Page 20 of Madness & Mercy

“Depends,” I say. “You gonna give me a reason?”

“No,” he says, his tone steady and firm. “I already told you, I’m not your guy.”

My gut tightens.He’s lying.I can feel it in the slight hitch of his voice, the way he doesn’t blink when he says it. He’s too calm. Too clean.

But my cock, the traitorous bastard he is, believes every word.

Pressed hard against my thigh. Straining at the seam.

Pathetic.

I grit my teeth.

Christ, I need to get laid.

“Let’s go,” I mutter, turning before he can see what effect he’s having.

He follows without a word, footsteps shadowing mine as we climb the concrete stairs, one floor at a time, up from the darkness and back into the light.

I don’t look back once.

But I can feel his eyes on me the entire way to the corner suite.

This time, I push the door open.

His gaze sweeps the room: Egyptian cotton sheets, walk-in closet, en suite bathroom with black tile and gold fixtures. It’s understated luxury, designed to impress without trying.

He tries to hide the shift in his expression, but I catch it.

“What?” I ask, my voice low and amused. “Not to your liking?”

He scoffs, but the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s biting back a retort.

“I didn’t realize the mafia gave a shit about aesthetics.”

“Only the ones who plan to survive.”

I cross the room and open the armoire. Inside are pressed shirts, tailored slacks, polished designer shoes arranged with precision. They’re all mine, but they’ve never been worn. And judging by his physique, they should fit him.

“You’ll find what you need here. Shower. Change. You look like shit.”

He raises a brow but doesn’t argue.

“You won’t be leaving this room unless I say so,” I continue, “but if you press the call button, the chefs will prepare whatever you want.”

I pause, narrowing my eyes.

“Don’t insult them by asking for instant noodles.”

That earns me a smirk. “You’re awfully accommodating for someone who was about to slit my throat five minutes ago.”

“I’m still considering it,” I say flatly.

He nods slowly, still playing it cool, but I see the shift in his stance, the way his shoulders square.

“You won’t find your phone in your briefcase,” I add. “Laptop’s on the desk. Wi-Fi’s restricted. My contact is pre-programmed. No one else. If I catch you eventhinkingabout poking into anything off-limits…”

I glance toward the door.