Page 208 of Don’t Say Mafia

Lawson: She’s pretty, Thatcher.

I gritted my teeth.

Me: And I know where to hide your body. Focus.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared.

Lawson: Already digging. You want financials, family, socials, and work history?

I thought about that for a second. None of that was a prerequisite to me sleeping with her, but it would be good to make sure she wasn’t an Irish plant or something like that.

Me: Don’t miss a thing

Lawson: I never do.

I locked the screen and pushed off the wall, the casino noise swelling again as I stepped back into it and walked back toward the high roller room. I needed a fucking trophy for the self-restraint I was showing tonight.

And once again, I had an erection.

I was back in the high roller room trying to distract myself. And I was annoyed.

The cards in my hand were solid. The bets were predictable. I was winning—of course I was winning—but it felt mechanical. Automatic. I raised when I should. Folded when it bored me. Took two decent pots in a row without even looking particularly interested.

But it wasn’t distracting enough. My mind was filled with green eyes and long brown hair that I wanted to wrap around my fist.

The guy next to me kept glancing at my bulging slacks with a sparkle in his eye, like he thought he was going to get lucky tonight.

This was ridiculous.

I won another hand just to prove I could, dragging the chips toward me with a flick of my fingers, when suddenly the room got quiet and everyone at the table . . . including the dealer, suddenly leapt up to leave like the table had caught on fire. Within seconds, the room was empty.

I sighed because Cruz Vale was a buzzkill of the highest order. Looking down at the obscene pile of chips in front of me, I let out a long, put-upon sigh. “You know,” I said lightly, finally glancing up, “you’ve completely ruined my night.”

My best friend was smiling as he crossed the room. He was in a burgundy suit that would have looked ridiculous on most people, but somehow he pulled it off. His dark hair had fallen slightly into his face, a few strands brushing his forehead in a way that made him look almost boyish.

Almost.

Up close, his face told a different story. Cruz was pretty in a way that made people stupid. It made them relax because they assumed something that pretty couldn’t be dangerous.

Which was exactly how he liked them before he gutted them.

“It doesn’t look like I’ve ruined your night,” he drawled as he sat down across from me, nodding at my pile of chips.

“One of them was about to hand over his oceanfront mansion in Miami,” I complained, pushing the stack into a neater tower. “I could’ve retired. Bought linen. Become insufferable.”

“You hate Miami,” Cruz replied without missing a beat.

“That’s not the point,” I said. It was true. I hated Miami. The humidity alone felt like a personal attack, and there was something deeply unsettling about grown men who wore white jeans unironically. It did nothing for me. Still, an ocean view might’ve distracted me from Eden. At least temporarily. It would have been at least worth the experiment.

I leaned back in my chair and studied Cruz for a second. “Speaking of experiments,” I said casually, even though I was pretty sure I hadn’t said that last part out loud, “care to explain why you couldn’t text me about the Boston situation? Maddox saw my dick again.”

“You handled it, I assume,” Cruz said smoothly, his expression not giving anything away.

“That’s not the point,” I repeated, narrowing my eyes at him in interest. “Where were you?”

He lifted a brow. “Busy.”

“‘Busy,’” I echoed flatly. “With?”