Page 184 of Mason

We’re not at Mia’s, not technically. Instead, we’re across the grounds at one of the four sprawling homes that form a square on this vast stretch of land. The center of it all is a garden—lush, untamed in the way only intentional landscaping can be. A marble gazebo sits like a crown in the middle of it, surrounded by jasmine and climbing roses, fairy lights strung between the trees. It looks like something out of a dream. Or a memory. One I don’t belong to.

Mia walks ahead of me, arms loaded with groceries. Maxine holds the door open with her hip, a bottle of wine dangling from her fingers, her expression unreadable as always. Inside, the space smells like warmth—simmered tomatoes, soft vanilla, and something sharp and citrusy beneath it, like sangria and old secrets.

The moment I step in, I feel the weight of it.

Too many voices. Too much movement. Too much love being thrown around in careless handfuls like confetti, and I don’t know where to stand without feeling like I’m in the way.

I linger near the entrance, half in shadow, still gripping my overnight bag like it might shield me from the sheer force of this family.

Mia doesn’t let me fade. She starts introducing the women—one by one, like an unofficial Gatti roll call.

Tayana, sultry and sarcastic, with eyes like a loaded gun and a laugh that could kill. She belongs to Rafi, the youngest brother, and I suspect she’s the only one who can handle him.

Jacklyn—black eyeliner, razor wit, and a voice that cuts through the noise like a song you didn’t know you loved. She’s with Lucky, the sharpest tongue of the Gatti men.

Allegra, graceful and golden, radiates the kind of quiet strength that doesn’t need to announce itself. She’s Scar’s wife, and the way she carries herself makes sense of the name—she’s clearly survived things and made art out of the wreckage.

Lula is here too—Kanyan’s woman. She doesn’t say much at first, but there’s a fire in her that simmers just below the surface. I recognize it because I carry the same kind.

And then there’s Maxine.

The one who belongs to no one.

Who takes up space like she owns it.

Who doesn’t need a Gatti to be formidable.

She’s slicing cheese with unnecessary force, building a charcuterie board like it’s personal. There’s no wedding ring on her finger, and she’s fury and grace in equal parts. Something about her makes my throat tighten.

Mia glances over at me, her brows lifting. “You okay?”

I nod, but it’s a lie.

I feel like a placeholder in a room full of women who’ve earned their place with blood, fire, and loyalty. Like they’ve survived a hundred battles together and I’m just the bruised outsider they found bleeding in the dirt.

Jackie raises her glass and grins. “You’re finally here, angel. Come in. We’ve already dragged our men through the dirt—now it’s your turn.”

I manage a smile. “I don’t even know if I have a man.”

Maxine doesn’t look up. “If he had it his way, you’d be living in his closet and answering to his last name already.”

“Possessive,” Tayana sings, flipping her braid over her shoulder. “It's their native tongue.”

Laughter echoes around the room, and for once, it doesn’t feel pointed. It doesn’t feel like I’m the punchline. It feels like... maybe I’m being folded into something.

Allegra hands me a glass of something pink and dangerous. “You’re safe here, Shelby. We don’t bite unless invited.”

You’re safe here.

The words hit harder than they should.

I haven’t felt that in weeks. Maybe years. And for a moment—just a breath—I want to cry. Because I think I believe her.

We sprawl across the floor like teenagers at a sleepover, pillows everywhere, blankets in disarray, snacks covering every inch of the coffee table. Someone plays soft music. Mia lights a honey-and-bourbon candle that smells like home in a house I’ve never lived in. Maxine declares all phones must go in a basket. “This is sacred time,” she says. “Sisterhood. Wine. No digital bullshit.”

There’s a lull in the conversation—just for a breath—and then Tayana kicks her legs up onto the couch dramatically and groans.

“Okay, I need to know,” she says, pointing a Dorito at the group like it’s a weapon. “Is it normal for your man to get offended when you say you want a five-minute shower alone?”

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