Page 147 of Mason

“Then let’s start the fucking fire.”

Because I don’t care how many people fall with him. I don’t care how many dominos topple or how deep the rot goes.

He touched her.

And now?

Now he belongs to me.

I rise from the chair, grab the drive off the table, and pocket it.

“Where are you going?” Clay asks, voice quiet, almost scared.

I look him dead in the eye.

“To do what I should’ve done the second Shelby bled on my hands.”

I move to the door.

“Which is what?” he asks.

Lucky doesn’t bother sugarcoating it.

“Hunt.”

We’re backin the war room.

The hard drive sits in the center of the table like a live grenade.

No one touches it.

Scar leans back in his chair, the tip of a cigar burning low between his fingers, smoke curling toward the ceiling like a ghost rising from the grave. Kanyan stands behind him, arms crossed—a silent mountain of muscle and menace, his eyes dark with thought.

Brando paces near the wall, restless and sharp-edged, like a dog that smells blood andwantsit. His jaw’s tight, fists clenching and unclenching like he's holding something back, but just barely.

Anytime the wordtraffickingis mentioned, he unravels in his own quiet, violent way.

Because Mia didn’t just lose a sister to it.

She losttwo.

One came back, shattered but breathing.

The other?

Dead.

We couldn’t save her.

Brando’s never stopped carrying that. And every time we go after these rings—every time we deal with the likes of men like Eddy or Sloane—it’s like he’s trying to claw justice out of someone else's skin.

Because he never got it for Sophia.

Me? I’m sitting still.

But I’m the most wired I’ve ever been.

Rage isn’t screaming anymore—it’s whispering.

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