Page 374 of Don’t Say Mafia

He shrugged. “Yeah. I figured it out.”

That told me absolutely nothing, but he didn’t seem to care as he strolled down the hall toward our new kitchen.

“I’m getting this tracker out of me soon,” I yelled after him.

He just laughed. “Good luck with that. I’ll just give you another one,” he said over his shoulder.

Eden started laughing under the blanket as I stared after him. I dragged a hand down my face. “Un-fucking-believable.”

“Nice place, by the way,” Cruz called from out of sight.

Eden lost it completely, snorting and wheezing, the blanket shaking like it was possessed.

I stared at the ceiling for a long second, and then I let out a long--suffering sigh . . . and laughed, too.

Because what the fuck else was I supposed to do?

EPILOGUE 2

CRUZ

Our family’s estate looked exactly the same as it always did.

Massive iron gates. Perfect hedges trimmed with surgical precision. A fountain in the circular drive that probably cost more than most people’s houses. My mother believed subtlety was for poor people.

I handed my keys to her butler, Clarence, and walked inside.

Lunch with my mother happened once a month. She strong-armed me into it by saying it was the price of maintaining the illusion that we were a normal family, which, of course, we were not.

The dining room smelled like lemon polish and quiet judgment. Sunlight spilled through the tall windows, catching on crystal glasses and polished silver.

My mother sat at the head of the table like a queen waiting for her court. “Cruz,” she said coolly as I walked in, eyeing my latest baby blue suit distastefully.

“Mother.” I dropped into the chair across from her and immediately reached for the wine.

“It’s noon.”

I took a long drink. “Then I’m getting an early start.”

Her lips pursed, making her resemble a shriveled raisin. Fucking hell, I hated that expression.

Lunch had barely started before she launched into her favorite topic. The staff.

“I told her the napkins are folded incorrectly,” she was saying now, stabbing delicately at her salad as if the arugula was her worst enemy. “But apparently that instruction was too complex.”

“Tragic.”

She ignored me.

“The new girl clearly has no training. The linen closet is chaos. Chaos, Cruz.”

I leaned back in my chair. “Thoughts and prayers,” I drawled sarcastically.

She sighed heavily. “I don’t understand why people have no pride in their work anymore.”

I took another drink of wine and stared out the window. This was why I usually brought Jagger. He treated these lunches like a sport. He’d ask questions just to watch her spiral.

Once, he’d convinced her that the gardener was secretly sabotaging the rose bushes because he was working for the Russians.