Page 343 of Don’t Say Mafia

“What’s happening?” I whispered even though no one could hear us.

“I have no idea,” he answered as the stairs were lowered with a mechanical whine and the night air rushed in along with the smell of jet fuel.

We started down the steps. Halfway to the tarmac, one of the officers stepped forward, and my eyes widened when I saw Gage was right behind him, his face carefully blank and his hands in his pockets like this was just another late-night pickup.

The officer spoke first. “Mr. Thatcher, we need to speak with you regarding the death of Judge Harlan Larkin.”

I blinked at that. I wasn’t exactly up to date on the legal system, but I had heard that name in the news before. My mind reeled, trying to catch up. Why would the police think that Jagger had any answers about that?

“I’m happy to cooperate,” Jagger said evenly, his tone almost bored. “What exactly do you need from me?”

The officer’s gaze flicked to me in assessment, then back to Jagger. “We’ll discuss that at the station. In private.”

Jagger’s grip on my elbow tightened for half a second. Then he leaned in, pretending like he was kissing me goodbye. “Don’t let on that you know Gage,” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the wind.

Confusion crashed through me. “What⁠—”

“Just do it, Eden.” The words were urgent, almost pleading. “Just do it.”

I swallowed hard, forcing my eyes forward and away from Gage’s face. Jagger turned me slightly toward where a familiar SUV was waiting.

“Eden,” he said, louder this time so the officers could hear him. “Go with Zachary. He’s waiting in the SUV. I’ll be home soon.”

“Jagger—”

“It’s just some questions.” His eyes locked on mine. “Trust me.”

I wanted to argue and go with him, but I finally nodded and walked toward where Zachary was already out of the SUV and waiting for me.

“Mr. Thatcher, if you’ll come with us,” I heard the officer say.

I glanced back once over my shoulder, hating the sight of him walking away, and then I slid into the SUV.

***

Jagger

“What the fuck is this, Branson?” I snarled as I got into the police cruiser.

Branson, one of the officers we paid a lot of money to so we could avoid this exact situation, gave me a regretful look. “I’m sorry, Mr. Thatcher. This wasn’t one we could just ignore without getting attention. A letter was sent to the FBI and our office stating that you were involved in Larkin’s death.”

I scoffed. “Did anyone bother checking to see if I was in town this weekend? Spoiler alert—I’ve got a jumbotron shot in front of a hundred thousand people that said I wasn’t.” Shaking my head in disgust, I checked the text that had just come in.

Gage: Congratulations. You’ve now become the face of the Las Vegas mafia.

Perfect. Where was Cruz when I actually needed him?

A second text came in, this time in the group chat.

Lawson: The main cameras at Paradise went conveniently offline when the judge was dumped: . . .but they obviously didn’t know about the other ones.

Me: I’m in the back of a cop car. Try not to leave me in suspense. Who the fuck are we killing?

The three dots appeared immediately. Lawson better be typing fast.

A video file dropped into the chat—short and grainy and time-stamped from the night of the judge’s death. There was no audio, just silent black-and-white security footage from one of the hidden auxiliary feeds we’d installed last year during Paradise’s “maintenance” phase.

These weren’t the flashy casino cams everyone knew about—the ones covering the main floor, the pits, and the high-limit rooms. These were the ghost cameras, with discreet lenses tucked into ceiling panels, HVAC vents, decorative molding, and service corridors. A setup only the five of us knew existed, placed specifically for moments like this.