Women cry. They plead. They promise. They make you believe mercy is possible, and then they teach you how expensive that belief can be. I learned that once.
I don't repeat lessons.
I don't do mercy anymore.
I don't do trust.
I do loyalty.
Earned the hard way.
And I sure as hell don't give women second chances.
I bury the thought where it belongs, drown it in a glass of bourbon, and lock it away with the others, sealed tight in the part of my mind that never opens. Because ghosts are dangerous, and she is the most dangerous one of all.
The interior of the SUV is cold, dark, and quiet. Luc drives fast but smooth, weaving through the city's arteries toward theeast side. My crew says nothing. They all know the rules: no chatter, no questions, not unless I ask. I look out the window and watch the Strip fade, replaced by strip malls and tract houses, then the blank faces of tilt-up warehouses. No one's tailing us; I'd spot it if they were. I check my phone. No new messages.
The crematorium is twenty minutes out, buried in a wasteland of storage units, weed dispensaries, and wholesale furniture outlets. The building is deliberately anonymous: tan stucco, flat roof, no windows on the street side. I bought it two years ago, cash, and hired a crew that only speaks when spoken to. The sign out front readsNevada Memorial Services, but we call itThe Oven. Sometimes you need to erase a body from the earth; sometimes you just need to remind a man that you can.
Inside, the air is hot and chemical, the tang of disinfectant riding up the nose until it almost burns. The floors gleam. The walls are white as bone. Every surface is so clean it's unnerving, as if death itself must be sanitized before proceeding.
Enzo waits in the prep room, standing at attention. He's six-two and built like he could bench-press a Harley, but his movements are all discipline, never a wasted motion. His face is heavily disfigured by scars that put the fear of God into the most courageous man.
Which isn't Norm, who is lying on a steel slab, wrists and ankles cinched with leather restraints. He's balding, nondescript, one of those men who could disappear in a crowd, which is why I hired him in the first place. Now, his face is a rictus of fear, jaw clenched, eyes dry and darting. He's past denial, past bargaining, and well into the final stage: animal panic. Under the stretcher, another body waits, zipped and tagged. The legal one, the one scheduled for tonight's burn.
The gurney rails lead directly into the open mouth of the cremation oven. The heat is palpable, even from the doorway.Enzo opens a bottle of Stagg from my personal reserve, pours bourbon into a glass, and hands it to me.
I take a sip, and it burns going down. Good. Pain should mean something. I circle the table, shoes clicking on tile, and watch Norm the way a cat watches a mouse that's already caught.
Norm makes a show of tugging at his restraints, his head rotates as his eyes follow me, panicked. "What is this? Why am I here? Massimo, please, I don't—I don't?—"
I raise a hand. The silence buries him.
"You laced the coke. Why?"
He blinks. Once, twice. He looks confused, like he's lost the thread of the conversation. "No," he pleads. "No, I didn't. I wouldn't. I swear to God." He looks to Enzo, desperate for an ally, but finds only ice.
"Six people are dead," I fill him in. "One of them a headliner. The news cycle is already on fire. The coke traced to you. If you didn't cut it, who did?"
Norm shakes his head, frantic. "I don't—I mean, it's the same stuff I always get. Same source. Same run. I even tried it like I'm supposed to."
Enzo steps forward. He's always preferred action to words. "How the fuck could you not notice? That's your job. You run the girls; you watch the product. If people die, you're supposed to call us before the press does."
"I didn't know!" Norm's voice goes up, cracks, splinters. "Nobody said anything. Nobody OD'd, not even the girls. I swear, you can check."
Enzo looks at me, a silent question. I nod. The gurney shifts forward, closer to the heat. Norm shrieks as his shoes start to melt, the rubber bubbling and peeling. One of my men steps forward and puts out the nascent fire crawling up Norm's pantleg, then steps back just as quickly. Even mercy is efficient in my house.
Norm is crying now, snot and spit pooling under his chin. "I didn't know. I swear. Please. Please, Massimo. You know me."
"Where did you get the coke?" I ask again, quieter this time.
Norm is shaking so hard the gurney rattles. "Same guy as always. Del."
I believe him. Del was the first man I questioned a few hours ago. But it doesn't matter who or what I believe. I finish my bourbon and set the glass down on the steel counter.
"Who had access to your place?" Enzo's voice is a rasp, the edge of a blade pressed against the moment.
Norm's jaw works as if he's chewing on nails. Bloodless lips open and close. He's already in shock, pain signals short-circuiting, but fear is the greater anesthetic. "My girlfriend," his voice sounds parched. "Ann. But she wouldn't—she doesn't—she never touches my work. She wouldn't even know what to?—"
