Page 120 of Mason

Maxine came back broken, but alive. And Mia—my flesh and blood, my firebrand—somehow ended up marrying Brando Gatti, her old high school crush turned mafia prince. And me? I became their enforcer. Their knife in the dark. I bled for them, burned for them, and earned their trust the only way this world respects—through violence and loyalty.

Now I’m underboss to the Moreno family.

You don’t climb that ladder unless you’ve walked through hell barefoot.

But titles aside, the real thing I earned—what means more than any crown or cut of territory—is this family. These brothers. This tribe. We didn’t choose each other, not at first, but we bled together, suffered together, and now... we’re bound. No blood oath could hold us tighter than what we’ve survived. And in moments like this, when the world is tilting off its axis, I look around this room and feel something I don’t feel often.

Gratitude.

And then my gaze lands on Maxine, and that feeling curdles in my gut.

She’s not sitting. She’s pacing. Always pacing.

Three tiles forward, stop. Pivot. Three tiles back. Repeat. It’s like watching someone trying to outwalk their own thoughts. I know that drill. I’ve done it myself in cells and safehouses and nights too long to count. But Maxine’s been doing it since she got back, and it guts me every damn time.

She keeps her eyes low, doesn’t speak unless spoken to, and even then it’s clipped, rehearsed, like she’s still afraid the wrong word will get her punished. Crowds make her tense. Even our crowd—people who would kill for her, die for her—she still folds in on herself like she’s bracing for impact. Sometimes she steps so far back in the room she practically vanishes.

She doesn’t talk about what happened in that year. Doesn’t share the horror. And I don’t push her.

But I see it in her.

Every movement. Every pause. Every breath that sounds just a little too careful.

Whatever Altin Kadri did to her… he didn’t just touch her body. He rewired her spirit. Taught her to disappear in plain sight. And now, back in the land of the living, she’s trying to remember how to be again. Piece by piece.

Thank God for those therapy sessions. Twice a week, like clockwork. She doesn’t miss them. And maybe—just maybe—they’re working. There are moments now, flickers of light through the cracks, when I see a glimpse of the Maxine we lost. The one who laughed too loud and danced barefoot in the kitchen. The one who gave as good as she got, with a wit sharp enough to cut.

She’s still in there.Somewhere.

But tonight… with Shelby bleeding on a table behind those sealed doors, and the past hanging over her like a noose… I see her slipping again.

And I can’t do a damn thing about it.

The doors to the waiting room slide open with that soft hiss and someone stumbles in.

Clay.

That motherfucker.

My blood spikes so fast it’s like a grenade goes off in my chest. I’m on my feet before I even realize I’ve moved, boots hammering across the tile like war drums. Every muscle is coiled, every step a loaded gun. The room stutters around me, voices dying off, eyes tracking my storm path straight to him.

He looks up.

And I see it.

Guilt.

Clear as day.

And that’s what makes it worse.

I throw my hands out, my voice low and calm—not because I’m in control, but because my rage is strung so tight it’s humming like piano wire. One flick and I’ll snap.

“You fucker,” I growl, my voice a blade pressed against his neck.

Clay’s mouth opens, some pathetic explanation half-formed—but I don’t let the words live long enough to offend me.

“You knew it made her a target,” I snarl, stepping into his space, my breath hot with fury. “And you still didn’t fucking tell me.”

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