Page 85 of Don’t Say Mafia

There was nothing technically illegal about me sitting across from a federal agent in a restaurant we owned. I didn’t have any warrants, and none of us were under any surveillance that we were aware of.

But optics mattered.

And some random asshole snapping a picture of us together was not my favorite development of the day.

I burst onto the sidewalk, the noise of the Strip crashing down around me in a rush of engines, laughter, and music bleeding from an open casino entrance across the street. I caught a glimpse of the guy’s greasy black hair to my left. He was running like someone who knew exactly what would happen if he didn’t.

And I was furious.

I hit the pavement, trying to track him as he cut right, then left, weaving through pedestrians who shouted as he clipped shoulders and elbows, his phone clenched in his hand now like a lifeline. Tourists scattered, confused, dragging luggage and drinks and sunburned limbs straight into his path.

The motherfucker was fast, though.

He vaulted a short concrete divider and sprinted into a parking lot, his shoes skidding on oil-slick asphalt as he aimed for the far row where cars sat baking in the sun.

My phone started vibrating in my pocket as I cleared the curb and cut left, dodging a couple dragging rolling suitcases as though they were obstacles in a poorly designed course.

I ignored the call, following the guy as he jumped another concrete divider and bolted across the next block, his panic turning his movements sloppy but fast. I lengthened my stride, the heat burning against my skin.

This was going to ruin my new suit.

The phone buzzed again, and I cursed under my breath and yanked it out mid-stride, my thumb swiping the screen without breaking pace.

“Are you dying?” I asked.

“What?” Jace said. “Why would that be your immediate assumption?”

“Because you keep calling me,” I said, cutting between two pedestrians who shouted as I clipped past them. “That’s usually how people announce emergencies.”

There was a brief pause. Then he said, “Why do you sound out of breath?”

“I’m jogging,” I said.

“You hate jogging,” Jace replied immediately. “You once told me cardio was a scam invented by people with too much time and not enough enemies. Who’s your enemy, Jagger-meister?”

“Maybe I decided that was shortsighted and it would actually be a good hobby,” I gasped as I had to get over another fucking divider. Whoever had decided to put one on every block needed to be shot.

“By chance,” Jace said carefully, “are you running in dress shoes?”

I barked out a breathless laugh. “Why would you ask me that?”

“Because it feels like something someone sketchy would do,” he said. “And you sound sketchy.”

“That makes no sense.”

“It makes perfect sense,” Jace countered. “Normal people jog in athletic wear. I bet you only run when something’s on fire or you’re fleeing.”

The guy cut toward a narrow gap between two buildings, and I pushed harder, finally closing the distance.

“I’m not chasing anyone,” I said, “but I do need to go.”

I reached out as the waiter stumbled, my fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt before he tore free with a strained, frantic sound.

“Jagger,” Jace said slowly, “you’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?” I asked, hurdling a low barrier as the man cut toward the service road.

“The thing where you sound like you’re five seconds away from becoming a headline,” he replied. “And I think I just heard a whimper. Why would I hear a whimper? Did you answer my call during sex again, and what I’m hearing is not actually jogging?”