Page 353 of Don’t Say Mafia

The helicopter lifted, the ground dropping away so quickly that my breath caught. The Strip spread out beneath us in a blaze of color—towering marquees flashing, rooftop pools glowing turquoise in the dark, the Eiffel Tower replica lit in molten gold, and the massive Sphere rippling with shifting light while traffic traced bright, restless lines through the city below.

Jagger leaned closer, pointing through the glass. “That’s where I’m taking you to dinner next week,” he said, indicating a rooftop restaurant I’d only ever seen from the sidewalk. “And that hotel—I’ll book the top floor suite one night. I want you to see the city from there.”

My gaze tracked wherever he pointed.

“That club,” he continued. “They have a private entrance just for Cruz and me. And next month—” He gestured beyond the Strip. “We’ll take this out to the Grand Canyon so you can see the sunset. It’s incredible.”

I looked down at the restless sprawl below us. “I’ve hated Vegas for a long time,” I admitted softly.

Jagger glanced at me instead of the view.

“It felt fake,” I continued. “Like everything was glitter on top of something rotting. It felt like it chewed people up and then spit them back out changed.” My throat tightened. “It ruined Ryan . . . or maybe it just . . . finished the job.” I watched the traffic crawling below, the hotels stacked high and bright and impossible. “I used to feel like it was doing the same thing to me,” I said.

“And now?” Jagger asked.

I took a sip of my champagne. “Now,” I said slowly, “it feels different.”

“How?”

I glanced at him. “Like it’s not swallowing me anymore,” I admitted. “Like I’m above it.”

His mouth curved faintly. “You are.”

The helicopter banked, the entire Strip unfolding beneath us in a slow sweep. I turned the champagne glass in my hand, watching the bubbles catch the light, and looked down at the city I’d spent years resenting.

It didn’t feel like the same place. Or maybe I wasn’t the same girl.

For so long, Vegas had felt like a trap . . . like something that had taken and taken until there wasn’t much left of me that wasn’t tired. Every corner held a memory of something heavy. Of working double shifts. Of Ryan coming home later and later. Of watching pieces of us rot under all that shine.

But up here, with Jagger’s hand steady in mine and his voice in my ear and the wind roaring around us . . . it didn’t feel like a trap.

It felt like a backdrop. Like something he was rewriting.

“I think you’re fixing it for me,” I said softly.

His brow lifted.

“You’re replacing all the bad parts,” I clarified.

“Good,” he said quietly. “That’s the point.”

I looked back down at the city—at the lights, the motion, the restless pulse of it—and for the first time, it didn’t feel like it was taking something from me.

It felt like he was making it give it all back.

“Because I don’t plan on letting this place have you,” Jagger murmured, his hold on my hand growing firmer. “You’re mine.”

***

I was in love with Jagger Thatcher, and it didn’t feel gentle.

It felt like an impact.

Like something inside my chest had been struck hard enough to crack it open, and instead of bleeding out, light poured in.

Being near him rewired me. The air shifted when he walked into a room. My body recognized him before my mind caught up—my pulse changing tempo, my skin tightening, my thoughts narrowing until there was only him. It wasn’t infatuation. It was gravity.

He didn’t hover at the edges of my life.