Page 175 of Don’t Say Mafia

The implant under her skin.

The backup chip in her shoulder.

The trackers sewn into every piece of clothing she owned.

The capsule I’d slipped into her vitamins three days ago.

A slow smile spread across my face as I looked up at him.

“As a matter of fact,” I said, pushing myself back onto unsteady feet, “I did.”

CHAPTER 40

EDEN

The rope bit into my wrists every time I moved.

Not that moving helped.

The chair was solid wood and heavy, its legs planted firmly on the concrete floor so that every small shift only pulled the rope tighter against my wrists. My shoulders ached from the way my arms were pulled behind me, the muscles trembling from being forced into a position they weren’t meant to stay in this long.

Breathe.

Just breathe.

I cringed every time I attempted my old school counselor’s tricks, but they seemed necessary under my current circumstances.

Fluorescent lights hung overhead, glaring down so brightly they washed the entire room in harsh white. There was nowhere for anything to hide.

The men were all standing around me in a loose circle, watching me. Their eyes felt like insects crawling over my skin. Every time one of them shifted their weight or chuckled quietly to the man next to them, my stomach twisted tighter.

A camera had been set up directly in front of me, its small red light glowing steadily. I kept my eyes away from it as much as I could, focusing instead on the cracked concrete floor beneath my bare feet, because looking at it made my chest tighten. If I looked too long, I would start thinking about what that light meant . . . and about who might be watching.

Be brave for him.

Zachary’s voice echoed in my head, the memory of his tense expression tightening my throat.

My pulse surged, but I forced my chin up anyway. If Jagger could see this—if he was watching—I wasn’t going to let him see me fall apart.

A door opened somewhere behind me, the slow creak cutting through the tense silence in the room. Unhurried footsteps crossed the concrete.

“Well now,” a voice said lazily, the words wrapped in a smooth Irish lilt that slid through the air like smoke. My stomach dropped at the familiar voice. It had been months, but there was no forgetting that night in the high roller room where I’d heard it. Not when that night had changed my whole life.

Jagger had said his name at one point. I could still picture the way his jaw had clenched when he’d looked at him. What had he called him? The memory pushed through the panic a second later.

Declan.

I turned my head just as he stepped around the chair and came into view.

Declan was smiling as he stopped in front of me, a knife flashing between his fingers as he flipped it idly in his hand. The blade caught the light every time it turned, glinting silver.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

“You know,” he said conversationally, “I had a feeling about you the first night I saw you.” The knife spun again. “You remember that night?”

My throat tightened, but I didn’t answer, and his smile widened.

“Oh, I remember it perfectly.” His gaze slid slowly over my face. “Pretty little cocktail waitress wandering around a roomful of men who eat people like you for breakfast.”