Page 88 of Don’t Say Mafia

Which was ridiculous, because I’d worked here for years.

The casino floor glittered and chimed and pulsed like it always had—but it felt like I was walking through it underwater, everything slightly distorted, slightly off.

The lights flashed and blinked overhead, machines chiming in endless celebration for wins that were usually just pennies. Laughter rose from the blackjack tables. Glasses clinked. Chips stacked. Dealers called out totals in smooth, rehearsed voices.

Life went on.

That was the strangest part.

I stood just inside the employee entrance for a second longer than necessary, my name badge cool against my palm. My reflection in the metal door looked like me—same hair, same face—but there was something slightly misaligned in my eyes, like I’d been shifted half an inch out of place.

“You’re here?” Carl asked when he opened the door and saw me standing there adjusting my uniform. He stepped inside with a clipboard tucked under his arm, looking subtly surprised, even though I’d called HR yesterday to get back on the schedule.

“I’m fine,” I said automatically. Even though I wasn’t sure that was the truth.

Rent didn’t care that my husband was ashes now, though, and tears certainly didn’t pay bills. There was also the fact that sitting alone in my apartment, listening to the silence scream, was its own special version of hell.

He offered me an awkward smile. “You don’t have to jump back in full speed. Just ease into it,” he said, watching me a moment longer, like he was considering saying more. Then he gave a small nod and stepped back into the hallway, leaving the door slightly ajar.

I can do this.

I’d been doing this two weeks ago.

For one split second, the awful thought slid in before I could stop it . . . how I wasn’t carrying the same tightrope tension anymore. I wasn’t wondering what mood Ryan would be in when I got home. Whether he’d spent the day spiraling. Whether he’d lost or spent all our money before I even walked through the door.

There was no dread sitting under my ribs.

Because he was dead.

I hated myself for noticing the difference.

Taking a deep breath, I pushed through the double doors. The noise swallowed me immediately as I stepped fully onto the casino floor. And for a second, it felt like every color was too bright.

“Eden?” I turned and saw Leigh coming toward me, her tray tucked against her hip, ponytail swinging behind her. Her usual smile faltered when she got close enough to see my face.

“Oh my gosh,” she said softly, like she’d forgotten what she’d planned to say. “Hi.”

“Hi,” I managed.

She set the tray down on a nearby ledge and pulled me into a quick, careful hug. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered into my hair. The words slid over me, and I nodded against her shoulder because that seemed like the correct response.

When she pulled back, her eyes searched mine, probably trying to measure how broken I was if I had to guess.

“I’m okay,” I repeated, the lie smoother this time.

The awful thought tried to resurface again . . . that the air felt different now, lighter without the constant question of what he might do next, and I shoved it down.

“I just— I need to work,” I said quickly, stepping back before she could ask anything else. I could feel her watching me as I walked over to the floor manager and then started on my section. And it wasn’t just her . . . it felt like it was everyone.

I tried to focus on the familiar rhythm instead . . . the steady weight of the tray balanced against my palm, the soft click of my heels on marble, the automatic scan of my section to make sure every glass was full and every smile was timed just right. I moved; that was the trick. Keep moving. Keep smiling. Keep your hands busy so they don’t shake. I was good at this. I’d always been good at this.

My plan almost worked.

Until I caught my reflection in the mirrored column near the high-limit slots and saw the way Theo was looking at me from the bar. His head was tilted, brows drawn together, and there was a sympathetic curve to his mouth.

Widow, that’s what he was thinking. And before that, it had probably been Poor girl. Before that, someone else had been thinking Trailer park kid. There was always something about me that invited that look. Like people couldn’t decide whether to tip me or donate to me.

My jaw tightened. Was I ever going to get a different kind of stare? One that didn’t feel like someone mentally calculating what had gone wrong in my life?