Page 12 of Don’t Say Mafia

A smile pulled at my mouth as I immediately turned and headed toward my bedroom. If I was going downstairs, I wasn’t doing it in sweats.

Three minutes later I came back out in a suit, and Maddox nodded approvingly. “Better.”

I adjusted my cuffs. “I’m glad I have your approval,” I drawled.

“Someone has to maintain group standards,” he said coolly as he stepped in front of me before I could pass.

I rolled my eyes. “Yes, Maddox?”

He smirked. “I just wanted to remind you that you can’t shoot someone in the high roller room.”

I stared at him, confused. “I know Cruz didn’t say that, because he shoots people literally everywhere.”

Maddox snorted. “He didn’t say that. But you still can’t shoot someone down there. I know you know that, but I’m saying it anyway because that smile is concerning.”

“It’s a very reasonable smile.”

“It’s the smile you had in Miami.”

My smile grew thinking about that particular trip. “That was different,” I said.

“Was it, Jagger?”

I held his gaze for a second longer, then brushed past him toward the elevator. “I’m not going to shoot anyone,” I said as the doors slid open.

“Good,” Maddox replied calmly. “Because that paperwork is exhausting.”

I winked at him as the doors began to close. “Thanks for the burrito,” I called.

He growled in response because he knew . . .

I was probably going to shoot someone down there.

CHAPTER 3

EDEN

Idrew in a slow breath, held it for a second longer than necessary, and then let it out through my nose as I stepped into the high roller room. No matter how many times I worked this section, a flicker of nerves always followed.

The air felt different in here, or maybe that was just me. I always felt it in my bones, the reminder that I didn’t belong at their table. I was here to serve them, to smile at the right moments, to anticipate what they wanted before they asked. I could move through the room without stumbling and balance a tray without spilling a drop, but there was still that part of me that felt like any second someone was going to stand up and call for the girl from the trailer park to be escorted out.

I adjusted my grip on the tray and started forward, and that was when I felt it . . . a faint awareness creeping along my spine, a prickle at the back of my neck that had nothing to do with noise or movement. It was the steady certainty of being watched. Not glanced at. Watched.

I forced myself to take another step before I looked up.

And that was a mistake.

Because the god of a man in front of me wasn’t just seated at the poker table. He was positioned. Like he’d picked that exact chair because it gave him the best line of sight.

Of the room.

Of me.

His blond hair was darker at the roots, swept back like someone’s hands had gripped it hard only minutes ago and ruined it on purpose. His suit was black and perfectly cut, fitted through the shoulders and tapered at the waist so it emphasized a build you don’t get from a desk job.

He’d pushed the sleeves up to his elbows, exposing forearms corded with muscle and covered in dark ink—layered tattoos that climbed from his wrist to where the shirt hid the rest, disappearing under the cuffs like secrets he hadn’t decided to share yet. The top two buttons of his white shirt were undone, revealing the hollow of his throat, the edge of more ink crawling up his chest, and a silver chain that caught the low light every time he breathed.

He leaned back in his chair, one elbow draped over the armrest while his other hand rested on the green felt. His long fingers loosely circled a stack of black chips like he had nowhere else to be. The way he held himself was effortless, almost lazy, but there was nothing lazy about his body. There was tension in the way he occupied space. Like if he stood up, the entire table would adjust without him asking.