Page 2 of Mason

But I found mysecondin the Gatti brothers and Kanyan De Scarzi.

Kanyan made me his second. Moreno family underboss. The right hand. The weapon.

But make no mistake—I’ve always been an enforcer at heart. A doer. A fixer. The kind of man you send in when talking’s done and blood is the only language left that anyone will understand.

I don’t care about glory. I don’t need a crown.

All I want is to protect what’s mine.

Because family is brutal.

Andso am I.

2

MASON

Forty-eight hours in isolation does nothing but strip a man down to his bare bones. It forces perspective, makes you face the things you’d rather keep buried. I’m sure there’s some rule about how long an inmate can be locked away like that, but rules don’t mean shit in here. They don’t stop the walls from pressing in. They don’t keep your mind from twisting itself into knots.

It probably wasn’t my finest moment when I hit the officer. Granted, he knew it was coming, and it was all part of my carefully constructed plan, but it earned me two days lost in solitary. This should have been a straight in and out assignment, and now I’ll probably be here for a week. Just because.

When the guard finally swings the door open, the first thing that hits me is the light—blinding, too bright after two days in a windowless cell where time is a concept, not a reality. I blink hard, adjusting as I step out, stretching limbs that ache from too much stillness.

The walk to the mess hall is quiet, just the steady rhythm of boots on concrete, the guard leading the way like I’m some half-tamed animal being reintroduced to the pack.

Then the doors open, and I get my first taste of the general population.

It’s chaos wrapped in a thin veil of order. Noise, bodies shifting, the air thick with sweat, desperation, and unspoken threats. It’s a battlefield without guns, a place where power is measured in who looks away first.

And from the looks of it, I’ve just been thrown into the deep end.

Stainless steel trays clatter against plastic tables, the noise mingling with low murmurs and the occasional bark of a guard. I move through the line, my body still aching from going head to head with officers before I was thrown in here. Not much my fistscan’tdo, it seems. But they sure as hell can get me into a world of trouble.

I grip my tray—some unidentifiable slop, stale bread, and a cup of murky water—and scan the room. Prison politics are simple. You sit where you belong. Problem is, I don’t belong here. Not to the skinheads, not to the Latinos, not to the street gangs eyeing me like fresh meat. I’m a Moreno, but the only family I have in here is me. Which is just the way I like it; no one wants to see their family suffering, and I’m no different.

I spot an empty table against the wall, away from the cliques. That’ll do.

I don’t make it ten steps before a body blocks my way. Then another. And another.

A gang of young ones. Fresh fish. Four of them, maybe five. Their movements are sloppy, aggressive but untrained, fueled by adrenaline and whatever they have to prove. Trying to make a name for themselves in here, I guess. Their leader—a wiry kid with a jagged scar along his chin—grins at me like a hyena. He tries for menacing, but he has two front side teeth missing; it would be comical under any other circumstance.

“You’re the Moreno guy, huh?” His voice is hoarse, like he smokes too much or got his throat fucked up in a fight somewhere along the line. He tilts his head toward his crew. “We heard you’re untouchable.”

I keep my grip loose on the tray, my stance casual. “News travels fast.”

Scar-Chin steps closer. “See, I know men like you. Big on the outside, but in here, you’re nothin’. You come in here, act like you’re above us, but here, you ain’t somethin’ unless someone makes you somethin’.”

I sigh. “I’ve been here forty-eight hours, asshole. I haven’t acted like anything.”

A fist flies toward my face. Perfect.

I duck at the last second, my tray crashing to the floor. My knee jerks up, slamming into Scar-Chin’s gut. He grunts, stumbles, but his boys are already on me.

One catches me in the ribs—a sharp, bruising jab. Another gets his arm around my neck, but I twist, grabbing his wrist and wrenching it hard. Something pops, and he screams. The smell of sweat and prison food is nauseating as bodies crash into each other, shouts erupting around us.

I elbow another kid in the jaw, but there are too many. A blade flashes—shanked from a toothbrush, serrated and jagged. I twist, but not fast enough. Pain rips across my arm, a hot, stinging burn. The bastard got me.

They smell blood now. Mine. Which only fuels them.

---