Page 218 of Don’t Say Mafia

Me: Don’t say mafia, you asshole.

Jace: If someone owns a million suits that each cost as much as my car and they never can explain where their money comes from . . . I’m going to say mafia.

Jace: Also you once said “I’ll handle it” and there was a headline about a dead guy the next day.

Me: Coincidence.

Jace: Sure. Just like the time I asked what you do, and you said “consulting” and changed the subject.

Me: I do consult people . . .on their life choices.

Jace: Do they live afterward?

I actually laughed at that one, and one of my guys shot me a confused look. Whoops.

Me: I have no idea what you’re talking about.

Jace: See. That’s another non answer.

A forklift rumbled past, and I waited until it cleared before typing again.

Me: What do you actually want me to say?

Jace: The truth, obviously. Also Mom asked if you’re seeing anyone.

I paused, and for some reason I immediately thought of Eden . . . even though we weren’t exactly seeing each other.

Me: No.

Jace: That was the slowest no I’ve ever read. You met someone didn’t you? Someone who doesn’t make you want to answer calls during sex.

Me: You should actually feel flattered that I answered your call. It means I care.

Jace: It meant you were bored, actually, but we can go with you caring if it means something to you.

Me: Go catch a football.

Jace: Wow. Defensive. So is she hot?

Me: Goodbye, Jace.

Jace: Love you too, sketchy crime prince.

My phone buzzed again, but I didn’t have time to check his text. If Jace had decided he wanted to keep talking about sharks, he could wait.

One of my men peeled away from the edge of the dock and headed straight for me, his face arranged into the careful blankness men wear when they’re about to deliver news they very much hope won’t be blamed on them.

I hoped I didn’t have to blame it on him, either. I actually liked the guy.

“We’ve got a problem,” he said under his breath.

I slid my phone into my pocket and exhaled slowly, trying not to show how irritated I was. “Naturally.”

Maddox stepped in at my side, his suit still crisp despite the damp air rolling in off the water. He didn’t ask what the problem was. He could feel the shift in the air just as easily as I could. He matched my stride as we walked toward the container that had finished unloading a few minutes ago.

The docks were loud with the illusion of normalcy. Cranes groaned. Water slapped against pylons. Men shouted measurements and jokes like nothing in the world was wrong.

But the container doors were unlocked . . . That was the first issue. The second revealed itself the moment I looked inside.