Page 345 of Don’t Say Mafia

“Orwell said something like . . . When you’re fucking tortured to death, there are no heroes.”

Cruz snorted. “Jags, I don’t think that’s how it goes.”

I shrugged. “It’s close enough, and I still think that’s going to be very applicable today.” I leaned over so Carl and I were eye level. “You thought we wouldn’t figure it out,” I murmured, finally ripping the tape off his mouth so he could answer me.

Carl didn’t rush to respond. He worked his jaw a few times, like he was making sure it still worked, before speaking through the torn strip still clinging to the corner of his mouth. “I thought you’d be slower,” he finally said quietly. “Figured I had another week. Maybe two. I was going to finish a few things before I left.”

I let out a short breath that wasn’t quite a laugh.

“Fifteen years, Carl. There had to be countless people that have tried to turn you during that time. Why now?”

He sighed. “Does it really matter, Jagger? You’re just going to kill me anyway.”

“That’s true,” Cruz commented, wrinkling his nose. “But I’d still like to know. I mean, come on . . . the fucking Irish?”

Carl’s gaze shifted from me to Cruz, then back again. For the first time since I walked in, something changed in his eyes. The resignation hardened. Went cold. Like a switch had flipped, and the man who’d spent fifteen years doing everything the Syndicate asked was finally done pretending.

He looked at me for a long moment. Then he simply said, “I got tired of saying yes.”

Cruz actually froze. His arms dropped to his sides. For once, the man who ran this entire operation looked genuinely stunned.

I felt the air leave my lungs in a slow, confused rush.

Tired of saying yes.

Fifteen years of quiet nods, of covering for us, of handling the messes no one else wanted to touch, of accepting his ever-increasing pay and bonuses. Fifteen years.

Apparently, his work hadn’t been loyalty . . . it had been boredom.

I stared at Carl, trying to find the lie in his face. Trying to find anything that would make this easier to swallow. But there was nothing. Just that cold, steady gaze looking back at me after he’d finally said the truth he’d evidently been holding in for a decade and a half.

Cruz recovered first. He let out a low, disbelieving laugh that had no humor in it.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” he muttered. “You sold us out to the Irish because you were . . . tired?”

Carl didn’t blink. “I didn’t sell you out to the Irish. I sold you out to the people who offered me a way to stop saying yes to everything. The Irish just happened to be the ones who showed up with the right leverage at the right time.”

He shrugged—as much as the zip ties allowed. “You built an empire on people who never say no. I got tired of being one of them.”

The rage didn’t explode. It sank in deep until every breath tasted like it.

“Cruz,” I said quietly. “Tools.”

Cruz didn’t move right away. He was still staring at Carl, struggling to believe what he’d just heard. He finally pushed off the pallets, walked to the metal cabinet, and came back with the black case. He set it on the floor beside me and flipped the latches open.

Carl’s eyes flicked to the contents—pliers, drill, box cutter, blowtorch, bone saws—but the coldness in his gaze didn’t waver.

He looked back at me. “I’m not going to beg,” he said calmly. “So you’re not going to get what you’re looking for.”

I picked up the cordless drill and grinned. “You know, Carl, I’m going to disagree with you on that one.”

I pressed the bit to the back of his left hand—right through the center of the palm—and squeezed the trigger. The motor whined, and the bit punched through skin and bone in a spray of red. Carl’s body locked rigid, a raw scream ripping from his throat. I kept the drill running until the bit came out the other side, then pulled it free. Blood poured from the hole in steady pulses, and his hand twitched uselessly against the zip tie.

I moved to the right hand and did the same slow push in the same spot. The drill bit went through tendon and bone with a wet crunch. Carl’s head fell forward, his body convulsing and his muffled howls turning into wet gurgles.

“Maybe you’re right, Carl. You haven’t begged yet. I’m impressed. Let’s keep going, shall we?”

I picked up the box cutter, slid the blade out, and pressed the tip to the Paradise logo on his polo, cutting slowly until the fabric parted and I reached skin. I didn’t stop at the shirt, obviously. I carved deeper—long lines across his chest, deep enough to part muscle, but not deep enough to hit anything vital yet. The letter T, first, then R, A, I, T, O, R. One letter at a time. Blood welled up in thick sheets, soaking the polo and dripping onto the concrete in dark pools.