Page 2 of Ravaged By a Devil

Sarah leans in, nodding her head discreetly toward the far corner of the dining room.

"Your regular admirer is back," she murmurs under her breath. "And he brought company tonight."

My stomach clenches. I hate that I know who she’s talking about.

I lift my head, my eyes tracing the dim amber light across the room until they land on the dark velvet booth at the edge of the floor.

Nolan Devlin.

He’s sitting center stage in his usual spot, looking lethal in a tailored suit that probably costs more than my annual rent.

But he isn't alone tonight. Flanking him are two men I’ve never seen before—younger, sharper around the edges, with a kind of watchful, restless energy.

Before I can look away, Nolan catches my gaze across the crowded room. A slow, arrogant smirk pulls at his lips. He holds my eyes, deliberately licks his lower lip, and gives me a slow, possessive wink.

A spike of pure irritation shoots straight through my chest. I roll my eyes and snap my head back toward the bar, my stomach tightening into a hard knot.

Nolan Devlin is the boss of the Devlin family, a dangerous mafia figure whose name carries a bloody weight across New Orleans—and I want absolutely nothing to do with him. They keep their business hidden, but everyone knows what crimes the Devlins are involved in. Especially in a place like The Blackwood, where secrets rarely stay buried for long.

Over the past few weeks, he’s turned up at The Blackwood almost every single day, taking up space at my tables, aiming his predator’s smile at me, and persistently testing how far he can push his flirting despite the brick wall of cold professionalism I throw up every time.

"Jesus," Sarah sighs, watching my face. "He is relentless. Do you want me to take that booth for you tonight? I don't mind adding it to my sections."

"No," I say, taking a deep breath and forcing my posture to relax. "You’ve already got a six-top in the main room. I’m not dumping extra work on you just because a customer doesn't know how to take a hint."

I pick up my tray, set my shoulders, and fill my lungs with air.

Time to play the unbothered waitress.

I drop off the cabernet at the next table, then circle straight back to the service bar to grab Nolan’s order. The man orders the exact same thing every single time—double glass of Redbreast 21, neat. The sooner I get it in front of him, the sooner I can cross his booth off my list and ignore him for the rest of the night.

Setting the heavy crystal tumbler on my tray alongside two crisp draft lagers, I smooth down my apron and walk toward the booth.

As I pull up to the side of the leather bench, the men are already deep in conversation.

"—city feels completely different than when we left for Dublin," the one on the left says, rolling his shoulders under a sharp leather jacket. His voice carries a rough, clipped accent. "Fucking sweltering, for one."

"It’s New Orleans, Lachlan. What did you expect, rain?" the second man counters, leaning back with a lazy smirk. "Besides, five years in Europe and all you do is complain about the humidity the minute we land."

"Cause I hate this fucking place. And you do, too. We hate it so much we didn’t even return for our father’s burial," Lachlan grunts, taking a cigarette from his pocket before remembering where he is and sliding it back into his jacket. "Nolan, you better make this good. Damn, I need a drink."

"And you're getting one," Nolan says, his voice smooth as silk as his head turns toward me. His gaze instantly locks onto mine, dropping slowly down my body before climbing back to my face. "Speaking of why I love this place... boys, meet Alexis."

"Good evening, gentlemen," I say, keeping my voice cool, polite, and completely detached as I step forward.

"I was just telling my brothers, Brendan and Lachlan here, that the whiskey at The Blackwood is good," Nolan continues, his dark eyes gleaming with dangerous amusement as he gestures casually toward his brothers. "But you’re the real reason I keep coming back every night."

Brendan gives me a quick, appreciative sweep, while Lachlan raises an eyebrow, a knowing grin spreading across his face.

"Is that right?" Brendan mutters, leaning back. "Can't blame you, brother."

"Two lagers, and a double Redbreast 21, neat," I say smoothly, entirely ignoring Nolan’s line as I set the beer glasses in front of the other men.

I lean in slightly to set Nolan's whiskey down on his cocktail napkin. The second the crystal touches the table, Nolan’s hand shoots out, his long fingers snaking toward my waist to pull me closer.

I’ve dealt with men like him my entire adult life. Before his fingers can even brush the fabric of my dress, I slide back half a step with effortless grace, lifting my tray like a shield between us.

"Careful, Mr. Devlin," I say, flashing him a bright, empty smile that doesn't reach my eyes. "Management gets really picky about customers keeping their hands to themselves. Loose fingers have a habit of getting lost around here."