Page 202 of Don’t Say Mafia

Casually, he wrapped his fingers around the handle and drew the knife back out, the sound of metal leaving wood grating through the silence. He held it for a moment, inspecting it like he was more worried about a scratch on the knife than anything else before he tucked it back into his suit coat.

The man who’d slapped my ass jerked his hand back from the table as if he’d been burned. His chair scraped loudly against the floor as he stumbled to his feet, his eyes wide and glassy with a fear that had nothing to do with the alcohol he’d been drinking. “I—I was just—” he stammered, already backing away.

No one stopped him.

He didn’t look at me or anyone as he turned and fled, nearly tripping over his own feet as he bolted from the room, disappearing through the doors like the devil himself was on his heels.

My legs felt weak, and I gripped the tray as my pulse roared in my ears. I couldn’t stop staring at the spot where the knife had been. Terror curled in my stomach, and tangled up with it was . . . awe.

The blond man finally looked at me then.

His brown eyes caught the light, and I saw there was a flash of silver at their centers. A part of me immediately wanted to look closer.

“You all right?” he asked quietly.

I nodded, because my voice had abandoned me completely. He inclined his head once, as if that settled something, then turned back to the table like nothing had happened at all. “Deal,” he murmured, and then play resumed.

The rest of the room returned to me in pieces, and I forced my feet to move so I could keep working. Each step felt strange, though, and my fingers trembled against the tray no matter how tightly I steadied them. And underneath everything else, one thought wouldn’t quiet down.

No one had ever stepped in for me like that before.

The Irish guy was glaring this time when I retrieved his already empty glass. He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. “Is this how you always are,” he muttered, stacking his chips with more force than necessary, “or are you just particularly touchy when it comes to cocktail waitresses?”

Across the table, the blond man didn’t even sit up. He lifted his eyes briefly, like the question barely qualified as worth his time. His fingers continued to roll the chips in a slow, unhurried rhythm. “Only when someone forgets where they are.”

A few of the men around the table shifted uncomfortably, their chairs creaking as they tried to disappear into the leather.

The Irishman scoffed. “Relax. It was a joke.”

“Was it, Declan?” the blond man asked lightly. “Because it sounded like you had a problem with my boundaries.”

I stumbled at that word but quickly recovered as I passed behind them again, every instinct screaming at me that I needed to stay as invisible as possible.

The Irishman’s—Declan’s—jaw clenched. “I came to play cards. I’m not interested in . . . problems.”

A faint smile touched the blond man’s mouth. “But you do have an interest in walking into places that aren’t yours and seeing what you can get away with, right?” he asked in a tone you could almost call friendly.

A nervous laugh escaped someone at the table, and I set another glass down, my heart pounding hard enough I was sure they could hear it.

Declan leaned back, spreading his hands in mock surrender. “Again, I’m just here to gamble.” He let the words hang for a second, then added with a lazy grin, “I’m enjoying a gentlemen’s weekend, if you will. Cards, whiskey, a little friendly competition. That’s it. I don’t need an escort for that.”

“No,” the blond man agreed. “But you do need permission.”

I frowned? Permission? Vegas was Vegas. People came from everywhere—tourists, gamblers, conventioneers. No one asked permission to walk the Strip or drop money at a slot machine. What were they talking about?

Declan shoved back from the table, suddenly breathing hard like he was about to combust. “I’m going to remember this.”

The blond man continued to smile faintly. “I’m counting on it.”

Without bothering to collect his chips, Declan jumped out of his chair and stormed out of the room, leaving behind a stack of money worth more than I would probably earn in my lifetime.

The air immediately relaxed after he was gone, but I needed a minute. I escaped the high roller room on the pretense of needing refills, my pulse still buzzing, my thoughts a mess. The bar felt like a safe haven suddenly. I loaded the tray with fresh glasses as I took steadying breaths, trying to tell myself to get it together.

I’d seen strange things here. It was Vegas. The other day someone had played a poker game with a naked woman sprawled out on the center of the table. Things happened here.

But that experience had been something else.

I turned back toward the room, but I didn’t make it three steps.