Page 46 of Mason

“Well, I wish I was calling with sunshine and rainbows, but I’m not,” he announces flatly. “The kids she was at Down Under with are missing. Giambelli had them, but I watched his men release them after the funeral yesterday. Haven’t seen either since.”

“Maybe they went underground. God knows what he did to them.” Anthony isn’t known for merciful interrogations. There are plenty of rumors of him getting a little creative with dildos and fish hooks in the past. And those were the pleasant stories.

“I don’t think so, Mason. The girl hasn’t stepped foot back on her own turf. I can’t find a whiff of the man, either. Her father’s losing his fucking mind.”

That still didn’t mean shit. If someone tortured me for close to a week, I’d go off the radar too.

“Thanks for letting me know he was connected, by the way,” I bite out. “That was a nice blindside from Dad.”

He lets out a huff, his breath crackling through the car’s speakers. “He’s not linked to any families, Mason. He’s a bouncer at Down Under. Not even a big boy, either. No clue why they hired him.”

I finger the lapel of my suit coat. “Emily overheard Anthony say Thomas and something about needing a recording in the same sentence the night you grabbed her. Any idea what that’s about?”

I don’t know why I’m anxious about revealing what she told me. Dixon’s my brother. We keep nothing from one another. Aside from the whole escaped and recaptured captive debacle from yesterday. Maybe it’s because he’s an unbiased opinion, one that isn’t blinded by life in the weeds of Carlyle life. He has the bird’s-eye view and isn’t afraid to tell me what I don’t want to hear, like Dad’s stupidity somehow causing Spencer’s death. Or a half-cooked plan of his to off Emily in retaliation. If that’s the truth, I want out. I’m a lot of terrible things, but I’m not a woman killer.

“She told you that willingly?” he asks, sounding suspicious.

“I nicely encouraged it out of her.” I understand his skepticism, but I know the sputtering message was the truth. She gets too much pleasure in twisting a knife in. If it was a lie, she would’ve added more fluffing.

He sighs. “None of this makes any sense. I can find a trail on anything within a few hours of it happening, but with Spencer, there’s nothing. I’ve wrung this city dry.”

Coming from him, I know it’s true. People turn to him to eliminate problems. If he can’t fix it, no one can. There’s a reason his services have a six-figure price tag nowadays.

“Dad and Giambelli had a meeting Monday. Dad came back pissed off but didn’t give up any specifics, just that they had an understanding about territory. Spencer was supposed to go but texted Dad bowing out the night before.”

“I’ll see what I can find out,” Dixon says, though he doesn’t sound thrilled at the lack of specifics. “This is a clusterfuck.”

“Tell me about it,” I reply. “And I might’ve shot one of Giambelli’s guys yesterday after the funeral. Twice.”

He explodes. “Jesus fuck, Mason. What the hell? Where?”

“He was trying to break in at the docks. He’s fine. Just flesh wounds.” The last part isn’t exactly true. I don’t know what his wounds are, but they can’t be that bad. Painful, but not deadly. “Grady and Travis cleaned up.” I can only hope they put a bullet in the fucker’s head.

“Goddammit. You were supposed to keep quiet.”

I smile, reliving the thrill of watching the bastard squirm in his own blood. “Hey, he came to me. I didn’t go in search of him.”

He lets out a stream of curses under his breath. “I didn’t hear shit about it. At least they did a thorough cleanup.”

I wave at an elderly couple as they shuffle by my window, heading into the hardware store. “I know the truth is going to be ugly, Dix. I feel it in my bones.”

“All we can do is keep moving ahead. One foot in front of the other. We can’t get reckless now.”

I eye the holes in my pant legs and shake my head, relieved he isn’t here to witness the shit show I’ve become. “I know.”

* * *

Emily’s right where I left her.

Like every other time, she’s scared shitless and trying to hide it when I walk in the bathroom, her chin tilted high and shoulders back like she’s ready to tear me from limb to limb.

I test that, tugging the blanket to the side to inspect her wounds. She screeches like a hawk at first before settling in to let me examine the series of scratches and punctures painted across her flesh like a bloody night sky. Most are superficial, and a few swipes of antiseptic wipes have them looking pink rather than fire engine red.

She watches me intently, her eyes wide as saucers. Still wearing my button-down, the hem rests against her thighs. The buttons fasten to her throat, covering nearly every delicious curve she has on her petite frame, but it’s still the hottest thing I’ve seen in ages. She’s swimming in me. Smells like my cologne. Breathes me in with every breath.

God, what I’d give for a chance to taste that smart mouth.

I try to ignore the burn of her eyes, running my hands along her skin from knee to foot on each leg, checking for signs of tenderness or infection setting in. I find neither, thankfully. A hospital isn’t an option for complications, and neither is any crooked doctor on my radar. They all pocket cash from Dad or Giambelli. And two-million dollars is a nice incentive to blow my cover. And if something happened to her because of me, I’d never forgive myself.

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