Page 82 of Don’t Say Mafia

“You’ll find,” he said lightly, “that Mr. Thatcher is very persuasive . . . and he usually gets what he wants.”

My stomach tightened as I looked down at the phone that was now in my hand.

Yes.

That was exactly what I was worried about.

CHAPTER 20

JAGGER

It was always strange seeing Gage in daylight.

Not unsettling exactly. Just . . . weird. Like spotting a wolf asleep in the sun, belly-up, looking almost harmless if you didn’t know better.

He sat across from me at the long table in the back of the restaurant with his sleeves rolled to his elbows and his forearms braced casually against the wood. His hair was the color of wet sand, darker at the roots and lighter where the sun had bleached it over time. Gage’s features were balanced in a way that made him immediately approachable, a face people opened up to without realizing they were doing it. There was something composed in his gaze, quiet and attentive, like the sort of man you’d trust with directions—or a secret—without thinking twice.

Federal agent by day.

Our problem solver by night.

I took a sip of my drink and studied him over the rim of the glass. “No wonder you don’t ever go on dates during daylight hours,” I said. “You look like a completely different person right now.”

Gage scoffed. “Please. I’m devastating in all lighting. Daylight just gives the public a fair warning.”

I huffed out a laugh. I guess he wasn’t wrong. Like all of us, Gage was unfairly good-looking, or at least that’s what I’d heard said multiple times.

I didn’t see what the fuss was about for anyone but me, honestly.

I would say that Gage was exceptional at moving like he belonged wherever he was—courtroom, gala, dive bar—it didn’t matter. People trusted him before he opened his mouth.

Which was hilarious, considering.

The restaurant around us was empty, the front doors locked. We owned Velluto, and it usually had a thriving lunch business when it was open to the public. Gage and I had things to discuss . . . so today it was closed.

Gage leaned back in his chair, crossing his ankle over his knee. “You didn’t call me here to admire my face.”

“No,” I said. “Although, I can’t recall ever doing that. So I hope that’s not what you’ve been thinking all this time.”

The eye roll he gave me was very unbecoming of a Federal Bureau of Investigation agent.

I studied him for another second, clocking the faint tremor of restless energy under his calm. “How many energy drinks have you had today?”

Gage didn’t even blink. “Three.”

“Three,” I repeated. “Since when?”

“Since this morning,” he clarified. “Alanis. The cherry ones specifically, because everyone knows they’re the best.”

I stared at him. “It’s barely noon.”

“And yet,” he said pleasantly, “I remain among the living.”

I wondered often how that was possible. I’d read somewhere that the human heart could only handle so much caffeine, and I was positive that Gage blew right through that amount before breakfast.

Taking a sip of my drink, I shook my head. “So what’s the word on the feds’ reaction to the shocking revelation that dear old Vegas might be run by the mafia?”

Gage’s smile turned thin. “Outrage. Disbelief. A lot of very serious faces pretending they already knew and they’d been ‘working’ on it.”