Page 346 of Don’t Say Mafia

Carl was gasping, tears mixing with his sweat and blood. His body was shaking so hard the chair rattled against the floor.

“Please,” he choked out. “Jagger⁠—”

I pressed the blade to his cheek, just under the eye. “That almost sounds like begging, Carl.”

Dragging the blade down slowly, I opened a line from his cheekbone to his jaw. Blood sheeted over his mouth and his chin as he whimpered.

“We once considered you family,” I murmured as I picked up the blowtorch next and lit it. The blue flame hissed to life.

Carl’s eyes widened. “No—please⁠—”

I held the flame close to his left ear—near enough that the hair shriveled away in seconds and the skin began to blister and peel. He screamed, and I moved to the other ear and did the same thing until the flesh had blackened and bubbled, and the smell of charred meat was thick in the air.

Carl passed out twice, and Cruz slapped him awake.

And each time, Carl was begging.

When I finally stepped back, Carl was barely recognizable. His face was a ruin of burns and cuts, and his hands had been drilled through and charred. His chest was carved like the traitor he was.

I turned off the torch and set it down.

“Cruz,” I said quietly, and he stepped forward with the bone saw.

I crouched one last time and grabbed Carl’s hair, lifting his head so he could see me through the swelling.

“You chose the Irish,” I told him. “So now you’ll die like one of them. I hope you aren’t too . . . tired.”

The saw whirred to life as I stepped back, and Carl’s last sound was a gurgle and a sob before Cruz sliced his throat. Blood sprayed in a wide arc, splattering the concrete in dark ropes. The body slumped forward, head lolling, the chair creaking under the sudden dead weight.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

Cruz and I both looked up and saw Gage walking toward us, slow--clapping dramatically as he moved. He stopped a few feet away, still clapping, his eyes bright with something that looked almost like admiration.

“Fucking hell, Jagger,” he said, sounding impressed. “That was . . . thorough.”

“Yes, and I’m sure you’ll get off thinking about it tonight, you sick bastard,” Cruz drawled.

Gage scoffed and rolled his eyes . . . but didn’t say he wouldn’t. That wasn’t comforting.

“While I don’t want to talk about that,” I said, glancing pointedly at Gage, “I do want to talk about how I became a face on the FBI’s list of suspected criminals instead of you, Cruz.”

Cruz’s mouth twitched. “I think we’ve talked about this. A good leader . . . delegates. You’re welcome.”

I snorted. “Yes. A promotion to Vegas FBI’s public enemy number one was just what I needed. How about next time maybe let me take the fall for something that doesn’t come with a lifetime in a federal penitentiary.”

He shrugged. “We’ll be fine. I’d never let anything happen to you.”

“Aw. That may have been the sweetest moment I’ve ever seen between the two of you,” mused Gage.

“Yes, it’s much sweeter than his stalking,” I agreed.

Before I could say anything else, the acrid smell of urine hit the air as Carl’s corpse released its bladder in a slow, wet rush—piss pooling under the chair, running in thin streams across the stained concrete, and mixing with the blood already there.

I stared at the spreading puddle in disgust.

“If he can be turned, any of them can be,” said Gage, sounding a little excited about the prospect and all the people he’d be able to torture in that case.

Cruz nodded. “I think it’s time we have a new mantra for everyone outside the five of us,” he said coldly.