Page 17 of Don’t Say Mafia

Fuck, I wanted her.

She glanced up, and our eyes met across the table . . . and I was starting to wonder if I’d fallen into some strange romance film. Birds were going to start singing at any moment.

The look should have been nothing, but instead, it felt as though something locked into place. The heat in my body didn’t disappear, but it shifted, threaded with something deeper, something I didn’t have a name for. A strange tightness spread through my chest, not painful—just unfamiliar. Like something inside me had been pulled taut without warning. I frowned slightly, confused by it. I didn’t get rattled. I didn’t get . . . whatever this was.

Her green eyes held mine a second longer, and I could tell it wasn’t because she was trying to flirt with me. It was like she was assessing me the same way I was assessing her.

The room came back slowly, the sounds filtering in again and reminding my suddenly dormant brain that I was currently playing a game. Declan was speaking, his voice edged with irritation, but I couldn’t have repeated a single word.

I had to consciously pull my attention away from her . . . and it sort of hurt to look away.

Get it together, Jagger. You’re acting like Jace. And we can’t have that.

Declan had noticed my little trip down erection lane, and he shot me a knowing look, one brow lifting slightly as the girl approached the table and set the tray down with practiced ease.

I let out a huff, realizing I’d been holding my breath since she walked into the room. No wonder I was acting so insane . . . I was oxygen deprived.

I forced my focus back to the cards, but it was useless. I could feel her presence like static under my skin, and I could track her movement without looking. When she passed close enough for me to catch the faintest hint of her scent, that weird sensation in my chest tightened more.

Maybe I was having a heart attack. The cholesterol in Mrs. Bentley’s burritos had to get me sometime.

Declan cleared his throat. “Vegas sure hires well,” he murmured, quiet enough that she couldn’t hear.

I kept my face blank as if I couldn’t care less what he’d just implied, but I was very aware of how everyone’s eyes were following her. Something ugly and . . . almost possessive was uncoiling in my gut. A dark little voice was suddenly arguing that it wouldn’t be that bad if I did, in fact, pull out a gun and shoot everyone.

She finished the round and began to move away from the table, her tray tucked against her hip, when the guy seated to my right leaned back and slapped her ass as she passed by him. She gasped, and before the idiot could even stop smirking, I slammed his hand flat against the table and drove a blade down between his fingers. The steel buried itself into the felt with a violent thunk.

I didn’t want to hear Maddox ever saying I didn’t have self-control. I could have stabbed him right in the hand.

The room froze, and I watched in satisfaction as the man’s breath hitched, a wet, panicked sound tearing out of him as he stared down at the steel trembling between his splayed fingers. His face drained of color so fast it was almost impressive.

I leaned back in my chair like I’d just adjusted a cuff. “Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry.” I wrapped my fingers around the handle and drew the knife out slowly, letting the scrape of metal carry through the silence. “How did that get there?”

No one laughed, which said a lot about the men in this room. That was funny.

The man yanked his hand back like it had been burned, and his chair screeched as he stumbled to his feet. His eyes flicked to mine, then to Declan’s, then anywhere but back to the table.

“I—I was just—” he choked out. Whatever excuse he had planned got lost in a whimper as he turned and bolted, nearly tripping over himself as he shoved past the door and disappeared down the hall like I was actually running after him with the knife.

I let myself look at her because I’d already restrained myself enough for the day. She was still standing there, gripping that tray. Her pulse quivered visibly at the base of her throat. Her eyes flicked to the spot on the table where my knife had sunk into the felt, then back to me. There was something else in her expression now. Not just shock.

Something softer . . . warmer. Something that tightened that strange place in my chest again.

Fuck. Was this what they called butterflies? Unacceptable.

I held her gaze. Up close, her eyes were even prettier, green with flecks of gold near the centers. “You all right?” I asked, slightly impressed that my voice came out normal.

She nodded quickly, like words had failed her.

I studied her for another second, making sure she meant it before I forced my attention once again back to the game, wincing at how hard my dick was. Knives and gorgeous women were apparently some kind of catnip for me.

Declan cleared his throat again, clearly irritated with how things were going. I flexed my fingers over my chips and met his stare.

“Deal,” I said calmly.

It was time to give him his warning . . . so I could get to what I wanted to do this evening.

Her.