. “He gave me money to go shopping when I woke up, telling me to buy myself something pretty. When I got home, he was all wound up and said I had to stay in.”

I wish I’d bought that ring. At least I’d be wearing something of my own. Instead, I'm wrapped in this stranger’s clothing, my thong discarded with my tattered bra during my bath last night after deciding I’d rather go commando than wash the thing every day.

“But you went to Down Under anyway?” he asks, his brows pinched.

“I snuck out,” I admit. It sounds ridiculous when I say it aloud. Especially given the current circumstances. “Then your friend snatched me like a penny off the sidewalk.”

“He wasn’t yelling at anyone around the house?” he pushes.

I shake my head before pausing, remembering Papa yelling on the back porch when I was on the roof. “He was angry on the phone talking about someone named Thomas. Asking if there was a recording or something.”

Without warning, he explodes over, sending me scrambling across the cot until my back’s against the wall. His hand hooks my ankle through the sleeping bag and hauls my body toward him. He flings a leg over my hips, pinning me against the mattress with his thigh, looming over me like a fallen angel. “What exactly did he say? Word for word.”

“I told you what he said!” I cry out, his weight squeezing the air out of me. “He told the person he needed Thomas’s words on a recording! That’s all I heard; I swear!”

The man above me is nothing like the one I thought I knew. He’s ruthless. Cruel. The truth burns in his eyes. I’m nothing more than a job to him. A means to an end. He’s worse than the man from Down Under. He’s a chameleon with a hidden switch that brings out his true identity. A ticking time bomb.

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