Page 12 of Mafia Crown

But then something else catches my eye—a video pinned right at the top of the gallery. Different. Not the dog. My finger hovers over it, after a moment’s hesitation, I tap play.

The video starts, and my chest tightens the second I see it. Damn it. I don’t need to watch the whole thing to know exactly what it is. The McGrath kill. She filmed it. Not all of it, but enough. Enough to bury her if the wrong people see it. Brave or stupid? It doesn’t matter—the Walshes won’t care about bravery or stupidity. To them, it’s an act of defiance, a loose end that needs cutting. And they’d make her pay for it by ordering me to make her death slow, an example to anyone else who dared cross them.

For a moment, I stand there, the phone suddenly feeling heavier in my hand. The decision isn’t hard, though. I know what has to be done. I hit delete without hesitation, the video vanishing into digital nothingness. Gone. No evidence, no risk. It’s the only way to keep her alive and, more importantly, the only way to keep me in control.

I power off the phone this time and toss it into a drawer, which is mostly empty except for a can opener and some random kitchen utensils, most of them plastic.

When I glance toward the living room, I see her moving with quiet precision, her steps careful, deliberate. She’s searching. Her eyes betray her urgency, darting from the cushions to the shelves, then to the corners of the room like she’s on the edge of panic. Desperation clings to her every move, but she won’t find what she’s looking for. She doesn’t know I’m three steps ahead, that this place isn’t just my turf—it’s designed to hold captives. There’s no chance of her finding anything that could be used as a weapon or a means to escape.

As she’s consumed with her fruitless search, I slip out the back door. The faint creak of the hinges is drowned out by the whisper of the wind. Outside, I pull my phone from my pocket and hit dial. Patrick picks up almost immediately, his tone sharp, clipped, brimming with impatience.

“Is it done?” he demands.

“I went to the girl’s place,” I say, forcing my tone into something calm, something detached; he can detect a lie as well as I can. “She wasn’t there. Some of her clothes and the dog are gone. Looks like she ran.”

The silence on his end is heavy, and I let the lie simmer, giving it time to root itself in his mind. Patrick’s too proud to doubt me—he’ll take my word as gospel, just like always. These are the words I tell myself.

“We can’t have her running around blabbing off,” he says.

“Don’t worry,” I add, a steel edge creeping into my voice. “I’ll find her.”

“Just make it quick,” he says before hanging up.

I take a deep breath, letting the cold air bite into my lungs before shoving the phone back into my pocket. It’s better this way. Cleaner.

When I step into the kitchen, Charlie tilts his head and glances at me. I ignore the dog and enter the living room. Hazel’s eyes dart around the room like a cornered animal. Desperation flickers in her gaze, scanning for something—anything—she can use to defend herself. A lamp, maybe. A vase. Even the edge of a picture frame looks tempting in her hands. The faint tremor in her stance betrays her fear, but she keeps her chin high—brave little thing. I smirk, leaning casually against the doorframe, folding my arms across my chest.

“When you’re done looking for a weapon, I’ll show you to your room,” I say, my voice smooth but laced with challenge. Let her try. She won’t get far. The corner of my mouth twitches, but I rein it in, unwilling to give her the satisfaction of seeing me amused.

“I wasn’t,” she replies, folding her arms defensively across her chest. Her posture screams defiance, but the small, nervous gesture of pushing her oversized glasses up her nose betrays her. It’s almost cute—if not for the situation.

“You are a very bad liar, Hazel.” I push off the doorframe, letting my movement subtly emphasize the difference in size and control between us. She doesn’t back away, but I notice her grip on her own arms tightening, knuckles whitening—a small victory.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” she says, her tone teetering between exasperation and defeat. It’s more a statement than a question, like it might explain why she’s rifling through the cabinets and drawers for something sharp or heavy. Her hands have already betrayed her purpose.

I nod slowly, as if considering her words. “I’d be looking for a weapon, too,” I admit with a shrug, throwing her honesty back at her. My candor doesn’t soothe her—if anything, it unnerves her more. Her eyes dart around the room, searching for an exit, a reprieve, anything to counterbalance the panic tightening in her throat.

“I didn’t even see anything. The Gardaí I reported it to didn’t even take me seriously. Michael…” Her voice falters as she speaks his name. The fear she’s so desperately trying to suppress is gaining ground, her breathing quickening as panic starts to seep through the cracks in her facade.

“Michael is a half-wit,” I finish for her.

Her head jerks up at my words, her brows knitting in a mix of confusion and fear.

“Please,” she starts, her voice soft but pleading. It grates on me.

I raise a hand to silence her, my tone sharp as I cut her off. “Don’t beg, Hazel. Not to me. It doesn’t suit you.”

The tension in the room thickens as she stares at me, her gaze darting to the hand I’d raised, then back to my face. Before she can respond, the sound of Charlie approaching breaks the silence.

Hazel’s attention immediately shifts to the dog.

Charlie doesn’t go to her but looks up at me. I’m sure he wants more food. That isn’t going to happen. The betrayal in Hazel’s expression is almost enough to make me laugh, but I keep my face blank, giving nothing away. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. Her disappointment and frustration radiate off her like heat waves, and I savor it. She’s already beginning to understand her position here.

“Come on,” I say, nodding for her to follow. My tone leaves no room for argument.

I lead her down the dimly lit hallway, my footsteps echoing against the hardwood floors. She stays a few paces behind, her movements stiff with tension. I can feel her eyes on me, burning holes into the back of my skull. She’s calculating, no doubt, trying to decide if she can outwit me. She can’t. Not here.

When we reach the guest room, I push the door open with a flick of my wrist. Her bag is already sitting on the neatly made bed, a solitary, unassuming presence in the otherwise barren space. The walls are plain, painted a soft gray, but there’s nothing comforting about it. No pictures, no distractions. Just a bed, a nightstand, and a single lamp. A box to contain her, and she knows it.

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