“What’s that?” I ask pleasantly. “Looks like you’re taking something that doesn’t belong to you.”
His shoulders slump. Game over.
“It was just once,” he whispers. “I needed money. My kid’s got medical bills—”
My next punch lands on his sternum, knocking the air from his lungs with a satisfying wheeze. “We both know that’s bullshit. The cameras caught you at multiple separate times.”
I beckon to Jim, who hands me a knife. Joey’s eye fixates on the blade, pupils dilating with fresh terror.
“The tattoo,” I press, tapping the flat of the blade against his cheek. “Who gave it to you?”
“It’s not what you think,” he repeats, the words tumbling out faster now. “It’s just a fucking tattoo, man.”
I smile, letting the expression reach my eye. “See, I believe you took the product. That’s obvious. But this?” I press the knife tip against the black circle until a bead of blood wells up. “This makes me think you’re feeding information to my enemies. The same enemies who blew me up last year.”
His breath hitches. “I would never betray you like that. Never! I stole some product, yeah, I admit it. I fucked up. But I’m not a rat. I’m not working with anyone.”
I study his face, looking for the telltale signs of a lie—the micro-expressions, the involuntary swallow, the flicker of the eye. Joey’s scared shitless, but the fear seems genuine. Not the calculated panic of a man hiding bigger sins.
“The circle,” I insist. “What does it mean to you?”
“Nothing!” His voice breaks. “My girl is into astrology and said it represents the full moon, new beginnings. I got it to make her happy. That’s it!”
I press the knife harder, drawing a thin line of blood along the edge of the tattoo. “Funny thing about circles, Joey. They have no beginning, no end. Just like lies. They go round and round until someone cuts them open.”
He’s sobbing now, words spilling out between gasps. “I swear, Matteo. Y-yes, I stole the product. I’ll pay it back. I’ll do anything. But I’m not working with anyone else. I’m not a traitor.”
I straighten, wiping the blade on his shirt. “I believe you.”
Relief washes over his face, pure and pathetic. “Thank you. Thank Christ. I swear I’ll make it right.”
“I believe you didn’t know what the tattoo really means,” I clarify, stepping back. “But that makes you stupid, not innocent.”
I retrieve my gun and check the chamber, a habit more than a necessity. Joey’s pleas increase in volume and desperation, promises of repayment, mentions of his family, appeals to mercy I’ve never possessed.
“The thing is, Joey,” I explain calmly, aiming between his eyes, “even if you’re not feeding information, you took from me. And that’s a death sentence.”
Even with the silencer on, the shot echoes through the warehouse, a pop that silences his begging. His head snaps back, then slumps forward, blood trickling from the neat hole above the bridge of his nose.
The chair legs scrape against concrete as his body spasms once, twice, then goes still.
“Clean this up. Dump him where he won’t be found.” I turn to my men. “Find out who gave him the tattoo. Find his girlfriend. I want to know if he was just stupid or if someone was using him.”
“And the missing product?” Jim asks, already pulling on disposable gloves.
I reach for my jacket, slipping it back on with a shrug. “Calculate his cut over the next five years. Take it from that, give the rest to his kid. Anonymous donation.”
Jim’s eyebrows lift in surprise. “That’s… generous, boss.”
I straighten my cuffs, adjusting them until they sit perfectly against my wrists. “It’s not generosity. It’s morals. I don’t steal from children.”
As I walk back toward the door, I pause. “And find out where he got that fucking tattoo. I want every person with that mark on their skin identified by morning.”
Chapter 8
Raven
When I sashay through Holston PR’s glass doors, I feel rejuvenated and ready to get back to putting out online fires.
