Page 257 of Don’t Say Mafia

Jagger

Breaking into an office at two in the morning was not how I’d pictured my day ending. But when your city is most likely under investigation because of a news article . . . you have to plan your crimes accordingly.

Paulie Bellino’s casino sat on land we intended to own, so I was simply ensuring that when it changed hands, the paper trail would make it look innocent . . . not like theft.

The hallway smelled like industrial cleaner and stale cigarettes soaked deep into carpet that had seen too many bad bets. The air hummed faintly with recycled ventilation and the distant clatter of machines on the gaming floor below.

It was easy to see why people were flocking to our casinos and not this guy’s if this was how he kept his management floor. I was going to have to soak myself in a vat of sanitizer after this.

I crouched by the office door, sliding a card along the seam of the doorframe.

“Remind me again why I’m the one handling this?” I muttered into the earpiece.

“Because,” Cruz replied calmly, “Maddox is persuading a supplier who forgot who he answers to, Gage had a Bureau thing, Lawson is scrubbing digital footprints, and I’m managing fallout on three fronts.”

The lock clicked open, and I pushed the door in slowly. “So I got the sticky carpet?”

“Leadership,” Cruz said evenly, “means sometimes you do the messy things yourself.”

Snorting quietly, I stepped inside. “Interesting philosophy. Because if the leader is supposed to be doing the messy things, I feel like you should be the one elbow-deep in whatever nastiness is waiting in here.”

I could hear his grin through the phone. “I delegate strategically sometimes,” he admitted.

“There it is,” I scoffed as I moved farther into the dark office, letting my eyes adjust.

The room was bigger than it needed to be for someone of Paulie’s stature, compensatory square footage obviously masquerading as power. Every surface screamed excess. Heavy lacquered wood paneling climbed the walls, but it was trimmed in thick bands of brassy gold that caught even the faintest light and reflected it back in greasy glints. The carpet was some deep burgundy monstrosity patterned with swirling filigree, like a rejected casino floor sample.

Framed photos of Paulie grinning beside athletes he’d clearly paid to stand there covered one wall, the gold frames thick enough to double as blunt weapons. And that crystal decanter set over there . . . it had definitely been handled with unwashed hands.

The smell hit a few steps in, and I stopped dead.

“What,” I said slowly, “the fuck.” The air was actively offensive. Like old food had gotten drunk and died in here. I took another step, and my boot stuck to something. I looked down and saw I was standing in a puddle of crap that had once been liquid and had been left to rot.

“What’s going on?” Cruz said distractedly.

I nudged the sticky patch with my toe. It made a wet, peeling sound that I never wanted to hear again. “I am standing in what I can only describe as a biohazard.”

Cruz practically giggled, and it echoed in my ear like betrayal.

“I hate you,” I said flatly, stepping around the desk. “I want that noted in our official friendship record.”

“Do we have one of those?” he asked.

“You’re the stalker in this relationship, so I’m not sure why you’re asking me. You’re the one who has one.”

He snorted but didn’t deny it . . . and as usual I had concerns. I just didn’t have time to deal with those concerns as usual.

“Describe the room,” he demanded, still laughing.

“I’m not⁠—”

“Describe it.”

I sighed and covered my nose with my sleeve so I didn’t pass out. “There’s a half-eaten sandwich on the desk. No plate. Just . . . bread and something that could be that bologna they sell in yellow plastic at the grocery store, but it also could be decaying flesh. I’m not sure. There’s a smell that suggests mayonnaise was once here, but a rabid rat most likely died in it.”

“How do you know it was a rabid rat?” Cruz asked.

“I can sense it,” I mused as I continued to look around.