Page 13 of Mafia Crown

I nod toward the bed. “Get some sleep,” I say flatly, already turning to leave. I don’t bother locking the door. There’s no need. The safe house is a fortress, and she knows it as well as I do. There’s nowhere for her to run, no escape.

Out in the hallway, I pull out my phone, swiping to bring up the live camera feed. Every inch of this place is covered—bedrooms, hallways, even the yard. The screen flickers, showing me Hazel standing in the doorway of her room, staring at her bag as though it might bite her. She’s frozen, caught in her own head. With a few taps, I disable the cameras, her image going blank.I wipethe footage clean. No evidence. No trail. Nothing to suggest we were ever here.

Still, I can’t help but imagine her sitting on that bed, her shoulders hunched as she stews in her fear. It’s not just me she’s afraid of—it’s the walls, the locked windows, the silence pressing down like a weight. It’s the unknown. The realization that she’s completely out of her depth.

Good. She should know how out of her depth she really is.

CHAPTER SEVEN

HAZEL

I FEEL THE heat of anger boiling in my chest, a relentless tide of frustration bubbling up, threatening to spill over and consume me. My fists clench at my sides, nails biting into my palms as I fight the helpless rage. This isn’t just a room—it’s a prison, invisible bars closing in, and I have no idea how to escape. Every breath feels heavier, like the walls themselves are conspiring to press in closer.

The door creaks open, just a fraction, enough to break the silence but not the tension. My gaze snaps to it, and for a split second, I expect him—my captor, the shadow that lingers just out of reach. But instead, Charlie’s familiar face peeks in, his tail wagging hesitantly as he pads toward me. His warm brown eyes search mine, and without hesitation, he rests his head on my knee, his weight grounding me. It’s odd, though, how I can’t shake the sting of betrayal. The memory of him trotting off with my captor, tail wagging as if this monster was a friend, hits me like a blow. How could he? How could he leave me, even for something as simple as food?

“Dumb animal,” I mutter under my breath, the words bitter but hollow. My hand moves on its own, smoothing over his head. I thought dogs were supposed to be loyal, the kind of companions who stood by you no matter what. Weren’t cats the ones known for their fickle allegiance? I cup his face, forcing him to look at me, my voice dropping to a whisper. “You can’t do that again, Charlie. Do you hear me?”

He doesn’t answer, of course. Instead, his tongue darts out, a rough, wet swipe across my cheek. I squeeze my eyes shut, recoiling at the sticky warmth, but the corner of my mouth betrays me with a smile. Despite everything, he still has that effect on me. The anger burning in my chest melts away, replaced by something far more raw—desperation. It claws at my throat, leaving a lump I can’t swallow down. My hands tremble as they clutch his fur, holding onto him like he’s the only solid thing left in a world that’s falling apart.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice cracking as I press my face into the thick warmth of his coat. “You’re all I’ve got, aren’t you?” The admission burns, shameful and true. My fingers curl tighter, the adrenaline refusing to leave my veins. Charlie remains still, his quiet presence a comfort I don’t deserve. He doesn’t move, doesn’t judge. He’s steady—far more steady than I am.

I hold him for what feels like hours, letting his silent reassurance seep into me, but then something catches my eye. The door—it’s still ajar. My heart lurches. Why didn’t I notice before? My captor never told me I couldn’t leave the room. If he wanted me trapped, he would have locked the door. Right? The possibility teeters on the edge of absurdity, but it’s enough to set my heart racing.

I rise on unsteady legs, my muscles protesting the sudden movement. Charlie watches me, his head tilted in that way dogs do when they’re trying to decipher your every move. “You stay here,” I tell him firmly, my voice low but shaking. He doesn’t follow; only sits and watches as I shuffle toward the door. One last glance at his patient, tilted head, and I step through, closing the door softly behind me.

The hallway stretches ahead, its stark emptiness an unwelcome reminder of where I am. No pictures, no signs of life—just clean, sterile walls and wooden floors that seem to whisper with every step I take. My feet land carefully, but the floorboards betray me, groaning under my weight. Each creak is sharp, deliberate, a sound too loud in the oppressive silence. I freeze mid-step, my breath caught in my throat.

Is he here? Is he watching?

The questions swirl like a storm, but the silence offers no answers. I inch forward, each movement deliberate and measured, the hallway’s emptiness pressing down on me. The kitchen is just ahead, a destination fraught with risk—but anything is better than staying in that room, suffocating under the weight of my own thoughts. Still, every shadow feels too large, every creak too loud, and the hairs on the back of my neck prickle as if his unseen eyes are tracking my every move.

