Page 68 of Don’t Say Mafia

I narrowed my eyes. “How would you even know that?”

Another flicker of amusement moved across his face.

“My company owns the casino,” he said simply.

I gaped at him. “What?”

He leaned back against the counter, entirely at ease after rearranging my understanding of the world. “My company owns the casino, Eden. So it would make sense that I’m familiar with the employee handbook. I do like to be hands-on with my companies. It’s what makes me the best.”

“You own it?” I repeated, heat rising in my chest. “You’ve been coming in there like—like you’re just another customer.”

His mouth twitched. “I am a customer.”

“Seriously . . . I’m not joking right now.”

He straightened slightly, maddeningly calm as ever. “You didn’t need to know. It wasn’t relevant.”

“It feels relevant,” I shot back. “Especially as I’m thinking back on everything. You’re the reason Carl let me go early that night and paid me for it!”

He held my gaze. “What kind of boss would I be if I ignored my employee’s plight? You were entitled to the pay then, and you’re entitled to the pay now. You can stop freaking out.”

I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it again when I realized I didn’t have the energy to untangle all this information. And it wasn’t like I wasn’t relieved to hear about this policy. Having to go to work the day after I’d seen my husband’s dead body felt impossible. Standing behind the bar while people laughed and gambled and flirted, pretending I wasn’t replaying the sight of Ryan under fluorescent lights . . . it would have broken whatever was left of me.

The thought of a few days—paid days—felt like someone loosening a vise around my ribs.

“It’s a good policy,” I finally said quietly. “Thank you.”

He grinned. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

I rolled my eyes faintly, but there wasn’t much heat behind it. The tightness in my chest had eased just enough for me to breathe without it hurting.

“You’re very smug. I hope someone’s told you that before,” I muttered.

His mouth twitched. “I never claimed otherwise.”

That almost made me smile again.

Jagger glanced down at his phone and groaned. “Damn it,” he muttered. “I need to handle something for work.” He didn’t try to disguise the irritation in his voice. “But I’ll come back later. I want to check on you.”

“Jagger—” I started.

He closed the distance before I could figure out what I was going to say. His hand came up, and his thumb brushed lightly along my cheekbone. “I’ll be back,” he said firmly.

Before I could argue, he pulled me into him and wrapped his arms around me in a tight hug.

I stiffened for half a second. “I⁠—”

“Friends touch,” he said against my hair, his tone lighter again. “It’s perfectly legal.”

I huffed a shaky breath despite myself.

His hand slid up my back, and something in me gave way. I melted into him, my forehead resting against his shoulder as I breathed in the faint scent of his cologne.

And just as soon as I did, I felt a rush of guilt.

This was too easy.

When Jagger pulled back, he gave me that faint, knowing smile again. “I’ll see you later,” he said before striding toward the door. It closed behind him a moment later, leaving the apartment quiet again, and I stood there staring at the spot where he’d been, my chest tight and . . . missing him.