Page 11 of Mafia Crown

“You’re in no position to make demands,” he says, his voice sharp as a blade. He finishes the apple and tosses the core into an unlit fireplace.

“I don’t care,” I shoot back, my hands trembling. “Why am I here? What do you want from me?”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. He just stares at me with those cold, unreadable eyes, chewing the last of his apple. His jaw works methodically, and I hate that I can’t stop staring. When he finally swallows, he licks his lips.

“You know why you’re here, Hazel.”

I hate how he knows my name.

“You’ve stumbled into a mess,” he continues, his tone quieter, more deliberate. “The Walsh family—they don’t forgive. They don’t forget. And you? You’re just collateral damage.”

His words hit me like a punch, each one driving home the gravity of my situation. My legs threaten to give out, but I force myself to stand tall.The Walsh family?

“What does that mean?” I ask, though my voice cracks.

“It means,” he says, his gaze locking with mine, “you’re in deeper than you think. And what you witnessed has cost you your life.”

The weight of his words settles over me, heavy and suffocating. For the first time, I truly understand just how much danger I’m in.

“Then why am I still alive?” I whisper, my vision blurring.

For the first time, my captor looks away. “I’m not sure yet.”

He glances at Charlie. “Come on, boy, let’s get you fed.”

I would laugh at the absurdity of it—my dog, following this man—but to my utter astonishment and dismay, Charlie obediently trails after him into the kitchen, lured by the promise of food.

Fucking great.

CHAPTER SIX

KIERAN

“COME ON, CHARLIE.” I tap the side of my leg, and the dog trots after me into the kitchen, his tail wagging with every step. His paws click against the dark tiles, a rhythm that echoes faintly under the low hum of the refrigerator. The air carries the faint tang of bleach, a sterile reminder of the routine cleanliness that keeps this safe house feeling less like a refuge and more like a holding cell. The scent clashes with the faint aroma of fresh fruit from the bowl on the counter, another sign of the carefully managed façade. This isn’t a home—it’s a pit stop, a place wiped clean of every trace of humanity the moment someone steps out the door.

I know the drill too well. Weekly cleaners show up, restock the fridge and pantry, scrub every surface, and cart away the trash like clockwork. It’s like watching a machine at work, efficient and unfeeling. When it’s time to leave, I’ll do the same—reset everything, wipe every fingerprint, make it look like no one ever breathed here.

The cabinets are lined up neatly along the walls, their surfaces a pristine, glossy white that reflects the faint overhead light. The counters are empty, save for a perfectly arranged fruit bowl—bananas, apples, and oranges stacked high—and Hazel’s phone resting near the edge.

Charlie paces in a restless loop, his nails scratching faintly against the polished floor as his nose twitches at every lingering scent. His eyes flick to me, hopeful, as I rummage through the pantry and pull out a loaf of bread. The plastic crinkles loudly in the quiet room as I tear the plastic bread clip off. I move to the stove and pour milk into a saucepan, watching as it heats slowly.

It’s not a gourmet meal—barely food, really—but it’ll have to do. I don’t have the luxury to care about the quality of dog food right now, and judging by Charlie’s eager pacing, he won’t complain. His tail wags faster as the milk begins to steam.

Leaning against the counter, I fold my arms and watch him. His nose lifts, sniffing the air, and his movements grow more impatient with every passing second. “Impatient,” I mutter, shaking my head. My fingers tighten on the edge of the counter, the smooth surface cool under my grip. For a moment, my mind drifts back—uninvited—to a different kitchen, in a different time. The same simple meal, but with far more desperation. My sister and I, huddled over bowls of soggy bread soaked in milk, hands trembling from the cold seeping through the cracks of a dilapidated apartment. Survival had been the only goal back then, a bare, gnawing instinct. No strategy, no power plays—just staying alive until the next miserable day.

I shake off the memory. Useless. It belongs to a different life, one I don’t have the time or energy to dwell on. The milk is ready, steaming gently as I pour it over the bread in a bowl. Charlie is practically vibrating with excitement as I place it on the floor. He dives in, devouring the meal with a gusto that makes his tail wag harder. For a moment, his enthusiasm almost makes me smile. He doesn’t have a clue how deep he and his owner are in it. His world is simple—food, shelter, the sound of my voice. He’s oblivious, happily licking the bowl clean like the sky isn’t falling.

“Nice?” I ask him. He doesn’t look up, too focused on scraping every last drop from the bowl. My gaze shifts to Hazel’s phone, still sitting on the edge of the counter. I grab it and swipe the screen open. Her passcode was pathetically easy—something anyone could guess with half a brain. I scroll through her contacts, finding Mary’s number in seconds.

I enter it into my own phone, my fingers moving quickly, efficiently. No hesitation, no missteps. Simple. Clean. No loose ends.

I’m ready to power it off, but my thumb hesitates over the screen. Instead of shutting it down, I let my curiosity get the better of me and start scrolling through her messages. Appointment reminders flood the list—dentist visits, haircuts, mundane errands that give her life a normality I can’t comprehend. Mixed in are random verification codes for her social media accounts, scattered like breadcrumbs leading to nowhere interesting. Nothing that justifies my time or attention.

Then, there’s John.

His name is frequent. Countless messages from him fill the screen—reels she probably laughed at, memes she likely never replied to, and a string of “How are you?” texts that reek of desperation. Pathetic. Boring.

I swipe it aside and switch to her gallery. The tone shifts instantly. It’s not John here—it’s Charlie. He dominates her photos like some beloved prince, his scruffy dog face taking up every other square. Shots of him lying in the sun, running through fields of grass, and his nose smudging the camera lens. She probably thought they were adorable. I don’t. The sheer number of photos is overkill.

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