Breathe. In. Out. Don’t think too far ahead. One step, then another. The kitchen looms ahead like a gaping maw, sterile and cold, its surfaces gleaming under harsh fluorescent lights. My feet make faint sounds against the tile, the noise swallowed by the oppressive silence. My eyes dart to every corner, every shadow, as if something unseen might be lurking. I’m searching for something—anything—that proves I’m not entirely powerless, that I’m not at the mercy of this nightmare.

The drawers catch my attention. Two of them are locked. My heart lurches. Locked means something is inside. Something important. My mind races, conjuring possibilities: knives, scissors, a weapon, a lifeline. Or maybe it’s just another cruel twist, a mocking reminder of how trapped I really am. My fingers tremble as I tug at the handles, frantic and clumsy. Nothing. The metal doesn’t give an inch. A scream of frustration claws its way up my throat, but I swallow it back, the taste bitter and acrid. My nails dig into my palms, sharp crescents of pain grounding me.

I shift to the cabinets, wrenching the doors open. They swing with ease, revealing their contents, and my stomach plummets. Plastic. Cups, plates, utensils—all plastic. My hands hover over the objects, hesitating, as a wave of realization washes over me. This isn’t just a safe house or some random prison. It’s a cage. Carefully crafted. Every detail, every potential for defiance or escape, stripped away with meticulous cruelty. He’s thought of everything, anticipated my every move, and ensured I can do nothing to fight back.

And then I see them. My breath hitches. Car keys. For a moment, I can’t move. Hope flickers weakly in my chest, so faint it feels almost foreign. The cold metal is solid in my palm as I snatch them up, their weight an anchor to sanity. But it’s fleeting. Panic follows close behind. I can’t let him find these. I can’t lose this tiny shred of possibility.

I retreat to my room, every step accompanied by the gnawing sensation of being watched. The walls seem to close in around me as I scan the space. Where can I hide them? Under the mattress? Too obvious. In the vents? No, he’d check there. He’s thought of everything, hasn’t he? Paranoia tightens its grip, a relentless vise around my thoughts. My gaze lands on my bag still sitting on the bed. I shove the keys into the side pocket, my hands trembling. I step back, surveying the bag as though it holds the answer to my survival.

The windows catch my eye, and my breath falters. I step closer, my fingers trailing over the cool, unyielding glass. Locked. Sealed tight. I press my forehead against it, and the icy surface bites into my skin. Hopelessness crashes over me like a tidal wave, threatening to drown me. I’m not just trapped—I’m buried alive.

And then I see it. A tiny black dot, barely noticeable, nestled in the corner of the ceiling. My blood runs cold. A camera. My stomach churns as I spin, scanning the room with new eyes, my chest heaving—another one in the opposite corner. My skin prickles with horror, the realization settling in like poison. He’s watching me. Every step. Every breath. Always.

There is another small door in my bedroom, and I open it to reveal a small bathroom, no shower, only a toilet and hand basin. I rush in thinking this could be my sanctuary, but that lasts for all of five seconds before I see it: another camera. The rage surges, drowning out the fear for a fleeting moment. No way was anyone watching me go to the toilet. I grab a towel and throw it over the lens. “Take that,” I mutter, the defiance hollow in my ears. But the relief is fleeting, the dread returning with a vengeance. What if he punishes me for this? But, this might allow me some time to think or hide.

Back in my room, I collapse onto the bed, the weight of everything crushing me. My sobs are quiet, muffled by the pillow, as if even my cries might be heard. I can’t let him know how broken I feel. I have to hold on, if only for Charlie’s sake.

But my thoughts keep circling, tangling themselves into knots I can’t undo. He had said the Walsh family didn’t forgive. Those words echo in my mind. When he was about to shoot me, Mary’s name had flashed up on the screen. His reaction wasn’t just surprise—it was recognition. And when he discovered it wasMary Walsh,he didn’t pull the trigger. Instead, he took me as his captive.

Does that mean Mary is tied up in all of this? My chest tightens at the thought. Mary was just like me—normal, happy, always laughing at the smallest things. But she’d left for France so abruptly, claiming it was a move she’d been planning for ages. She’d said she was happy, so I didn’t push her. But now? Now, I can’t stop wondering if there was more to her story, something she didn’t—or couldn’t—tell me.

The thought feels absurd, but I can’t shake it. My captor’s reaction to her name—it can’t be a coincidence. A chill runs through me as the pieces I don’t want to fit together start snapping into place. If Mary was involved with people like him, what did that mean for me? For Charlie?

Sleep doesn’t come easy. When it does, it’s shallow and fitful, haunted by the ever-present fear that I’m not alone. Even in my dreams, I feel the cameras watching, their cold, unblinking gaze a constant reminder that I’ll never truly escape—not from this room and not from the truth clawing its way into my reality.

CHAPTER EIGHT

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