Page 120 of Don’t Say Mafia

“You look . . .” He paused, actually searching for words. “You look good. Red suits you.”

Eden gave a small, uncertain smile. “Thanks.”

I stepped closer to her, my hand settling on her lower back possessively. “Ignore him. He’s just here to annoy me.”

Cruz’s frown lingered, though. His eyes went to the door again, then to me. I shot him a questioning glare, and he shook his head.

“Eden,” I said smoothly, keeping my tone casual, even though my pulse had shifted, “why don’t you change into whatever you want to wear out of here?”

Her eyes moved between us, sensing something but not quite placing it. “Okay . . .”

She disappeared behind the curtain, the velvet falling closed with a soft sweep. The second it did, I turned to Cruz. “What’s going on?”

He didn’t answer immediately; his gaze was still on the staff door. “I know her,” he said quietly.

“The saleswoman? Bethany? Cheryl?” I frowned. “I actually have no idea what her name is.”

“I’ve seen her before.”

“That narrows it down.”

He exhaled through his nose. “She was in a picture.”

I went very still. “What picture?”

Cruz’s gaze cut to mine. “A picture featuring Cormac O’Dalaigh.”

Cormac O’Dalaigh . . . also known as the head of the Irish mob.

I stared at Cruz. “You’re sure?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “She was standing beside him at a private dinner one of our guys attended last month in Boston.”

“You didn’t tell me you sent someone to that.”

He shrugged. “I think it was right after you spent the night partying with Daniels after their game here. I may not have been in the sharing type of mood.”

I rolled my eyes, making another mental note that Cruz was a psychopath. “You’re positive?”

Cruz huffed out a humorless breath. “I thought she was hot, so I stared at the photo longer than I probably should have. She was wearing her hair different. But that’s her.”

“What’s the plan?” I asked quietly.

Cruz’s face went cold, and he started walking toward the staff-only door without another word.

“Cruz,” I snapped.

“To talk to her, of course,” he said over his shoulder, already stalking forward.

“Give me a second, and I’ll help.”

He gave me a tight nod and pushed through the door, disappearing into the back.

I turned toward the dressing room and pulled the curtain aside just enough to slip my head in—and my brain flatlined.

Eden stood in front of the trifold mirror, wearing nothing but outrageously sexy lingerie that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

Black lace. Sheer panels. Straps that crossed her back and front in an intricate web, framing her breasts like they were being offered up. The bra was barely there—cups so low her nipples were visible through the lace, hard and peaked from the cool air or nerves or both. The matching thong rode high on her hips, a thin strip of fabric disappearing between the cheeks of her perfect ass. Lace garters dug into her thighs just enough to leave faint red lines.