Page 171 of Mason

“Then do it,” I say, too tired to flinch. “I probably deserve it.”

“You think this is aboutyou?” he roars, slamming his fist on the table so hard the glass trembles. “You think this is about your bruised ego and your tragic pain and your fucking self-pity?”

I don’t answer.

“I watched Mia carry your weight into the car, Mason. I watched your daughter pick you up off a bar floor like you wereherchild. And then she had to tell you she’s pregnant—pregnant—with tears in her eyes and fear in her voice, and you were too soaked in bourbon to stand up straight.”

“Don’t,” I say, voice cracking.

But he’s not done. He’snowherenear done.

“She needed herfather,and what did you give her? A drunk. A fucking liability. You’re lucky Maxine was there, or I’d have left you in that bar to rot.”

My hands shake. I curl them into fists.

“You think you’re hurting more than anyone else? Mia’s scared out of her goddamn mind and still showed up for you.She’s carrying a baby and you’re carrying a bottle—how the hell do you think that makes her feel?”

“I never asked her to take care of me?—”

“No,” he snarls, “but shedid,because she loves you. Because despite all the ways you failed her, she still sees something in you worth saving. And you’re spitting on that, Mason. Every damn day you pour another drink.”

I stand up fast, the chair scraping back. “You don’t know what it’s like?—”

“Oh, Idon’t?” Brando’s face twists. “Did you forget what I went through when Mia was gone with that bastard Falcone? Don’t talk to me about pain. You think you’re some tragic lone wolf? Get the fuck over yourself. You’re not dark, Mason. You’re just drowning.”

Silence slams between us like a dropped curtain.

And then—his voice drops. Low. Quiet. Devastating.

“She’s pregnant, Mason.”

I swallow hard.

“She’s bringing a life into this world. And she needs her father to show her how to survive it. Not to die in front of her one slow drink at a time.”

I can’t breathe.

Not because he’s yelling. But because every word is true.

“She forgave you,” he whispers, eyes sharp. “And you still chose the bottle.”

My voice is barely there. “I didn’t know how to say no to it.”

Brando nods once. Slowly.

“Then learn. Because if you show up drunk again, if you make her feel like she’s alone in this—then I’ll be the one to bury you.”

He walks past me, shoulders tense, jaw clenched like he’s holding back every other thing he wants to say.

But before he’s gone, he pauses at the door.

“And if you think this baby will fix you,” he says without turning around, “you’re wrong. You have to fix yourself first. Or you’ll ruin them both.”

The door slams shut.

And I’m left alone.

With the bottle.

---