Page 128 of Don’t Say Mafia

“You’re fucking kidding.”

I laid my hand down without ceremony.

Maddox stared at the spread with visible irritation. Gage swore under his breath. Lawson gave me a small nod that felt less like surprise and more like acknowledgment.

“Well,” Cruz said slowly, pushing his chips toward me, “that’s unfortunate.”

I gathered the pot, stacking my winnings into a tower that was beginning to look excessive.

That made four. Four hands in a row.

Cruz dragged both hands down his face. “This is statistically offensive.”

“Technically—” I began.

“Don’t,” he cut in.

Maddox leaned back, studying me with renewed attention. “She isn’t even thinking about it anymore.”

“She’s thinking,” Lawson corrected. “She’s just faster.”

Gage shook his head. “I’m being targeted.”

“You’re being outplayed,” Cruz replied.

I smiled faintly as I adjusted my stack.

Next to me, Jagger had gone quiet. He’d been loose and careless in the first two rounds—over-betting, chasing hands he shouldn’t have chased, throwing chips forward like they were decorative. If I had to guess, he probably lost an obscene amount of money in the high roller rooms on a regular basis.

He wasn’t bad at reading people, he was bad at patience. Which made this infinitely more satisfying.

Jagger wasn’t looking at the cards, though; he was watching me. His fingers brushed against my wrist as I reached forward again, the contact firm and claiming without drawing attention. He leaned closer, his mouth near my ear. “That’s enough.”

I turned my head slightly. “‘Enough’?”

“For tonight.”

Cruz caught the shift immediately. “What’s enough?”

Jagger sat back. “We’ve been playing for hours. We’re done for the evening.”

A wave of protest rose around the table.

“She doesn’t get to leave now,” Gage said.

Maddox nodded. “We were adjusting.”

“We were about to recover,” Lawson said smoothly.

Maddox pointed at Jagger. “You can’t pull her when she’s on a run.”

Jagger didn’t look remotely apologetic. “Watch me.”

Cruz leaned back in his chair, eyeing him with a knowing grin. “I’d actually say it’s way past time to go, don’t you think?”

Heat climbed up my neck at his implication, but Jagger just stood and offered me his hand. “They’ll make sure you’re cashed out,” he murmured, nodding at the guys, who were all giving us various versions of smirks.

Jagger’s hand settled at my waist as we stepped away from the table and walked toward the door.