Page 271 of Don’t Say Mafia

I barked out a quiet laugh.

“Officially,” he went on, “it’s ‘unverified speculation’ and ‘media sensationalism.’ A lot of polished statements about ongoing reviews and commitment to public safety.”

“And that means?”

“They look blindsided,” he said. “And they hate that.”

I nodded once. “And operationally.”

“They’re playing it safe,” Gage said. “There aren’t going to be any raids yet. They don’t want to tip us off.” He grinned as he said that, considering they tipped us off every single day without realizing it. “Right now it’s financial mapping and trying to identify our shell companies. I saw a chart yesterday with a list of casinos, construction firms, and what ‘consulting offices’ were used for each project.”

“I’m sure that’s going well,” I mused. That was something else they’d never be able to unwind.

“They’re bringing in analysts from New York and DC,” Gage continued. “People who don’t know this city, but they’ve studied the organizations back East, so they think that makes them qualified to untangle Vegas.”

“I think Lucian would disagree with that assessment,” I said as I took another drink. I leaned forward slightly. “What do you think the timeline is for when they start showing up?”

Gage didn’t hesitate. “A month.”

I lifted a brow. “That fast?” That was very inconvenient because it meant more time away from Eden handling things. I needed to get this shored up with her immediately. I had to get her out of that apartment.

Even with that timeline, there was still only so long I could function trying to sleep on that mattress before I went insane.

Well . . . more insane than I was already behaving. Drugging your love interest so you could sleep with her every night was probably frowned upon by most people.

I started adjusting pieces in my head. “Feed them something small.”

“I already am,” he said, looking faintly offended that I’d even suggested it.

“Something noisy,” I clarified. “Complicated enough to keep them busy. Not important enough to matter.”

Gage’s mouth tilted. “A mid-level laundering channel tied to a contractor who’s about to retire?”

“Hmm, they’ll smell something off with that,” I said.

He tapped his glass against the table, considering. “What if I give them an old real estate partnership that brushes up against one of the New York families? It’s dusty, mostly dissolved, but it’ll light up their charts and keep them busy arguing over who owns it.”

I thought about it, then nodded. “That should work.”

His fingers suddenly stilled on the glass. His gaze drifted past me, unfocused, as though he was watching something rearrange itself in the air.

The easy charm slipped, and his eyes went a cold, flat, pale gray, like frost over a frozen lake hiding something long dead beneath.

The memory slammed into me without warning.

A dim warehouse outside Henderson. Concrete floors stained dark and sticky under the single hanging bulb. The air was thick with bleach and copper, so intense it burned the back of my throat with every inhale, like breathing through a wet rag soaked in pennies.

A man was strapped upright to a metal frame, his wrists and ankles bound so tightly the rope had already bitten through skin and into muscle. He was breathing in ragged, wet gasps interspersed with broken, snot-choked sobbing pleas. Gage tilted his head, and the pleading abruptly stopped.

Gage peeled the man’s face first. The scalpel tip kissed the hairline, then dragged down along the jaw in one smooth, unhurried line, parting flesh like wet paper. Blood welled in perfect crimson beads that were bright against his paling skin, then ran in thin rivers. He lifted the edges with gloved fingers and gently pulled.

The face came away in one piece, a glistening, dripping mask of skin with the muscle and fat left behind. The man’s scream turned high and shredded as the cold air of the room hit his exposed nerves. Gage didn’t flinch or even blink at the sound. He just held the flap of skin up to the light like he was inspecting a piece of fabric before setting it aside on the crate next to him with the same care he’d use to set down a coffee cup.

He moved to the man’s arms next. Cutting in long, careful strokes down the forearms, Gage curled the blade under to separate dermis from muscle. Skin sloughed off in wide, translucent sheets, red and veined, like peeled fruit, landing on the concrete with soft, wet slaps. The man jerked against the restraints, his veins pulsing under the raw meat that used to be his arms, every twitch sending fresh blood splattering to the floor.

Gage’s face never changed. He didn’t look excited or disgusted . . . He simply kept that same flat, surgical calm—like he was disassembling a broken appliance instead of a person. When the man’s screams dissolved into gurgling whimpers, Gage peeled the torso open, stripping away every inch of skin until nothing remained that could be recognized. No face. No fingerprints. No story left to tell.

Just glistening red muscle, exposed tendons twitching like dying worms, and the slow drip of blood pooling beneath the frame in a widening dark mirror.