Page 1 of Mafia Crown

CHAPTER ONE

HAZEL

WALKING CHARLIE IS my favorite escape. The streets of Monalty are quiet this early. The village is small, a scattering of weathered stone cottages with moss-covered roofs and shuttered windows lining narrow cobblestone streets that twist like veins through the heart of the valley. The air carries the faint, familiar smell of peat smoke and damp earth, mingling with the sharp bite of winter. Even the old church bell tower is silent this time of morning, its spire barely scraping the pale dawn sky.

Charlie’s leash pulls gently in my hand as he trots ahead, his black coat catching the soft morning. His steady rhythm is comforting, a stark contrast to the storm of thoughts swirling in my mind. I inhale deeply, savoring the crisp air, letting it anchor me to this moment, even as my thoughts wander.

Since that day, my brother has been on my mind constantly. I can’t stop thinking about him. About the way his best friend—his secret lover—took his life. My throat tightens at the memory, an ache settling in my chest. How much of his pain had I ignored? How much had I missed, too wrapped up in my own life to see the cracks forming in his?

He was always so good at hiding it, though—always laughing, always colorful, his flamboyant personality a defiant splash of brightness in the dullness of our family’s world. Our parents… God, they don’t suspect a thing. Dad, with his calloused hands and weathered face, sees the world in black and white. I’ve wanted to tell him so many times, especially when we’re working together on the farm. But each time I catch his small, pale blue eyes, filled with a kind of quiet, the words freeze in my throat. He wouldn’t understand. Or maybe…I’m too afraid of what will happen if he does.

Charlie suddenly tenses, his ears perking and tail going rigid. I stop, my hand tightening on the leash as my pulse quickens.

“What is it, boy?” I whisper. My eyes scan the empty street, darting between the doorways and shadows. Everything looks the same—the cottages, the trees beyond the village edge, and with no traffic this early in the morning, I can hear the faint bubbling of the river to our backs. Charlie lets out a low growl, his body coiled and alert, and the leash trembles in my hand as tension ripples through him. I’m glancing around, but without my glasses, my vision is restricted. I can picture them on the bedside table where I took them off last night after staying up too late reading.

Then, I hear it—a faint noise; it’s almost indiscernible at first. Slowly, I turn my head toward the old church at the end of the street.

The building looms in the pale light. Scaffolding hugs its walls like a cage, the promise of renovation suspended in limbo for years; I think they were going to make it a local credit union, the People’s Bank, but for some reason, the funding fell through, and the renovations stopped. Until recently, someone local bought the property and was going to turn it into their home. Of course, my parents said no luck would come from tearing down one of God’s homes. My parents have called the new owner a “blow in,” meaning he wasn’t born and raised in this part. A lot of people come from Dublin to settle in our small villages which promise them respite from the hustle and bustle of the fast-paced life of Dublin.

The brittle plastic sheeting covering parts of the scaffolding flutters faintly, catching the breeze. The eerie stillness gnaws at me—this place should be deserted. No one works this early. The man who purchased it does most of the work himself, and I’ve never seen him here before ten in the morning.

A flicker of movement draws my eye. My gaze narrows, scanning the scaffolding. There’s something—or someone—behind it. I blink hard, unsure if the shadowy figure is real or a trick of the dim light. Without my glasses, I can’t be sure.

I’m ready to walk away and push aside Charlie's unease when a muffled voice slices through the silence. Harsh. Angry. The guttural tone carries an edge that makes my skin crawl. It’s not just one voice; there are two. I instinctively glance back, tempted to turn around and flee.Still, curiositygrips me, heavy and unrelenting. I withdraw my phone, open the camera, and hit the video part that allows me to zoom in better than just a photo image. I use it as a fresh set of eyes, hitting the zoom button.

Against every shred of better judgment, I inch closer with my phone in hand. My footsteps are deliberate, careful not to disturb the loose gravel crunching beneath my sneakers. Charlie lets out a low whine, his ears pinned back and his body stiff. His leash trembles in my grasp as he presses close, a silent warning I should heed—but don’t; instead, I wrap his leash around my hand one more time. Drawing him closer.

The sheets of plastic move again, and then I see it through the lens of my phone.

A man is kneeling in the dirt, his shoulders hunched and trembling. His breath is visible in the cold morning air, puffing out in frantic, uneven bursts. His hands are raised in a gesture of surrender, palms out, trembling fingers splayed wide. His voice wavers as he pleads, desperate words spilling out too fast to decipher.

Opposite him stands another man, taller, broader, shrouded in the dim light. The lower half of his face is covered in a dark mask. His eyes are as cold as the church stone. The gun in his hand glints dully, its barrel pointed at the man on his knees. I gasp softly, the sound catching in my throat, my stomach twisting into a hard knot, and the phone that trembles in my hand loses focus.

This can’t be real. Things like this don’t happen in Monalty. Not here. Not ever.

The plastic concealing the men flaps again, and it breaks the spell. I need to gethelp. I pull on Charlie’s leash, wanting to run away, but I don’t want to make a noise; my grip tightens on the phone, and I make it two feet when it happens.

The gunshot explodes in the still morning air, deafening, like a thunderclap. My ears ring, drowning out everything else. I’ve heard gunshots lots of times; my father often fires his double-barrel shotgun into the air to scare away foxes or crows. But this sounds different. I spin as the plastic rises again like it wants me to see. The man on his knees collapses instantly, his body crumpling to the ground—blood pools beneath him, stark and viscous against the pale concrete.

For a moment, I can’t breathe. My vision blurs as adrenaline surges, cold and sharp, through my veins. Charlie growls low in his throat, the sound barely audible over the residual echo of the shot.

This is real. Too real.

I take a step back, my foot catching on a loose stone. It skitters noisily across the pavement, and my heart leaps to my throat. The man with the gun turns his head sharply in my direction, his gaze locking on where I stand, frozen in the shadows; his gaze travels down to the phone that I still clutch in my hands.

I gasp—too loud—and Charlie starts barking, the sharp, frantic sound echoing around us. My heart stops. No, no, no.

“Hazel, move!” The words rip out of me, ragged and barely coherent, as I yank Charlie’s leash and bolt down the street. My legs churn beneath me, burning with each desperate stride, but the icy knot in my stomach keeps me running. My lungs scream for air, but it’s like I’ve forgotten how to breathe. The only sound in my head is the frantic pounding of my heart, drowning out the world.

I risk a glance over my shoulder. Is he following? No, he couldn’t be—or is he? The shadows seem alive, stretching unnaturally, and every sound becomes his footsteps closing in on me.

Charlie stumbles beside me, his leash taut, his usually wagging tail tucked tightly between his legs. “Come on, Charlie, just a little more,” I gasp, though the words feel hollow. My voice shakes, betraying my mounting terror.

When I finally collapse onto a bench, my body crumples as if the weight of what I’ve just seen is physically pressing me down. My hands grip Charlie’s leash like it’s the only thing anchoring me to reality. My fingers tremble so violently I can barely hold on.

Charlie nudges my leg with his nose, his eyes wide and darting. He senses it, too—that something is terribly, horribly wrong. I stroke his head with a shaking hand, trying to calm him, but my own fear bleeds into him, and he whines softly.

What the hell did I just see? My mind replays the moment over and over, like a cruel loop I can’t escape. The way that man’s body crumpled to the ground, lifeless. The gunman’s calm, detached expression. Those cold eyes locking onto mine. Did that really happen? Maybe I imagined it. Maybe it wasn’t real.

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