Page 15 of Mason

“Where to, boss?” he asks, taking the small duffel from my hand like I’ve been on a business trip instead of locked in a goddamn cell.

I stop walking.

My promise to Clay tugs at me, the weight of it unexpected. I’m not bastard enough to turn my back on the kid, but I also don’t need my men seeing that I’m growing soft.

“Actually,” I say, flicking my gaze toward the second car where Enzo and Lupe are waiting. “I need to make a stop. Mind catching a ride back with the boys?”

Jayson frowns, the confusion flashing in his eyes before he smooths his expression. “I can drive you anywhere you want to go, boss.”

I shake my head. “I have to do this on my own. You go ahead—I’ll meet you back at the office tonight.”

He studies me for a long second, then tips his head in silent agreement. “Don’t get yourself into trouble,” he mutters before walking toward the other car. “I don’t want to have to bail you out of jail a second time.”

The only one, I tell you.

I climb into the Audi, turn the key, and peel away from the curb, my foot pressing down hard on the gas as I speed past them.

7

MASON

Shelby Monroe lives in a small craftsman on a quiet street where houses sit with wide gaps between them, offering just enough distance for people who want privacy but not total isolation.

I park across the road and sit for a moment, taking in the details. The dark green SUV in the driveway—an older model, the kind that’s been through shit but still runs. The flower beds lining the front yard, too neat, too carefully maintained. A house meant to look welcoming, but I can feel the tension even from here. It’s the kind of place that’s always half-prepared for an escape.

I reach into the glovebox and grab my gun, tucking it into the back of my waistband before stepping out of the car. I may be doing Clay Monroe a favor, but there’s no telling what I’ll find behind that door.

The street is quiet, the kind of road that only sees traffic from people who live here or those passing through to their final destination. The weight of silence presses down as I make my way to the front porch, my boots heavy against the wooden steps.

I knock once.

Nothing.

I’m sure I hear movement inside—the subtle shifting of weight, the pause of breath. Someone’s in there.

I knock again. Harder.

Still nothing.

I exhale sharply, glancing at the window where the curtain flutters ever so slightly. Whoever’s in there is watching me. And I don’t have time for this shit. I want to get home, shower, scrub the last few days off my skin.

Then I need to see my daughter.

The one who doesn’t know I’m her father.

The secrets I’ve been keeping are about to unravel. She’s going to hate me soon.

I slap my palm lightly against the doorframe, making my presence impossible to ignore.

“Shelby Monroe, my name is Mason Ironside. I have a message from your brother, Clay.”

Nothing.

The hesitation is palpable, thickening the air between us. But I know someone’s listening.

So I play my last card.

“Kewpie.”

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