Page 82 of Mason

“Hey, there!” she greets, oblivious to the fact that Anthony’s practically dry-heaving as the smoke drifts toward him. “Carlo will be out in a minute. He’s grabbing an overnight bag since you’re all headed up to the Smokies.”

Anthony somehow reaches an even darker shade of red. “He told you?”

The woman rolls her eyes, the lids coated in a thick coating of golden shadow. “Obviously. I’m his wife, Tony. That’s what husbands do. Well, normal husbands that fear waking up with a steak knife through the heart for lying.”

I have to bite my tongue to keep from laughing. I like this woman. She may smell like my worst nightmare, but she gives zero fucks, a lot like the brunette beside me, who looks like she’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

She’s staring at the floor, so I nudge her when Anthony’s busy bickering with the woman about her not blabbing her big mouth. She hesitates at first, but when those dark eyes meet mine with their sweeping lashes, I’m brought back to that first time seeing her awake at the cabin. A sad, lost girl with nowhere to run.

I’m about to barter away my life for hers when he booms, “Carlo, Jesus Christ, why would you tell Sophia of all fucking people?”

My eyes drift over and my nuts shrivel at the big, bald motherfucker standing in the doorway leading to the kitchen in a tight beater and camo cargo pants, his thick forearm bearing two healing wounds from gunshots courtesy of my 9mm. Not only that, but his beak of a nose hooks left from the door I kicked into his face.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He sees me as soon as I see him, and that big sourpuss of a face contorts like he wants to crack my head like an egg and eat it.

Well, either he’s risen from the dead with the help of some hocus pocus, or Grady didn’t off this motherfucker, and he has some explaining to do that my dead brother can’t. If my brother let him go and he didn’t blab to Anthony, something smells far worse than the cancer floating in the air.

He glances between me and Anthony before shifting his focus to Emily, who I not-so-subtly step in front of. I’d prefer she not be in the room at all for this, but this is the next best thing while her father calls the shots.

I clear my throat, ready to bite the bullet and get this over with. “I hate to be that guy that kills the mood, but why were you trying to break into my facility the day of my brother’s funeral?”

Anthony turns to me to deny it, thinking I’m talking to him, until he sees that Carlo and I are squaring off across the room from one another.

The bald fuck has the balls to lie with a grin, “Do I know you?”

“I put those two holes in your arm, didn’t I?” I point at his two distinct markings, bright red and angry, much like their owner, who’s reaching Anthony’s shade of crimson. “And broke that big fucking nose of yours.”

Anthony frowns, studying his man. “I thought you said you had a nail gun accident.”

I don’t bother to ask how the fuck that could bust a nose, too, plowing ahead toward the important shit. “So, were you at the Carlyle docks for official Giambelli business, like the other guys we ran off, or were you there for something to do with my brother, and that’s why he didn’t put a slug between your eyes?”

Anthony cuts in before Carlo can, snapping his head toward me. “There’s never been Giambelli business at the docks. I don’t give a shit what you do. I told Thomas that. Too many Kozlov fucks crawling around.”

“Well, why’d we catch this asshole on our property?” I nod toward Carlo, who seems keen on the deny, deny, deny approach.

“Why were you there?” Anthony demands, looking like he’s a fuse short of blowing a gasket.

The oaf shrugs. “I was looking for Emily.”

“If that’s true, then why would Grady tell everyone that you were dead?” My patience is razor-thin with this asshole, and if his boss wasn’t standing a foot away, I would’ve already nestled a bullet in his skull and called it a day. He’s the Italian connection Dixon sniffed out, just like Grady was the Southern one. No wonder it was so easy for Grady to find Oscar and Rachel. This prick led him right to them.

I don’t care why. He planned to off my girl, and thanks to her being a hellion, she’s standing behind me, alive, kicking, and currently fuming mad at me. I have the answers I need. I don’t need excuses. I’ve heard enough for a lifetime.

Carlo’s hand falls to his pocket, and mine follows suit to my waistband. He’s slower to the draw, whipping out a rusty-tipped pistol after my 9mm is already firing, hitting him in almost the same spot as one scar from that day at the docks.

He screams and drops his piece to the stained rug, his forearm badly mangled with blood pouring out worse than the last time. The impact tore through whatever repair was still heeling, creating a larger, deeper hole.

Lowering my weapon, I step forward to grab the dropped gun. It's a mistake. I’m no longer locked on him, and with his functioning hand, he extracts another pistol that’s cradled on his hip, aiming it at Emily, who screams behind me.

Instinctively, I throw myself back to shield her. Just in time, too.

A loud bang fills the air, and the bullet skims past me, the shot nowhere near its mark as it hits the television.

Another follows it, but I’m on top of Emily on the floor, unable to see who or what he hit. Waiting for the shooting to stop, I wrap around her, her body pressing into mine.

A clearing of the throat has us separating, and I look over to see Anthony frowning. “Touch my daughter like that again, and you’ll look like him.” He nods toward the lump on the floor that was Carlo, a single red hole now decorating his forehead. “Aim for the head next time, amateur.”

---