Page 209 of Don’t Say Mafia

He still said nothing.

I drummed my fingers lightly on the felt. “It’s very unlike you to not even send an inappropriate GIF.”

Cruz snorted. “Are you accusing me of something? Maybe instead of that, we should be focusing on why you fell asleep mid-thrust.”

I rolled my eyes dramatically. “Why is everyone in our group a gossip queen? There should be at least a twenty-four-hour grace period before my dick is discussed.”

Cruz hummed.

“I don’t like it when you’re mysterious on purpose, Vale,” I continued.

“Most people don’t,” he replied charmingly, adjusting his cuff in a way that told me I wasn’t going to get anything from him tonight.

I studied him for a second, irritation prickling under my skin. It was deeply inconvenient being best friends with someone who could outmaneuver you socially while looking bored. At this rate, I was going to have to start stalking him.

Which felt unfair, considering I already had one potential fixation developing and I preferred to keep my hobbies streamlined.

Cruz’s mouth curved, as though he could hear my thoughts and approved of them. His eyes sharpened. “What happened to the Irishman?”

“You mean, is he still alive?” I asked.

“That was implied.”

I shrugged. “For now. I think he took the hint.”

Cruz exhaled, a quiet sound that could’ve been relief or amusement. “Good. I’d hate to have to clean that up tonight. I’ve got enough to deal with.”

“Please,” I said. “If I start leaving bodies in here, it sets a precedent. Then everyone expects dinner and a show.”

Cruz scoffed, but I’m sure he knew exactly what I was talking about.

An easy silence settled between us, the kind that didn’t need filling. It always struck me in moments like this how absurd it was that we’d ended up here at all.

We’d met in a glass-walled conference room in Manhattan, both of us fresh out of college and pretending we weren’t internally combusting. Investment banking. Hundred-hour weeks. Coffee that tasted like an ashtray. I’d taken one look at him and thought, Great, another rich guy with a superiority complex and a face that’s going to make HR nervous.

Turns out I’d underestimated him.

We started with drinks after work because mutual disdain for everyone else was a powerful bonding tool. Then dinners. Then late nights staring at spreadsheets and talking about things that weren’t numbers.

I thought he was just ambitious. I hadn’t known he was the heir to Vegas.

That particular detail came out the dramatic way.

A hitman stepped out from the dark stretch between parked cars outside a restaurant in SoHo, his gun already rising, and a silencer fixed to the barrel. I saw it a split second before Cruz did. Long enough to grab him by the collar and yank him down hard. He hit the pavement, furious. I handled the rest.

I’d surprised both of us by not letting the man get a second shot.

That was the night the curtain dropped. The banking. The polite fiction of corporate ambition. After that, there was no pretending.

I saved his life, and he let me into it.

And that was that. We’d been best friends ever since.

Cruz took a sip of my whiskey because he had boundary issues, and then he stood and adjusted his ridiculous burgundy jacket. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go up to your place. We need to talk.”

I nudged the pile toward the center of the table. Someone would collect the chips for me and cash them out later. “Let me guess. There’s more to Boston than Declan.”

“We should also talk about your sudden interest in one of our employees’ files,” he added smoothly.