Page 38 of Don’t Say Mafia

I stared at him for a second, then scoffed and turned back to the glasses, sliding another into place just to give my hands something to do. “You’re very vague.”

“Occupational hazard.”

I glanced back at him over my shoulder. “But you’re at least telling me that you do more than haunt coffee shops and high roller rooms.”

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as though he was about to confess a state secret. “Sometimes I attend meetings,” he dramatically whispered. “And occasionally I even solve problems.”

I blinked at him. “That sounds fake.”

He grinned. “It sounds corporate, you mean.”

“You don’t look corporate,” I responded, thinking of his little knife incident.

“That’s devastating,” he murmured. “Because I’ve really been working on my spreadsheet persona.”

I shook my head, unable to stop the small laugh that slipped out. “So what, you sit in conference rooms and say things like, ‘Let’s circle back’?”

He considered that seriously. “Only when I want to frighten people.”

“That’s not frightening.”

“Usually it is,” he said.

I didn’t even know what he meant, but another short, startled laugh slipped out of me anyway—and that was apparently all the encouragement he needed.

“You’re being curious tonight,” he observed. “That’s new.”

“You keep appearing wherever I am,” I shot back. “I’m just doing basic background checks to make sure you’re not a psychopath.”

His head tilted slightly, his eyes narrowing in interest rather than offense. “Are you close to a conclusion?” he asked calmly.

I hesitated. “That depends.”

“On?”

“On whether you’re about to give me a normal answer to anything.”

“And what would you consider normal?” he asked.

“Something specific,” I said. “Something that doesn’t sound like you’re auditioning to be a mysterious villain . . . something like your name.” The words left my mouth before I could second-guess them.

He caught his bottom lip between his teeth, biting down slowly as if he were considering the weight of what I’d asked. “If I tell you that,” he said slowly, “it means we’re friends.”

My brows drew together. “That’s . . . an odd rule.”

He shrugged, completely unapologetic. “I have a few.”

“And what if I don’t want to be friends?”

He grinned confidently. “Then you won’t ask again, but just so you know, literally everyone wants to be my friend.”

I held his gaze, trying to figure out whether this was a game or a test. My pulse thudded traitorously in my ears.

“Fine,” I said at last, like I wasn’t giving anything away.

“Fine,” he echoed, still watching me as though he was cataloging the moment.

I turned back to the glasses, forcing my breathing to even out, pretending I hadn’t just stepped over another invisible boundary with a man who seemed to collect them like trophies.