Page 101 of Don’t Say Mafia

“What am I doing?” I whispered to myself.

Jagger glanced down at me. “You’re trusting me,” he said softly. “And I plan on earning that . . . very thoroughly.”

My pulse stuttered. “I⁠—”

The elevator chimed, and the doors slid open, and whatever I’d been about to say completely evaporated from my tongue.

Wow. So people actually lived like this.

The foyer opened straight into the main living space—no hallway, no transition, just immediate access. The floor was dark marble, veined with gold that caught the low lighting and threw it back in soft shimmers. The walls were charcoal gray, and the ceiling was at least twenty feet tall. A massive chandelier hung above us, modern, but not fussy, with thousands of thin crystal rods suspended in a slow spiral, catching every movement and scattering light like falling stars.

Floor-to-ceiling windows dominated the entire west wall, and Vegas sprawled below. The Strip looked almost close enough to touch, neon bleeding up into the glass. The view was obscene. There was no need for curtains. We were high enough that no one could see in.

“Welcome home,” Jagger murmured, and I tore my eyes away from the perfect penthouse to see that he was staring at me with an amused, knowing grin on his lips.

“I—” My words didn’t finish forming. I just stood there, gaping like this was a trick, like someone was about to tell me I’d walked into the wrong place.

He stepped out of the elevator and then looked back at me expectantly. “Come on. I’ll give you the tour.”

As we walked through the nicest home I’d ever seen, I couldn’t help but think of the trailer I’d grown up in.

Thin walls that shook every time someone moved. Linoleum floors that squeaked every time you stepped. A kitchen so small you had to choose between opening the fridge or the oven. The electrical wiring had been all messed up, and the lights had gone out if you had more than one thing plugged in at a time.

And then, of course, I thought about the apartment next . . . the one I’d convinced myself was a step up.

Peeling paint and matted, worn carpet. Shower tiles that stayed stained no matter how many times I’d scrubbed them. Appliances in the kitchen from the 1990s. Furniture that I’d found at Goodwill or on the curb about to be thrown out.

All that time, people were living like this.

Jagger led me past a sunken living area with a black leather sectional so deep and wide it looked like it could swallow a small family. Low glass tables reflected the chandelier light, and a massive stone fireplace dominated the opposite wall. Above it was a single abstract painting in blacks and silvers.

I thought maybe I’d see a stain on the couch or a thread pulled loose somewhere . . . something that would make it feel real. But there wasn’t anything but perfection.

I stopped walking when we got to the kitchen.

If I could even call it that. It looked more like a room a Pinterest board used for pictures.

It was all marble and metal and shine—so much of it my eyes didn’t know where to land. The counters gleamed, and the appliances looked less like things you cooked with and more like machines you needed training to operate.

I had the sudden, absurd thought that if I touched the wrong button, an alarm might go off or a man in a suit would appear to scold me.

My apartment’s counter space was so scarce I’d had to put a plate over the tiny sink to have room to prep food. You could probably prep enough food on these counters and the giant island to feed an entire banquet hall.

Crazy.

My chest tightened as we kept moving, past more rooms, each one nicer than the last, each one seeming to be openly mocking every place I’d ever called home. I felt even more embarrassed now, knowing Jagger had set foot in my place when this was where he lived.

“I can’t stay here,” I suddenly squeaked.

Jagger had been one step ahead of me, and he stopped and turned, his brows lifting slightly. “Why not?”

I gestured helplessly around us because it should have been obvious. “This is . . . too nice.”

The admission felt small and ridiculous and painfully honest all at once.

His expression softened into understanding. “This,” he said evenly, sweeping a hand around, “is exactly where you belong.”

I blinked at him.