Page 100 of Don’t Say Mafia

He shook his head once, barely perceptible. “Don’t be,” he said. “You’re allowed to fall apart. I’ve got you.”

Before I could step away to gather whatever dignity I had left, his arms shifted, and suddenly I wasn’t standing anymore.

Jagger scooped me up like I weighed nothing, one arm under my knees, the other locked firmly around my back, holding me close against his chest. I grabbed on to his suit coat as the ruined room tilted out of focus.

“Hey—” I started weakly.

“Like I said . . . I’ve got you,” he said with a wink as he turned toward the doorway. His tone left no space for argument.

Smoke-stained walls slid past as he carried me out, my destroyed life receding behind us in charred fragments and unanswered questions.

“I don’t have anywhere to go,” I whispered. “I don’t have a place. I don’t have⁠—”

“Yes, you do,” he interrupted, not slowing his stride at all. He glanced down at me briefly. “You’re going home.”

I blinked at him, exhausted and confused. “What?”

“With me,” he said simply.

His words were too big to fully process. Home. With him. I should have argued or at least asked questions. I should have been afraid of how easily he’d decided this for me.

But my body was still trembling, my heart still sore and bleeding, and he was warm and solid and carrying me away from the wreckage without hesitation. I closed my eyes against his chest as the sounds of the fire scene faded behind us.

I didn’t know what waited for me next.

I only knew I was leaving everything I had behind.

And I was doing it in his arms.

CHAPTER 25

EDEN

The car ride passed in a blur I barely registered.

I sat in the back seat beside him, my hands folded uselessly in my lap as I stared out the window as the city slid by in streaks of light and shadow. I was aware of motion, of turns, of the low murmur of his voice as he spoke to Zachary, but none of it seemed connected to me. My body had gone strangely quiet, like it had shut a door somewhere deep inside and locked it.

The car dipped downward suddenly, the tires humming as we descended a ramp. Concrete walls replaced the Vegas skyline, and fluorescent lights shone overhead as we rolled into a private underground garage.

I frowned faintly as I noticed the familiar black-and-gold signage on the columns. We were at Paradise.

“Why are we here?” I asked, my voice sounding distant even to my own ears.

Jagger glanced at me like this was the most obvious thing in the world. “I live here.”

I stared at him. “At the casino?” I clarified.

He pushed his door open, stepping out with unhurried ease. “Top floors.”

“That’s . . . convenient,” I said slowly, stepping out after him, “considering I work here.”

He turned and grinned at me over his shoulder, holding out his hand for me to take. “Very,” he said . . . and then he winked.

What was happening didn’t fully register until we were standing in a fancy elevator. The doors slid shut with a soft, decisive sound, sealing us inside, and I stared at the floor indicator as it lit up and began its steady climb, the numbers ticking higher than I’d ever been before.

I was painfully aware of him beside me . . . of the way his shoulder brushed mine when the elevator shifted. Of the scent of him that had somehow survived the smoke and ash of my apartment. My reflection stared back at me from the mirrored wall. I was pale and drawn, and my eyes looked too big in my face.

This was real. I was going to his fancy apartment carrying nothing with me but the clothes I was wearing.