Page 122 of Mason

The rest of them? Brando Gatti. Kanyan De Scarzi. And somewhere down that hallway, Mason Ironside, the newly minted underboss to the Moreno family and the man who would rip my throat out with his bare hands if he saw me here.

I’m not stupid.

I shouldn’t be anywhere near Shelby Monroe’s hospital room. But “shouldn’t” hasn’t stopped me before, and it won’t now.

Shelby is the ex-wife of David Eddy—my partner, now conveniently missing—and she’s been beaten so badly, the doctors didn’t think she’d make it through the night.

This smells wrong.

And if the Bureau thinks I’m going to sit back while they use her coma as an excuse to clean house or twist the narrative? They’re out of their Goddamn minds. I need to be here. If not for the badge, then for Shelby. I owe her that much.

And maybe, somewhere deep in my black-and-white soul, I need to see for myself. Need to understand what could push someone this far. Why her? Why now?

I round the corner to her room—and come up short.

Maxine Andrade is standing guard outside the door like some tragic, porcelain-boned warden. Small frame, but coiled tight like a bowstring. Her arms are folded across her chest, her jaw locked, eyes fixed on Brando like she’s daring him to speak again.

She’s not fragile.

She’s fury in remission.

Her blonde hair is pulled back in a loose braid, frayed strands clinging to the tension lining her face. Her blue eyes don’t shimmer; they burn—cold and sharp, the kind of color that makes you think of deep woods and deeper secrets.

And just like that, I’m not in this hospital anymore.

I’m back in that house.

Kadri’s estate.

The room with the locked windows and velvet curtains.

The place where Maxine was kept. Broken. Controlled.

I remember her silence more than anything.

The way she stared at the walls like if she looked long enough, they’d open up and swallow her whole. She didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. She didn’t ask to be saved.

She was just gone behind her eyes.

But now?—

Now those eyes lock onto mine.

And they are not empty.

That same fire still burns there, low and slow like coals that refuse to die. That same quiet defiance—choking down fear just to hold her ground. And underneath it, buried deep like a splinter that never healed, that same bitterness. Old and sour. The kind that settles into your bones when the world owes you more than it ever gave.

Flashback – Kadri’s Test

The bed is huge, draped in obscene silk sheets, the kind of expensive shit men like Kadri surround themselves with.

Maxine is standing by the bed, frozen, stiff as a board.

Her dress is too thin, the dim light from the chandelier casting shadows against her bare skin.

She’s terrified.

But she’s not begging.

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