Page 247 of Don’t Say Mafia

My jaw tightened. Gerald had worked as an informant—for Cruz’s father—and we’d gotten rid of him the second the man had died and Cruz had taken over. Gerald had always given us the creeps. He probably wasn’t happy about our role in putting him in prison, but he wasn’t supposed to ever get out.

I snorted at the line in the article about dynasties. I bet Cruz had liked that line.

“I’m not seeing any names in here yet,” I murmured.

“Not yet,” Cruz said. “They’re dancing around it, though. ‘Senior operators.’ ‘Primary financiers.’ ‘Untouchable leadership.’ They’re being coy.”

That didn’t provide any comfort, because they could have our names and just be saving them.

I continued reading. There were references to properties and licensing deals. Even a real estate acquisition from three years ago that had been intentionally complicated so no one would know it was us.

Gerald wouldn’t have known about any of these things . . . which meant someone had given him that information.

I stood up, irritated, and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows. Traffic moved below in neat, orderly streams, and I found it almost amusing how none of them realized how close they lived to things that could destroy them.

“The timing is interesting,” I said. “I’d prefer to believe the Irish are stirring this up rather than that we’ve got a rat in our midst.”

“But how did they find out about those deals?” Cruz growled.

“How, indeed,” I murmured.

Rolling my shoulders back to try to help the sudden tension sitting in them, I took a deep breath. “It’s going to be fine. There will be regulators sniffing around . . . some agents. But we’re prepared for all that. Gage will get all the information we need if the FBI are going to become a problem or if they’re getting too close to the truth.”

“We are prepared,” Cruz agreed. We both sounded more unsure of that than I would have liked.

A beat passed.

“Are you still planning your evening?”

“Yes,” I said. “If I waited for my life to calm down before making decisions, I’d never make any.”

Cruz hesitated. “You’re sure about this? I don’t want any more heat on us right now.”

“Please,” I said. “The man is a footnote at best. No one writes headlines about men like him. And I’m fairly certain she’s already grieving a version of him that doesn’t exist anymore, so she’s not even going to care that much. Everything will be fine.”

He was silent for a few seconds, and I knew he wanted to argue some more.

“Keep me updated,” Cruz said finally.

“I wouldn’t dream of leaving you out.”

The call ended.

I looked back down at my phone, at the messages already queued, and the pieces already moving. Eden would get the call soon. Ryan would get the invite not long after.

I glanced back out the window again to where our empire continued to glitter like it always did.

Somewhere out there, a man was about to walk toward yet another terrible decision.

And I was about to make sure he didn’t survive this one.

It was time.

Eden was tucked safely inside the casino, working an extra shift that had appeared on her schedule that morning like a small mercy. And Ryan . . . was on his way to a poker game one of his friends had called him about. Organized by me, of course.

I had to give him credit, he’d said no three times before he’d finally said yes. His willpower was truly awe-inspiring.

If I were a better man, maybe I would’ve paused.