Page 103 of Don’t Say Mafia

“I mean,” I rushed, “I will. For a little bit. Until I figure things out. But I need to pay you something.”

His expression didn’t change.

“I know I can’t afford anything close to what this costs,” I added, gesturing vaguely at the marble, the hidden appliances, the entire existence of this place. “But I can give you everything I make at the casino. It’s your money anyway, technically, since you own Paradise. And I’ll pick up more shifts. And I can go back to the coffeehouse and beg them to give me my job back, too, so⁠—”

“The coffee shop?” he cut in.

“Yes. I can⁠—”

“It’s closed.”

I blinked. “What?”

He shrugged, reaching for another container. “It either blew up or got closed for mold or something. I can’t remember the details. I just heard about it the other day.”

I stared at him.

“‘Blew up’?” I repeated faintly.

“Yeah.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Old wiring, maybe? Structural issues? Those places are disasters waiting to happen. It’s lucky you got out of there so nothing happened to you.”

I swallowed. “I can’t believe it. I mean, it must have happened literally right after they fired me. I—” Shaking my head, I frowned.

“Regardless,” he continued smoothly, setting a fork down in front of me, “you don’t need to worry about running back there. They didn’t deserve you in the first place.”

I bit down on my lip.

“I still want to pay you,” I said softly.

“Absolutely not, and now that that’s settled, let’s move to the celebration part of the evening.” Jagger reached into a chilled drawer and lifted out a bottle.

I was going to argue some more, but then my gaze snagged on the label, and my eyes widened. Now I had something else to argue about because, oh my gosh. “Oh. No. Absolutely not.”

He glanced at me, amused. “What?”

“That’s expensive,” I said quickly. “I know that label. All the high rollers order that . . . and only the high rollers. You don’t open that on a random weeknight. And you definitely don’t waste it on someone like me.”

He popped the cork with an easy twist. The soft sound echoed in the too-pretty kitchen. “Oops,” he murmured.

I had a flashback of when he’d put a knife in someone’s hand and said something similar. I’d kind of forgotten about that.

But I guess I had an excuse with everything that had happened since then.

Like my husband dying.

I groaned, heat creeping up my neck again. “I would have been fine with water. Or . . . tap water. I go perfectly well with tap water.”

Jagger practically threw the bottle down and stalked toward me. One second he was on the other side of the island, the next he was in front of me, his hand bracketing my jaw and tipping my face up until I had no choice but to look at him. “Don’t,” he growled, “ever talk about yourself like that again.”

My breath stuttered.

“Not in my presence,” he continued, his eyes locked on mine. “Not in anyone’s presence. You don’t get to decide you’re less than because the world treated you that way. Do you understand?”

I gaped at his intensity, something electric skittering down my spine that had nothing to do with fear. And then, because I was overwhelmed and half hysterical and apparently had no sense of self-preservation left, I blurted, “Yes, Daddy.”

Jagger didn’t look shocked at all by my words. If anything, they seemed to affect him, judging by the way his eyes darkened, suddenly glittering with something that looked very close to satisfaction. A smug smile touched his mouth, and then I was remembering exactly what those lips could do and exactly how good they could do it.

I was also recalling that we hadn’t talked about what had happened in the staff bathroom yet. Maybe that was a good thing, though . . . there was only so much I could handle in one day.