Page 50 of Mason

He nods, tossing his half-smoked cigarette out the window. “It was the only option. If he went running back to Anthony with two gunshots and a broken nose, we’d be fucked. I need dirt on that bastard before we can do anything. Something to justify an attack so the other families back us and not him.”

“There’s nothing, Grady,” I say, staring out at the wall of traffic ahead. Monday rush hour is still going strong on I-10. “Nothing on him. Nothing on the girl. I’ve looked.”

“I want a bullet in her fucking head if she’s still alive,” he grinds out. “Her little disappearing act is causing us all a goddamn headache. You know that bastard practically accused me at the funeral? Me? Like I give a shit about his kid. You couldn’t give me Anna with a million-dollar check. What makes him think I want his other cum drop?”

I itch to correct him. Emily is stunning. Even with days-old grime and dirty hair, she’s light years beyond any girl either of us ever had. Fresh out of the tub? Fuck. She’s an angel. But I’m also struck with the overwhelming urge to rearrange his face for threatening her. She may have a mouth on her, but she’s nothing like her father. She has feelings in her eyes. Feeling in her voice. She’s a Giambelli by name, but nothing else.

“You can’t kill a woman,” I say finally, the need to go check on her washing over me in a downpour. I shake it off just as quickly. She’s secured, and she’s my captive, nothing more. I don’t need to dote on her. I’m losing my goddamn mind. “We don’t operate like that.”

He clenches his jaw. “What if Anthony killed Spencer?”

I brush at my thigh, a smudge of flour leaving a white line across my pant leg. “Then we take him out.”

He shakes his head. “No, we kill every Giambelli. Otherwise, they retaliate.”

“He has a wife and two daughters, Grady. He’s not married to the fucking Terminator.”

He honks at the vehicle in front of us before snaking into the left lane, flipping the balding man in the plumbing truck the bird as he passes. “Why are you so hard for this chick, Mason? Is she sucking your dick? Paying your rent?”

“I’m not hard for anyone. I’m not a monster. We don’t do that, Grady. That’s not how we function.”

Except I am hard for her. Incredibly. I’ve made that abundantly clear with my hand twice more since returning to my apartment yesterday.

Grady rubs at his hair, agitated. “Look, we need to do things differently if we want a fighting chance. People aren’t playing by the rules. Why should we be at a disadvantage?” A car next to us blasts its horn, and he returns the favor by reaching into his waistband and waving his 9mm out the window.

“Grady, what the fuck?” I shout, grabbing his arm and hauling him toward me, trying to prevent yet another headache. I can’t juggle bailing him out again. I have enough plates whirling in the air.

He turns, meeting me with furious eyes. “We kill them all, Mason. Every last motherfucker.”

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