Page 49 of Mason

She takes the towel and pulls away, rubbing at the tears and flour. “Find a good woman, Mason, and make a nest far from here where trouble can’t follow. Maybe someday I can come enjoy the peace with you.”

“You’re talking crazy,” I mutter, not recognizing the woman in front of me. Mom always kept us together. Formed the bind we desperately needed. And she was unraveling. Or already unraveled. I offer her a grin, trying not to get too caught up in her words. This is the sorrow speaking. The regret and constant battle of would’ve, could’ve, should’ve. Grief brings it out in everyone. “Trouble follows us everywhere. We’re Carlyles.”

And it’s the truth. I can run forever from my name, but I’d forever be a Carlyle.

* * *

Dad walks in at 11 AM on the dot. He’s already flush in the cheeks, a telltale sign that he’s been drinking. He’s in a foul mood, kissing Mom on the cheek and scowling at baking supplies strewn about the kitchen.

“You’re making a huge fucking mess,” he scolds, reaching into his pocket for a cigar and lighter. “I’m not hiring a housekeeper, Katie, and I’m not living in filth, either. Clean this shit up. You think I want to come home to this?”

Mom’s up to her elbows in her next project: pumpkin bread pudding. She frowns, gesturing at the bowl in front of her. “I’m making your favorite, Thomas.”

He lights up and blows a puff of smoke right in her face. “I don’t care if you’re cooking for the church. You’re making a mess of my fucking house. I don’t like it. Don’t do it.”

I itch to punch that cigar down his throat, but Grady interrupts, stepping in from the hall. “Mason, let’s go. We need to check on the docks. I’ll drive.”

Annoyed, I stay anchored to my spot propped against the wall. I don’t particularly want to go with him, but I also don’t want to break Dad’s jaw and end up in a world of trouble here, either. Honestly, I long to be back in the woods where I’m tucked in a protective shell of heaven and hell.

“What are you waiting for?” Dad barks after a moment, flicking his head toward Grady with his eyes burning into me. “Get moving. This isn’t a cooking show. Get the fuck out of my house.”

Mom’s eyes are pleading behind him, so I don’t argue, leaving to trail behind Grady outside without a word. There’s no sense making her time alone with him harder. If we’re all lucky, he’ll take a bottle into his office and drink himself to sleep.

“How’d the morning go?” I ask as we near Grady’s coupe, begrudgingly trying for small talk. His disgusting jokes and questionable decisions at the docks aside, he’s my brother. That, and I need the information. Apparently Dad isn’t doing morning rundowns anymore. Not with me included, at least.

“Shit.” Grady storms to the driver’s side door, yanking it open. Judging by his treatment of his precious wheels, it must’ve been extra shitty.

I lower into the passenger seat, grabbing the lever to slide it back when my knees knock against the dashboard. I have to fold myself like a damn accordion to fit comfortably, but my hair still brushes against the roof. “Giambelli? Kozlov? Another fuckhead?”

Grady starts the car, tossing his cell phone in the center console. The screen is cracked, unsurprisingly. He goes through about a phone a month. “Kozlov. The lying scum deny flashing pieces at us over the last few weeks and are making claims on Mexican turf.”

Uh, duh. We knew there’d be a vacuum there after our dustup over the summer. Spencer and I’d rallied for the Armenians to fill the void, but they weren’t interested in moving any closer to the Russians, and Dad didn’t want to spare the men to patrol it. It was a matter of fucking time before Kozlov moved in on it.

“Are you really surprised?” I ask, eyeing the cross dangling from his rear-view mirror that swing when he accelerates. I grip the crucifix between my fingers. “Getting back to your roots?”

The only thing Grady hates more than conflict is church.

He laughs, lighting a cigarette that’s going to make me reek the rest of the day. “I need the big guy on my side. Dealing with Dad sucks a bag of dicks.”

“You’d know that,” I taunt, letting go and watching Jesus spin like a figure skater. “But what’s the rub with the Russians? We knew all that. Kozlov fucks lie, cheat, and steal every step of the way. No such thing as honor. They kill one another left and right.” Viciously, too. I’ve never seen a more cannibalistic organization.

“I can’t shake the feeling that they know more about Spencer.” He takes a long draw from his cigarette, studying the traffic ahead as we merge onto the highway. “I feel like Giambelli paid them off, but I can’t find proof.”

“Hard to do that when you’re trashed.” I want to hold back the criticism, but I can’t. He has brass fucking balls pretending he’s done jackshit over the last week.

He grips the wheel, fuming. “Oh really? I didn’t see you out this morning with Dad. I didn’t see you at the house with our parents over the last week trying to help them through the hardest time of their life.”

“Drinking is helping? Getting shit-faced every fucking day while the clock ticks by finds answers?” I ask. I knew this was a mistake. I should’ve taken my own vehicle. “And I wasn’t there this morning because you are the one taking over for Spencer and eventually Dad. I’m the best man left to protect Mom.”

“What’s your solution? Running around shooting Giambelli’s men?” he snarls. “Thanks to you, I spent all weekend cleaning up that mess while you dicked off in who-the-fuck-knows-where because you’re the king of secrets now.”

“You’re welcome to ride along with me through the city,” I shoot back. He’s got a lot of fucking nerve. He’s the fuckup. He’s the one always making the problems for others to deal with. Bar fights. Public intoxication. Indecent exposure. His list of messes is a mile long. “And what’d you do with him?”

I’m curious how my darling brother handled his first real challenge since filling in for Spencer. This week will tell how his plans for increasing intake works out. Likely disastrous, like everything else he touches.

The vein in his neck bulges. “He’s dead and disposed of. We all better hope that Giambelli doesn’t start sniffing around about it.”

I turn to face him. “You killed him?” Grady might throw hands without hesitation, but he cried for a week after his first kill—a Greek wannabe gangster with an uzi and a bad attitude. Ever since, he takes every kill personally. I’m not a big fan of it either, but I understand when business needs to be tended to.

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