Page 73 of Mason

Mason

Grady’s buried without fanfare two days later.

No fancy casket. No flowers. No throngs of mourners.

He’s cremated, stuffed in an urn, and placed at the far corner of the family plot in an eternal timeout. At least that’s what Mom calls it.

She went a little overboard with the exorcism and holy water, but I did as she asked, making sure both the priest and Lord’s liquid were on hand during the grave-side service that lasted all of five minutes. Dixon had a field day with the holy water, making a sizzling sound when Mom sprinkled some on Grady’s urn. She smacked the shit out of him in front of the priest for that.

Just the four of us went: me, Dixon, Mom, and Dad. And the four of us returned to the house a short time ago, trading stories about when us boys were kids, even ones with Grady. Dad wants to ban his name from the house and business, but I can’t do it, and I don’t expect anyone else to, either. What’s done is done, and not talking about him won’t bring Spencer back. It’ll only kill his memory, and despite the way things ended, I don’t want to forget Grady. He’s my brother. I’ll always carry that connection.

A few of our men are on the way over to discuss plans going forward, and when Dixon shifts on the couch, I know they’re here.

Travis walks in the front door flanked by Mark and Duck. Their faces carry a somber tone, the crew’s morale hitting rock bottom after Dad shared the news about Grady and what he’d done to earn my bullet to the heart.

But Dixon isn’t one to let a sour mood linger, so he takes one look at Travis and grimaces. “Good Lord, you aged like an avocado.”

Travis, a gruff son of a bitch who’s likely never seen—possibly never even heard of—an avocado scans the room with a scowl before lighting up with a smile. “Dixon fucking Roberts?”

“Travis fucking Yates,” Dixon echoes, pushing to stand.

The two men exchange a stiff hug before our other men join in; our group reunited for the first time in ages. I don’t know how long it’ll last, but having us all in one place feels right. I don’t want it to end, and if I have my way, it won’t. Dixon belongs here, with us, even if he’s not working with us.

Mark sits next to me on the sofa, his massive frame invading my space as the behemoth settles in, and that’s with him scrunching his knees toward his chest to be considerate.

“Any news from the docks?” I ask, curious how things are going now that Giambelli has Emily back. I imagine his men will finally fuck off and stop the snooping they started before this clusterfuck all started. If not, I might have to call Anthony myself and remind him that Carlyles saved his daughter.

Mark grins. “Not a fucking peep.”

“That’s good.”

It’s all good. The family. The business. Shit with the Giambellis. So good that I should sit back with a cold one and toast to better days ahead. But I’m not happy.

It isn’t the loss of Grady or the near-constant drama of the past month stealing my joy. Nor is the sudden responsibility thrust on me since Dad’s now openly flirting with retirement. It’s Emily.

Two days have passed since I’ve seen her, and it might as well be a lifetime. She’s alive and kicking out there somewhere, probably mouthing off to whoever she’s with, but she’s not mouthing off to me, and she’ll never do it again. Grady took her from me that night, even if it was indirectly.

She’s texted me at least a dozen times already, not that I have a fucking clue how she got my number. Everything from I miss you to please wait for me to a four-part critique of my captive-keeping performance. Every message hurts more than the last to ignore, especially that last one.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. She should hate my guts. Hate that her friend is dead and that I’m breathing when I promised that Rachel was safe with Anthony. Telling her myself should’ve pushed her away, not made her pine after me like a lovesick puppy. But this is how it is, and I have to pretend not to care. This isn’t about how I feel. It’s about what’s best for Emily.

Travis leans on the arm of the sofa, a beer cradled in his hands. “Did Giambelli mention that guy Grady took care of after...?” He trails, likely unsure of who exactly in this circle knows what about the matter.

“He didn’t, and none of us will either until it comes up in conversation.” I’m not looking forward to telling Anthony that I shot one of his men twice for snooping, or that my dear brother disposed of him. “Where did you guys put him in case he wants him back?”

His brows furrow. “I thought Grady told you. He said you were going to help him bury him later as punishment.”

“Didn’t happen.” Shit. That corpse could be anywhere, and Giambelli will lose his fucking mind if he ever finds out about it. “He left a dead body out in the open?”

Travis snorts up a ball of phlegm that he swallows in animated fashion. “Hell if I know. That big bastard was alive and moaning when I left.”

I rub at my temple. Knowing Grady, he probably dumped the asshole on Giambelli’s turf with my business card in his pocket. “Well, I guess we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

And hopefully that get out of jail free card is still valid when we do.

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