Page 54 of Mason

He massages his temples like he’s trying to soothe away a headache. “The cuts, smartass.”

“They’re fine.” Some are scabbed while others are nearly gone, faded into dim pink lines. It’s not the prettiest sight down there, but at least the spiky leg hair disguises most of the damage.

His hands drop into his jacket’s pockets. “How are you feeling?”

I stab at a caper. I swear I could eat a hundred of these dishes and never get full. “Like I want to go home.”

To lie in a bed that doesn’t make me feel like I’m eighty by morning. To shower in water that doesn’t smell like a lumberjack’s ass. To apologize to Papa and beg for forgiveness, hoping like hell that Steven was misplaced in a windstorm or something.

“Besides that.” He rolls his eyes, adjusting his long legs to cross as he leans against the cabinet. I’m surprised the crumbling piece holds under his weight.

“Like one of those puppies on the sad Sarah McLachlan commercials,” I offer, shrugging. “Hungry. Cold. Lonely.”

He lets out a low whistle, and the sound sends goosebumps across my skin. “Do you give your father this much grief?”

I nod. “It typically gets me what I want.”

His eyes find mine as I set my empty container down and plop the fork inside. “And what’s that?”

I answer honestly, “Freedom.”

It’s the most honest I’ve been with him. Anyone, really. I put on a good front for Rachel to keep her in line, but my entire life, I’ve wanted nothing more than to just run away screaming and never look back. From the name. The money. The expectations.

He lifts a brow, and I know he sees the response for what it is. Maybe he’s in a similar boat. “Even at home?”

My fingers sink in the blanket, pulling it closer. I feel exposed, but I can’t shut up now. It feels like a boulder just rolled off my chest. Someone is listening. “Yeah. And to finish school. Maybe go for my masters someday.”

Pushing for a bachelor’s degree was hard enough. A master's degree is crazy talk with Papa. He’ll laugh me out of his office.

The man is hooked on my words, waiting for the next one. “And then what?”

“I want to work.” And make honest money of my own. Build a life of my own. One outside of the Giambelli bubble where I’m more than a mobster’s daughter. But he doesn’t care about all that. People think happiness comes with power and money, but that’s a crock of shit. All that is, is control. Control over me. My decisions. My every move. And I hate it.

I expect him to laugh, but he doesn’t. “Where?”

I swallow, the sudden dryness to my throat either brought on by nervousness or the copious amount of sodium I just downed. “Somewhere that I can work without someone breathing down my neck. Maybe my own accounting firm.”

His lips twist. “That’ll be hard with your father. You might get tangled into trouble.” He doesn’t wield the truth as a weapon, rather nudging me into sensible waters where I won’t catch a prison sentence.

I tilt my chin high. “Not if I refuse to handle his blood money.”

He grins. “Blood money?”

“I know he makes the Mississippi run red if someone crosses him like you do.”

I’m not naive enough to think Papa’s never killed anyone. It may not be in my face, but I can read and I have two eyes. His trials have dragged the family through hell. The crime scene photos are seared in my mind forever. Mama brought Anna and I every day and made us look at things I knew Papa did in my heart. All to put on a united front. I love him, but Papa’s a murderer. His money is dirty, and I don't want people to die for me to have nice things.

The man eyes me, frowning. “I don’t make the Mississippi run red.”

“Bullshit.” I saw the blood on him. He’s just like Papa.

He shrugs. “I don’t.”

“What do you do with them, then? Bury them?” I push. “Murder is murder, buddy.”

He feigns innocence, smiling. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Look, you can’t bullshit me. Just like I can’t bullshit you. We speak the same language, even if it’s a little different in our circles.”

---