Page 313 of Don’t Say Mafia

EDEN

Somehow, after the boutique chaos and the “non-girlfriend” debate that I was absolutely reopening later, we’d ended up at one of Paradise’s absurdly expensive hotel buffets that was technically closed but very much open for its owners, Jagger and, it turned out . . .his friends.

The men seemed to be treating it like a competitive sport.

Maddox had stacked his plate as though he was preparing for winter. “If it fits,” he said solemnly, balancing three carving-station steaks on top of one another, “it sits.”

“That’s not how plates work,” I told him, reaching for another crab leg.

“It is today,” Lawson replied, already on his second dessert before finishing his first entrée. He pointed his fork at me. “Get the crème brûlée. Trust me.”

“I don’t trust men who wear board shorts,” I shot back.

He looked down at himself. “You say that, but I bet your mind changes when you find out the store’s website described this outfit as coastal elegance.”

Cruz carved a slice of prime rib with surgical precision. “Ignore him. He once tried to get us to invest in alpacas. He can’t be trusted with anything.”

“Least of all clothes,” Maddox muttered, like Lawson’s wardrobe was a long-standing grievance between them. Maddox was dressed immaculately in a tailored charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, and gold cuff links without a wrinkle in sight despite the fact that he was currently devouring half a cow.

I bit back a smile.

“That alpaca was actually a tax strategy,” Lawson argued.

“I didn’t save any money on taxes when I owned one,” Maddox complained. “And I almost lost a finger.”

I couldn’t stop my smile this time, trying to imagine Maddox in his suit, wrangling an alpaca. Lawson noticed I was struggling and shot me a wink. Which then earned him a death glare from Jagger because, evidently, winking at me wasn’t allowed, even with him sitting next to me with one hand attached to my hip.

Jagger and his friends were all loud and competitive, mocking one another relentlessly over shrimp cocktail and caviar. But underneath it—there was something else.

When Maddox reached for a plate that was about to slip, Cruz caught it without looking. When Lawson choked laughing at his own joke, Jagger shoved a glass of water toward him automatically.

It wasn’t forced or performative. It was easy. I’d never seen anything like it.

Ryan’s friends had been friends in the loosest of forms. They’d been users who’d enjoyed ruining his life. They’d hovered around him like satellites, waiting for whatever they could siphon off.

Jagger’s friends seemed nothing like that.

I cracked open another crab leg, the shell giving way with a satisfying snap, and watched the easy chaos unfold around me. Maddox was now trying to balance a fourth steak on his teetering pile while Cruz calmly transferred a spoonful of mashed potatoes onto Maddox’s plate like a concerned parent. Lawson had moved on to chocolate mousse, spooning it straight from the serving bowl with zero shame.

I couldn’t help it. A small laugh escaped me, and they all looked up.

Jagger’s thumb paused its slow circle on my hip. “What’s funny?” he asked softly.

I shook my head, still smiling. “You guys. You’re all ridiculous. But . . . you’re also kind of perfect together.”

Lawson snorted. “‘Perfect’? I’m not sure people usually use that word to describe us, but I’ll take it.”

Cruz raised his glass in mock salute. “To the Syndicate of Dysfunction.”

Jagger scoffed at the title and shot Cruz a pointed look. Cruz raised a mocking eyebrow at him as something unsaid passed between them that I didn’t understand.

Maddox lifted his overloaded plate like a trophy, distracting me. “To the famiglia,” he said, grinning at Jagger in a similar way as Cruz. Jagger rolled his eyes.

I was positive that Maddox wasn’t Italian, and I certainly wasn’t, but I still recognized the word. Family.

I looked around the table at the men who’d just spent the last hour giving one another unrelenting shit and yet somehow still managing to make sure everyone had what they needed. Maddox had quietly slid an extra crab leg onto Lawson’s plate when he wasn’t looking. Cruz had refilled Jagger’s coffee without being asked. Jagger’s hand hadn’t left my hip once, like he needed the contact as much as I did.

I’d never had anything like this.