Page 344 of Don’t Say Mafia

The footage opened on a wide angle of the casino floor near the employee corridor behind the craps tables. Carl, our Carl—the quiet, dependable Paradise manager who’d been with Cruz’s family since before we’d taken over—walked into frame pushing a large laundry cart. There would usually be nothing off about that . . . if Carl was actually in housekeeping.

Two men walked on either side of him, both in maintenance coveralls, their faces partially hidden by the camera angle and the low pull of their caps. They moved with purpose across the floor. No one in the footage paid them any notice as they moved through the room. It was a packed Saturday night, and most eyes were locked on cards and spinning reels—not the people pushing service carts past them.

They rolled the cart past a row of slot machines, then paused near the edge of the high-limit lounge that was right at the mouth of a narrow service hallway that led to the loading dock. The cart stopped. One of the men glanced around, and then Carl reached down, lifted the heavy canvas flap on the cart’s side, and pulled out something wrapped in a large hotel sheet.

As the bundle hit the floor, the sheet slipped open, and the judge’s dead face was visible for a few seconds.

Carl didn’t hesitate. He dropped to one knee, gathered the sheet with practiced efficiency, and tugged it back over the judge’s face, tucking the edges under the shoulders and hips until nothing showed but white fabric. I watched as he said something to the two men before they turned and walked away.

Carl waited exactly seven seconds—long enough to make sure no one had noticed—then wheeled the empty cart away toward the employee exit. He disappeared down the corridor as if he’d just finished his shift.

The video cut to black, and my vision narrowed to a pinprick.

Carl.

Meek, stalwart Carl, who’d never once said no to anything we’d asked from him. The one employee in our entire organization besides Zachary who I’d have sworn on my life would never flip.

I was furious.

Branson glanced at me in the rearview, frowning. “Is everything okay back there, Mr. Thatcher?” he asked. “Do you need more air?”

I met his gaze in the reflection—long enough that he swallowed visibly.

“You’d never betray us, right, Branson?” I asked, fully aware of how scary and unhinged I sounded right then.

His knuckles whitened on the wheel. “Of—of course not. Never.”

“Because you’re grateful for everything we’ve done for you and your family, I’m sure,” I continued, leaning forward.

“Yes.” The word rushed out. “I’m so grateful.”

I reached up and patted his shoulder once, hard enough that the impact carried through his uniform jacket. He flinched.

“That’s good to hear, Branson.” I settled back against the seat, my voice dropping to something almost friendly. “Really good.”

The cruiser eased into the station lot, and lights from the building spilled across the hood. Branson killed the engine, but I was busy going through any other blind spots we needed to monitor.

The Syndicate ran on fear and favors—loyalty was expected. But Carl had been different. There had never been any threats needed or leverage required. He’d simply been loyal because that’s who he was. Or who I’d convinced myself he was . . . and we’d compensated him accordingly.

Years of proof, gone in one grainy video.

He wasn’t just a traitor.

Because it was him, it was personal.

“Let’s get this over with,” I said, already thinking in detail of everything I was about to do to Carl.

“Do you like George Orwell, Carl?” I asked as I studied the man in front of me.

The asshole in question was sitting in a metal chair with his wrists zip-tied behind the backrest and his ankles secured to the legs. He had duct tape across his mouth so he couldn’t answer me, but that wasn’t going to stop me from my spiel. I had a lot of pent-up rage at the moment.

The only humorous thing about this situation was that Carl’s black Paradise polo was still tucked neatly into his slacks. Cruz had literally pulled him straight off the casino floor where he’d been working like normal . . . like he hadn’t stabbed us in the fucking back.

Carl had a resigned look in his gaze, the same one he’d probably worn for the last fifteen years every time an employee had fucked up and he’d had to handle something for them.

“Even if you don’t like Orwell, he did have some very interesting points about torture,” I continued. “Want to hear them?”

Carl obviously still didn’t answer me, but again, it didn’t slow me down. Cruz was actually listening for once as well as he leaned against a stack of wooden pallets to my left with his arms folded patiently.