Trapped by Seven Mafia Wolves novel Chapter 30

**The Unplaceable End by Austen**
**Chapter 30**

**Poker Face**

**Jace’s POV**

The faint echo of her mug clinking against the countertop lingers in the air, a reminder of her abrupt departure.

She’s gone, vanished into the ether, perhaps to sulk in silence or to gaze dramatically out a window, lost in thought—whatever it is people like her do after spiraling into existential dread over breakfast.

I absentmindedly twirl my spoon between my fingers, slouching deeper into my chair, boredom already creeping in like an unwelcome guest.

Then, as if summoned by some unseen force, the unmistakable sound of heavy footsteps thunders into the kitchen. It’s Nico, of course. He enters with the kind of force that could rival a stampede—loud, chaotic, and utterly lacking in finesse. If you think about it, he’s like a chimpanzee in a suit, all raw energy and no grace.

He barges in, yanking the fridge door open as though he’s trying to tear it from its hinges. “How the hell is she already up and moving around?” he barks, his voice a mix of disbelief and irritation.

I raise an eyebrow and take a leisurely sip of my coffee, savoring the warmth as it slides down my throat. “Morning, sunshine,” I reply, my tone dripping with sarcasm.

Nico, however, brushes me off like a pesky fly. “We left her out there half the damn night, and now she’s sipping coffee like she didn’t almost die. What is she made of? Freakin’ snow?” His frustration is palpable, radiating off him in waves.

I scratch the back of my neck, forcing out a lazy drawl. “What, you jealous she survived your little Disney villain moment?” I shoot back, unable to resist the urge to poke the bear.

“Maybe frostbite is just her aesthetic,” he retorts, slamming the fridge door shut with unnecessary force, his scowl deepening.

“Should’ve left her longer. Spoiled little thing thinks she’s invincible,” he mutters, crossing his arms over his chest as if to shield himself from the absurdity of the situation.

I hum thoughtfully, tilting my head. “Or maybe she’s just not a drama queen like you,” I quip, enjoying the way his glare could burn a hole through steel.

“Shut up,” he snaps, frustration etched into every line of his face.

I can’t help but grin, leaning back in my chair with a challenge in my eyes. “Make me.”

He mutters something under his breath, a mix of curses and hisses that sounds like a disgruntled cat in a leather jacket.

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