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I started buttoning up my shirt and turned to him with a smile. “You’re looking like a guy hoping for more sex.”
He shook his head as he pulled on some boxer briefs. “Nope. I’m just intent on showing off my prime assets to my new love interest. Gotta keep her interested, after all.”
My heart ached for this slightly broken man. I walked over to him and pulled him down for a kiss. Just before our lips touched, I whispered, “You’re enough. You’ve always been enough for the people who cared about you. Be sure to remember that.” Then I poured all my warmth and love into that kiss. I didn’t know how long we kissed, but when we pulled apart, the expression on his face was more relaxed.
“Thanks for saying that, Rilia. I appreciate the positive support.” Indeed, his voice was more self-assured.
I knew a lot of people wouldn’t pick up on his little cues related to not feeling valued as a human being and a man. But I’d grown to know him pretty well in the short time we’d known one another. I also knew that a lot of his self-deprecating jokes were because of his childhood trauma.
“So, you finally settled on a nickname for me. I like it.”
His face lit up. “I’m glad. It just slipped out and felt right.” After a momentary pause, he added, “In case you’re wondering, I already have a club name, so I don’t need a nickname.”
“You’re finally going to tell me why they call you Mason?”
He stepped away to continue dressing. “I’ll tell you anything you wanna know about me, cher, all you have to do is ask.” His warm hazel eyes met mine, and I could see nothing but love and trust reflected in their depths. He flashed a grin at me and continued. “When I was in the military, I used to carry this thick pint mason jar around in my duffle. I had a little water filter that I could attach to the top to purify drinking water in the field. I got the nickname in the military, and it carried over when I joined the Dark Slayers MC.”
“Thank you for telling me, I have to say I was wondering about stuff like Freemasons, the Mason-Dixon line, or maybe that you were good with your hands.”
“Maybe you’re on to something with the last suggestion,” Mason raised his eyebrow teasingly. “We’d best get downstairs before Storm gets himself wound up waiting for us.”
***
Sure enough, when we got to Storm’s office, he was pacing in front of his desk.
“Sorry it took us a minute to get here. I hope everything’s okay,” I said.
Storm pivoted on one foot and turned to face us. “That’s fine. We had another go at the cleaner. Needless to say, he didn’t crack.”
“What’s the plan?” Mason asked as we all sat down.
Storm responded cryptically, “That depends on Aprilia.”
“If you’re leaving it up to me, I’m always going to say cut him loose rather than eliminate him. I know all about how problematic loose ends are, but I think we’ve had enough killing already. Don’t you think?”
Storm held up both hands in front of him in a placating gesture. “I wasn’t insinuating we should kill him. He’s Don Diavonte’s cleaner. That doesn’t exactly make him our mortal enemy.”
I relaxed into my seat and crossed my legs. “Sorry to jump to that conclusion. I guess being raised by mobsters and seeing you guys kill a bunch of them earlier today triggered that response. I can drop the sweet mob fiancée act now—you know what I am, and you know while I’ve never been personally involved, I’m not some innocent who’s gotten caught up in everything. I know the score with these people, and while death offers a temporary solution it often has a far-reaching fallout.”
Mason reached out and threaded his fingers through mine. Holding my hand was such a sweet gesture that it tugged at my emotions.
“I was thinking that there might be some way to use him to our advantage. I say we allow you to slip down to the basement and unlock his cell. Keep up the ruse that you’re here with Don Diavonte’s blessing as a spy and set him free. Let it slip that we’re having a meeting at an old ball field on the outskirts of town where we plan to organize resistance among local business owners to collectively stop paying their protection money,” Storm explained.
“That’s a really bad idea,” I said. “Don Diavonte will show up with enough men and guns to brutally stamp out whatever resistance you hope to ignite.”
“Yes, and thanks to you minimizing our numbers and pushing the fiction that we are still battling it out with Twisted Metal, they’ll think we’re easy pickings. They won’t find out until it’s too late how wrong they were about that,” Storm reminded me.
“Shit,” I breathed. “I’m about to get a lot of people killed.”
“You’re not getting anyone killed. You’re merely providing information. What they choose to do with it is on them,” Mason said consolingly.
Before I could respond, Storm spoke up. “No, Aprilia is right. People are going to die. She just needs to decide whether she wants it to be the mafia who are coming to Griffinsford to control and exploit a town full of innocent people—or if she wants those of us standing up for our right to live free of mafia control to wind up dead.”
“I already made my decision. That doesn’t mean I have to feel good about it.”
“Unfortunately, life can be unpredictable, and we often find ourselves forced to make impossible decisions. The only thing we can do is try to protect the innocent and let the chips fall where they may,” Storm responded in a serious tone.
I gaped at the Slayers’ club president. Every other time I had talked to him he seemed cagy and suspicious, but for some reason, today he was sounding more like a shaolin monk, actually scrap that, today he was sounding more like a military leader who’d seen too much of war and knew that life was never black and white but shades of gray, and that sometimes you just had to do what you felt was right and hope with all your heart you’d made a good call. This man had layers to his personality, and I had apparently only scratched the surface when it came to understanding him.
