Page 188 of Don’t Say Mafia

My fingers tightened slowly against the table. “Who,” I asked carefully, making sure she couldn’t read anything in my tone, “is she marrying?”

My mother pressed a few buttons. “Oh,” she said. “A senator’s son, apparently.”

For a second—I didn’t breathe. A strange pressure was building in my chest, slow and hot and violent, like something inside me had just been shoved awake after years of sleep.

“‘A senator’s son,’” I repeated. My voice didn’t sound like mine.

My mother glanced up then, faintly annoyed. “Yes. Very respectable family. His name is Samuel something.”

Samuel Englewood.

Of course.

Of course it was a bastard like that.

Rowan’s family had always had excellent taste in terrible decisions for their daughter.

The pressure in my chest twisted suddenly into something sharper.

Images started flashing through my head like someone had ripped open a locked room in my brain.

Rowan laughing in the library, sunlight in her hair.

Rowan in my bed, whispering my name.

Rowan standing under the streetlight that night, her face white with horror.

Don’t ever come near me again.

My hand slammed down on the table before I even realized I’d moved. The crystal glasses rattled violently, and my mother jumped.

“Cruz!”

I was already on my feet, and my chair skidded backward across the marble floor.

“Apologies, Mother,” I said stiffly. “I’m afraid I really do have to go now.”

Her lips tightened immediately. “Well, really, Cruz, there’s no need to behave like an animal. You could at least pretend to have manners.”

“I did,” I said, shoving one arm into the sleeve of my jacket. “For twenty-seven minutes.”

She set her phone down and once again pursed her lips. “You’re being incredibly rude.”

I paused long enough to look at her. “I learned from the best.”

Her eyes flashed, but I didn’t wait for a response; I was already walking out.

The doors slammed behind me as I stalked across the front steps and down the drive, the heat of the afternoon hitting me like a wall. My pulse was still pounding as I pulled my phone out and hit Jagger’s name.

He answered after two rings. “I just want you to know that I just threatened a contractor, and he didn’t even cry,” he growled. “I better not be losing my touch.”

“Can you spare a few minutes tomorrow?” I asked. “Or maybe an hour, actually.”

There was a short pause on the other end.

“Sure,” Jagger said slowly. “What for?”

I leaned against the car, staring out across the long drive of my mother’s estate, the fountain spraying quietly in the distance. All of it was a stark contrast to the detonation taking place inside my chest.

My mouth curved.

“We have a wedding to crash.”