Page 21 of The Mafia Enforcer's Temptation

Paddy’s fucking dead. I killed him.

But if she knew him, I want to know how and why.

Paddy’s been gone since Lucie and Cal got together, which was a while ago. It’s been about a year now on top of that since Torin and Harry married.

It’s a long time to wait for revenge.

But then again the whole Paddy thing might just be a coincidence, and my family did something else she’s harboring a grudge over. What? I don’t know, but I’ll find out. I always do.

“I didn’t do anything with bombs.” She sniffs and has another sip of her drink.

She’s lying.

“Uh-huh.”

“Look, this hasn’t been fun,” she mutters as she moves on her seat like she’s trying to get comfortable—or maybe get off. I really don’t know. I’m no longer touching her, and she glares at me like I’m the one at fault for that.

But she told me not to.

The only reason I touched her in the first place was to get her talking, but if she wants to draw lines, then she can deal with the frustration.

“But?” I prompt, feeling in her bag without her knowing. Keys and a phone. I lift the phone on the off chance she’s one of those who slides a credit card or driver’s license in the case.

“But I have to meet someone,” she says. “I’ve got plans.”

I raise a brow. “A third victim of the night? You are an industrious one.”

“The only victim I’m interested in is you.”

I laugh. “Oh, sweet thing, I know that. It’s the Irish charm; the ladies can’t resist it.”

“I meant victim as in dead.”

“Dead sexy?” I ask. “I’m aware I am.”

“I’m meeting my boyfriend,” she seethes, eyes slits of rage.

I lean in close, brushing her lips with mine. “A little late and a little defiled, wouldn’t you agree?”

She snatches her bag off the hook. And I let her because I’m sitting in the chair closest to the door, and if she thinks I won’t stop her from leaving, then she can damn well think again. She hasn’t given me a fucking thing. Yet. But she will.

“I’m going to the bathroom.”

She stomps off to the back where the restrooms are. I throw some cash on the bar and follow, leaning against the wall opposite as she enters one of the rooms.

I pull out the phone I palmed while I was going through her bag. It’s locked and there isn’t a fucking credit card or driver’s license slipped down the back of the case. There’s no wallpaper, either. Fuck.

The moment the door starts to open, I push inside and flip the lock. I hold the phone in front of her face.

It doesn’t open.

“I use a password only, asshole,” she snaps, trying to grab it.

I pull it out of her reach. “Seems suspicious.”

“Like I care.” She tries to get it again and I hold it a little higher so she has to jump, and she pushes up against me as she does so.

I’ve had enough. I curl an arm around her and push her into the locked door, the muffled music and customer noise leaking through.