Page 15 of Mafia Crown

“What really brought you here, Sean?” I ask over my shoulder, keeping my tone light.

“The cameras were disabled,” he says flatly. “Patrick wanted me to check what the problem was.”

Relief trickles in. It’s a plausible excuse, one that fits. But I know better than to trust coincidence.

Sean steps into the kitchen, his eyes snapping to Hazel like a predator locking onto prey. She’s leaning against the counter, her face pale, her body stiff with fear.

“Who’s she?” he demands, his tone sharp.

“This is Hazel,” I say, my voice as casual as I can manage. “Found her while I was out.”

His gaze darkens. “You found her. But why—”

I don’t let him finish. His hand twitches, and I know he’s reaching for his gun. Mine’s already in my hand.

The shot echoes, sharp and final. Blood sprays across the wall, and Sean crumples like a marionette with its strings cut. The room falls silent except for Hazel’s scream.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she whispers, her voice trembling like a thread about to snap.

I crouch, wiping my gun on Sean’s blood-soaked shirt with calm, deliberate movements. “He didn’t give me a choice,” I reply without sparing her a glance.

Hazel’s breath catches, and I can feel her fear emanating like heat from a furnace. It prickles at the edges of my awareness, a raw, unrefined energy that reminds me why emotions are liabilities. She doesn’t answer, but the silence is loud enough, her trembling frame vibrating in my peripheral vision.

Then she starts to cry. I ignore her and rifle through Sean’s pockets.

“Stop crying,” I say over his shoulder.

The command has a great effect, and she isn’t crying, not anymore, but the sound of her ragged breathing fills the room like white noise.

“I’m going to get sick,” she mutters, her voice barely audible. Her hands clutch at her stomach, and I watch as she staggers toward the door, her steps uneven and desperate. I return my focus to the problem at hand and pull a phone from Sean’s jacket pocket.

I’ll need to wipe this, dispose of the body. His car, too. I can’t leave any tracks.

The scrape of feet against the hardwood floor interrupts my train of thought. Too fast. My gaze snaps to Hazel just as she bolts, her panic driving her toward the front door.

The door swings open, slamming against the wall with a bang. She’s running—unsteady, but faster than I expected. By the time I make it to the window, she’s already yanking the car door open. “Charlie,” she keeps the door open, her gaze darting across the front of the cabin. “Charlie, now.” She screams.

I place the phone in my pocket before opening the front door and stepping outside. She slams the door closed, the dog forgotten, and presses down on the locks.

Each step I take is deliberate, measured, and she’s watching me, paralyzed. Her grip on the steering wheel tightens until her knuckles turn white, but she doesn’t move. The closer I get, it’s like she snaps out of the haze she is in and starts fumbling with the car keys. That surprises me, that she had found them and kept them.

Her hands shake so badly that she drops them twice before managing to start the engine.

“Get out.” I give her one warning, but it’s clear she doesn’t intend to.

Pulling out my gun, her eyes widen, but I spin it using the butt to smash the driver’s side window. The glass explodes inward, scattering across her lap like jagged diamonds. She screams—a high, piercing sound that grates on my nerves.

“Out,” I order, yanking the door open and pulling the keys from the ignition in one fluid motion. She flinches, shrinking into herself, but I don’t give her time to resist.

Her tears flow freely now, carving tracks down her pale cheeks. She stumbles out of the car, her legs barely supporting her weight. I grab her arm, my grip firm but not cruel, and drag her back toward the house.

The door slams shut behind us, the sound echoing through the quiet space. I lock it, turning to face her. Hazel is shaking, her chest heaving with every sob.

“That,” I say evenly, my tone like ice, “was a mistake. One you won’t repeat.”

She doesn’t respond; her shoulders shake as silent sobs wrack her body. Her face is buried in her hands, muffling the sound.

I ignore her completely, my attention returning to the mess at my feet. Sean’s lifeless body is sprawled across the tile, blood pooling thick and dark beneath him. The sharp metallic scent fills the room, clawing at my nostrils. I crouch down, rolling up my sleeves, and begin the grim task of cleaning. Precision is key. Every drop, every trace, has to disappear.

---