Page 350 of Don’t Say Mafia

I rolled my sleeves up. “Do you remember grabbing the ass of one of my employees about ten minutes ago?” I asked calmly.

The man blinked at me, then scoffed like the whole thing was ridiculous. “Oh come on,” he said, waving a hand. “I was just having a little fun with the cocktail waitress.”

Cruz slowly rubbed his face as if he was bracing for a migraine. “That’s what you decided to go with?” he asked. He looked at me. “Do you want to let him try again, or should we just fast-forward to the consequences?”

The guy shrugged, acting as though he were the victim here. “This is Vegas,” he continued. “Isn’t that what girls like that are for?”

I blinked at him, not because I hadn’t heard him, but because I genuinely could not believe that was the sentence he’d chosen to say out loud.

Cruz straightened slowly, his amusement draining away. “Oof,” he said under his breath. “I really thought he was going to recover there.”

I flexed my hand and then stepped forward and grabbed his wrist.

He jerked back instinctively, but I yanked his arm straight and slammed his palm flat on the metal table. Then I brought my other fist down hard on the back of his hand, putting every ounce of my weight behind it.

His bones splintered under his skin with a muffled crunch that vibrated up my arm. His middle and ring fingers collapsed inward at impossible angles, the knuckles folding into the palm like crushed paper. Blood immediately welled between the joints, bright red against the table’s dull gray.

He didn’t scream at first, just sucked in a shocked, whistling breath, his eyes huge, and his mouth open in silent disbelief.

Then the pain caught up.

A raw, animal howl tore out of him that echoed off the concrete. His knees buckled, and he tried to yank away, but I kept his wrist pinned, grinding the ruined hand against the table so he felt every fractured piece shift.

Cruz winced theatrically. “Hopefully he’s left-handed, because that hand’s not going to be able to grab a dick for a long time.”

The guy started sliding down the chair, gasping like he couldn’t get air. “You broke it!” he choked.

I crouched down in front of him. “Yes,” I said calmly. “I did.”

Cruz wandered over, peering down at the hand. “You know,” he added conversationally, “if you’d gone with ‘I’m sorry,’ this probably would’ve gone a different direction.”

The man’s face had gone pale and slick with sweat. “You can’t do this,” he panted. “I’ll call the police.”

I tilted my head slightly. “Will you?”

He nodded frantically. “Yes! I’ll call the police and⁠—”

“Rebecca Miller,” I said quietly.

He froze.

“Your wife,” I continued. “She’s currently asleep in your house on Sandstone Ridge Drive. Number 4821, if I remember correctly.”

The color drained from his face, and I watched the fear settle in.

“Oh,” I said softly. “And you work at an accounting firm downtown, right? Hargrove and Bell?”

His mouth dropped open as he stared at me in shock. “You . . . you can’t—” The guy’s eyes darted between us. “My—my wife⁠—”

“Yes,” I said pleasantly. “Rebecca. I’m sure she would love to know about all of your extracurriculars.”

His breathing turned ragged, and I leaned forward just enough that he couldn’t look away from me. “Listen carefully,” I told him, “because I’m only going to say this once.”

His head bobbed frantically.

“If you ever come to one of our casinos again,” I continued, my voice still conversational, “I’m not breaking your hand.”

Cruz folded his arms. “Oh no,” he said. “We’re definitely past hands at that point.”