Page 10 of Mason

I already know everything about him. How he climbed his way up the ranks, carving his own path in a world where power is earned in blood. He stands in the shadow of Dante Accardi—the man who runs everything in these parts. The name alone is a force of nature. Even behind bars, I can feel the weight of it. Accardi isn’t just another crime boss. He’s something bigger. Something men like Ironside and De Scarzi orbit around, like planets caught in a massive, inescapable pull.

I’ve never met Dante Accardi, but I can imagine the presence he commands. Maybe even more than I do. And I’m the one they call a serial killer.

Accusedserial killer.

Ironside exhales as he sidles up beside me, his gaze sharp as it skates across the yard. A silent tension cuts through the airbetween us before he speaks. “You’re not what I expected,” he says finally, eyes unreadable.

“That so?” I lean back against the wall, crossing my arms over my chest. “And what exactly were you expecting?”

He shrugs, watching me with that quiet calculation. “Not what I found, that’s for sure.”

“A monster?”

“Mercy.”

That earns him a smirk. Clever. “Well, I suppose that depends on who you ask. The press thinks I’m the devil in disguise. The guards? Too afraid to even look me in the eye.” I gesture around us at the inmates. “They don’t know what to think. If I’ve learnt anything in here, it’s that reputation is everything. Making me a serial killer has done enormous things to my very deflated ego.”

Ironside smirks as he shifts his weight, gaze sliding past me, his chin tilting toward Clay Monroe. The kid stands in the middle of the yard, shoulders tight, eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun. He watches us, hesitating on the edge of a decision.

Approach or walk away?

He chooses the latter, settling onto a nearby bench, but his gaze never strays. Like a stray dog watching a pair of wolves, trying to decide if he belongs or if he should run before they decide for him.

“What’s the kid’s story?” Ironside asks, his voice even, unreadable.

“He didn’t do it.”

That earns me another smirk, this one edged in disbelief. He doesn’t have to say it—I already know what’s running through his head. Everyone in here claims innocence. It’s the unofficial motto of the damned.

Ironside doesn’t respond right away. He just watches me, the air between us thick with something unspoken. Calculating.

I don’t blink. I let the silence stretch, let him think, let the weight of my words settle in his chest like a slow drag of poison.

“You, of all men, should understand that not every man in here is guilty,” I murmur, my voice a steady, measured thing. “They may be guilty of something—but not necessarily the thing that put them behind bars.”

I tilt my head, studying him the way I’d study a mark before a job. Watching for the cracks, the places where the truth is flexible. “You understand that, don’t you, Ironside?”

He holds my gaze, unmoving, unreadable. A long, thoughtful beat before he finally speaks.

“The same way you’re not a serial killer?”

A bold move. He comes right out and says it. No hesitation, no dancing around the words like most men would.

I don’t answer right away. Instead, I watch him, letting the question hang between us, let the moment coil tight like a wire ready to snap.

Mason Ironside has guts. But then again, he’s a killer in his own right.

And he’s apparently in here on a traffic violation.

That was the first red flag. You don’t live your life steeped in crime, blood, and power, only to get caught on a misdemeanor.

A slow, dark smile spreads across my face, the kind that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. A knowing smile. A dangerous one.

We’re kindred spirits, Mason Ironside and I.

Even if he doesn’t know it yet.

I push off the wall, letting my voice drop, just enough to make sure he hears every word.

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