Page 9 of Mason

That I was dangerous. Lethal.

And maybe I was.

But not like this. Not like what they said.

I don’t kill those fourteen women.

But the system doesn't care about what I say. A jury saw what they wanted to see—a man too perfect, too unreadable, too much of a mystery to trust. And then there were the three women. Three strangers from three different states who all swore I was with them the night of the last murder.

Three women who ruined me with their love.

Because who the hell has three airtight alibis in different states?

No one. No one but me.

I exhale, dragging a hand over my shaved head, my fingers brushing the nape of my neck. Sometimes I miss my hair, the dark curls at the nape of my neck that the ladies loved to play with. But it’s easier this way—easier to maintain in my caged prison.

The media still wants me. Even after a decade, they send requests, letters, reporters who sit outside this place like scavengers, waiting for me to throw them a scrap. I don’t, and I won’t.

Because I’m still fighting.

Still appealing.

Still fighting to claw my way out of the grave they buried me in. I refuse to give them anything that could shatter my chance at freedom. Because I can almost taste it—sharp, electric, just out of reach. The scent of it lingers in the air around me, heavy like a storm about to break, ready to drench me in its downpour.

A shadow moves in my periphery. One of the younger guys. A new fish, barely out of his twenties. He watches me like the others do—equal parts fear and fascination. They whisper about me in here, tell stories like I’m some kind of legend. Some of them think I’m a murderer. Others think I got framed. Some don’t care either way. They just know I’m untouchable.

Because I’m Ghost.

Because even in here, the walls don’t know how to hold me.

And because no one wants to find out what happens if they try.

There areadvantages to being locked up. You start to view things differently; start to understand the value of things you would otherwise take for granted. All the things you miss… like the smell of freshly mown grass. Apple pecan pie. The comfort of knowing you can do whatever the hell you want, any time you want to do it.

In here, I have nothing but time on my hands. Time I spend dissecting my past, thinking what I could have done differently.I spend time orchestrating my future—because with this much time to plan, there’s no way I could fuck it up again. A cynic might call me crazy; they’ve marked my recordnever to be released. But there will come a day, mark my words. There will come a day when I will taste freedom again; I can feel it in the marrow of my bones.

Twenty minutes. That’s how long it takes before he finally makes his way to me.

Mason Ironside.

Underboss of the Moreno crime family. The name alone carries weight, the kind that doesn’t need to be shouted to be heard. He moves through the yard with a quiet confidence, the kind men like him are born with—or maybe the kind they earn. He’s clawed his way up, and now he stands second only to Kanyan De Scarzi—a man whose name is spoken in hushed tones even in places like this. Just like me. We could’ve been twins, Kanyan and I, in another lifetime.

Ironside’s reputation precedes him, even in here. It was foolish of those kids to take a swing at him yesterday—wannabe upstarts, obviously don’t have a clue who he is. But that’s the thing with the mafia these days—they aren’t like the old-school gangsters of the past. They’ve adapted, evolved. They’ve changed in ways that have reshaped the world, rewritten everything society believes about the criminal underworld. They wear suits instead of bloodstains, operate in boardrooms instead of back alleys. They’re not just criminals anymore. They’re businessmen, polished and refined, with pockets deeper than the law can reach.

And they’ve made sure the world sees them that way.

I have to give them credit. The mafia learned from their past mistakes. No more unnecessary violence. No more reckless bloodshed that attracts the wrong kind of attention. The newgeneration has taken the old empire and reshaped it into something untouchable.

And the money?—

I’ve seen the numbers. Even from inside these walls, I keep up with the news. It’s impossible not to. The Moreno family has mastered the art of legitimacy, but behind every clean deal, there’s always something darker lurking beneath the surface. They don’t just make money. Theyownit. Every rumor about their wealth, their influence—it’s all true.

Ironside stops a few feet away from me, hands tucked into his pockets, expression unreadable. He studies me, taking his time, his gaze steady. I don’t move. I let him look. I let him see what the world has painted me as.

A monster.

And yet, even with everything I’ve been accused of, even with the media turning my name into something that drips with horror, Ironside doesn’t look afraid. If anything, he looks intrigued.

---