CHAPTER 35
EDEN
There were cop cars waiting for us on the tarmac when we landed.
I saw them through the window as the jet rolled to a slow stop—two patrol cruisers angled across the asphalt, lights off but engines running, the red-and-blue bars on their roofs catching the edge of the floodlights.
My stomach twisted. Police didn’t wait for private planes unless something was very wrong.
“Jagger?” My voice sounded thin even to me.
He was already standing, his body rigid, and his eyes fixed on the scene outside. “Stay right next to me,” he said as he guided me toward the door.
“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.
The footage opened on a wide angle of the casino floor near the employee corridor behind the craps tables.
Carl, our Carl—the quiet, dependable Paradise manager who’d been with Cruz’s family since before we’d taken over—walked into frame pushing a large laundry cart.
There would usually be nothing off about that .
. . if Carl was actually in housekeeping.
Two men walked on either side of him, both in maintenance coveralls, their faces partially hidden by the camera angle and the low pull of their caps.
They moved with purpose across the floor.
No one in the footage paid them any notice as they moved through the room.
It was a packed Saturday night, and most eyes were locked on cards and spinning reels—not the people pushing service carts past them.
They rolled the cart past a row of slot machines, then paused near the edge of the high-limit lounge that was right at the mouth of a narrow service hallway that led to the loading dock.
The cart stopped. One of the men glanced around, and then Carl reached down, lifted the heavy canvas flap on the cart’s side, and pulled out something wrapped in a large hotel sheet.
As the bundle hit the floor, the sheet slipped open, and the judge’s dead face was visible for a few seconds.
Carl didn’t hesitate. He dropped to one knee, gathered the sheet with practiced efficiency, and tugged it back over the judge’s face, tucking the edges under the shoulders and hips until nothing showed but white fabric.
I watched as he said something to the two men before they turned and walked away.
Carl waited exactly seven seconds—long enough to make sure no one had noticed—then wheeled the empty cart away toward the employee exit. He disappeared down the corridor as if he’d just finished his shift.
The video cut to black, and my vision narrowed to a pinprick.
Carl.
Meek, stalwart Carl, who’d never once said no to anything we’d asked from him. The one employee in our entire organization besides Zachary who I’d have sworn on my life would never flip.
I was furious.
Branson glanced at me in the rearview, frowning. “Is everything okay back there, Mr. Thatcher?” he asked. “Do you need more air?”
I met his gaze in the reflection—long enough that he swallowed visibly.
“You’d never betray us, right, Branson?” I asked, fully aware of how scary and unhinged I sounded right then.
His knuckles whitened on the wheel. “Of—of course not. Never.”
“Because you’re grateful for everything we’ve done for you and your family, I’m sure,” I continued, leaning forward.
“Yes.” The word rushed out. “I’m so grateful.”
I reached up and patted his shoulder once, hard enough that the impact carried through his uniform jacket. He flinched.
“That’s good to hear, Branson.” I settled back against the seat, my voice dropping to something almost friendly. “Really good.”
The cruiser eased into the station lot, and lights from the building spilled across the hood. Branson killed the engine, but I was busy going through any other blind spots we needed to monitor.
The Syndicate ran on fear and favors—loyalty was expected. But Carl had been different. There had never been any threats needed or leverage required. He’d simply been loyal because that’s who he was. Or who I’d convinced myself he was . . . and we’d compensated him accordingly.
Years of proof, gone in one grainy video.
He wasn’t just a traitor.
Because it was him, it was personal.
“Let’s get this over with,” I said, already thinking in detail of everything I was about to do to Carl.
“Do you like George Orwell, Carl?” I asked as I studied the man in front of me.
The asshole in question was sitting in a metal chair with his wrists zip-tied behind the backrest and his ankles secured to the legs. He had duct tape across his mouth so he couldn’t answer me, but that wasn’t going to stop me from my spiel. I had a lot of pent-up rage at the moment.
The only humorous thing about this situation was that Carl’s black Paradise polo was still tucked neatly into his slacks. Cruz had literally pulled him straight off the casino floor where he’d been working like normal . . . like he hadn’t stabbed us in the fucking back.
Carl had a resigned look in his gaze, the same one he’d probably worn for the last fifteen years every time an employee had fucked up and he’d had to handle something for them.
“Even if you don’t like Orwell, he did have some very interesting points about torture,” I continued. “Want to hear them?”
Carl obviously still didn’t answer me, but again, it didn’t slow me down. Cruz was actually listening for once as well as he leaned against a stack of wooden pallets to my left with his arms folded patiently.
“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?”