Page 16 of Mafia Crown

My phone vibrates on the counter, its buzz cutting through the stillness. I glance at the screen. Saorise. Perfect timing. I’m debating not answering, but I’ve never ignored a call from my sister.

I swipe to answer, keeping my voice calm, controlled. “Hello.”

“You’ve been quiet lately,” she purrs, her tone honeyed but laced with suspicion. Saorise never calls without a reason.

“Busy,” I reply curtly, my eyes drifting back to the crimson streaks staining the floor. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes. I was just thinking of coming to visit over the weekend?” I can’t even think what day it is, Wednesday or Thursday. “I won’t be around. I’m out on a job. But I can ring you when I get back.”

“Okay, I just need to check my diary.” her voice carries humor, as if I’m not standing over a corpse with blood drying on my hands. I play along,

“If you're too busy to see your big brother…”

She laughs. “I’m joking. That’s fine, ring me when you get back from your big job.” She says it in a joking manner. She thinks I do maintenance on rich people’s houses.

Across the room, Hazel huddles in the corner, her pale face betraying the terror she can’t put into words.

“I will.”

“Love you.” She sings before finally hanging up.

I toss the phone onto the counter and straighten. Hazel flinches as I take a step toward her.

“Come with me,” I command, my voice sharp. She doesn’t move until I close the distance between us and grip her wrist. Her skin is cold, trembling beneath my touch. I pull her toward the basement door without another word, her feet dragging like dead weight.

The concealed shelter beneath the house is as it should be: cold, unwelcoming, and suffocating. I flip the switch, and fluorescent light floods the narrow space, revealing metal walls, sparse furnishings, and nothing resembling comfort. It’s a place designed for survival, not living.

“This is where you’ll wait while I tidy up.”

I release her wrist, and she looks up at me. “Understand?”

Her head jerks in a shaky nod, but her wide eyes betray the panic threatening to overwhelm her. She’s not cut out for this, but she’ll have to learn. Fast.

I step out, pulling the door shut behind me and locking it with a deliberate click. She stares at me through the small glass window, her expression a mix of fear and betrayal. I press the button on the intercom, my voice low and unyielding.

“You wanted to escape,” I remind her. “Now you’ll learn what that really means.”

Her muffled cries echo from under the door as I turn and walk away. I don’t look back.

CHAPTER NINE

HAZEL

THE SOUND OF the door opening snaps me out of my thoughts. My heart leaps, a chaotic mix of fear and hope. It could be anyone—or anything—but when Charlie bounds through, tail wagging like mad, relief floods my chest. Then,hesteps in after him, cool and composed as ever.

Charlie hesitates and walks back to my captor, rubbing against his leg like they’ve been lifelong pals. My chest tightens. Traitor. I sink back against the wall, clutching my knees, as my captor glances my way. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes linger on me just long enough to sting.

He knows. He knew I was about to leave Charlie behind to save myself. I had called Charlie, but he wouldn’t come. Slamming that car door was one of the hardest things I had ever done, but in my head, I had promised I would come back for him.

The guilt churns in my stomach, but I push it down as I reach out to Charlie. “Hey, boy,” I say softly. He ambles over and lets me hug him, but his attention keeps drifting back to our captor, like I’m some sort of consolation prize.

The air feels heavy, suffocating. My captor disappears through the doorway without a word, and I watch him go, his broad shoulders disappearing into the gloom, but not before I catch the red stains on his hands. As soon as he’s gone, I try to shake the tension from my body. I can’t sit here and stew in this guilt—not when I can do something, anything, to get us out of this place. I can’t think about what he’s doing upstairs or about the man who is dead on the floor. My mind feels like a blur, like I’m sure I heard him talk cheerfully on the phone after killing someone, but I must have heard wrong. People don’t behave like that. Unless they are psychopaths. I shiver and move toward the piles of discarded junk in the corner. I need to distract myself, or I’m going to lose my mind.

I rummage through the piles, coming up with a few battered books, their spines cracked, and covers faded from neglect. One is an old paperback romance, the kind with a shirtless man gripping a swooning woman in a billowing dress. The second is a water-stained thriller, its once-vivid title barely legible beneath the grime of countless hands. The last is a dusty hardcover with no jacket, just the faint imprint of golden letters too worn to decipher. I flip through their pages, the musty scent of old paper rising around me. The words blur together in a jumble of black and white, slipping through my grasp like sand through fingers. My focus is shot.

Frustration builds in my chest, hot and sharp, clawing its way up my throat. I toss the book aside, its fragile spine cracking further as it lands in a heap. My gaze snaps to a nearby table cluttered with mismatched plastic cutlery. I grab a handful, the brittle knives biting into my palm, and jam one into the crack of the door. The cheap plastic flexes and groans as I wiggle and pry, throwing all my strength into it.

It doesn’t work. Nothing works. The knife snaps with a hollow crack, the jagged edge biting into my hand. I hurl it across the room with a strangled scream, the sound ricocheting off the walls like a slap; Charlie startles me when he joins my scream with one of his howls. My hands tremble as I grab another piece, then another, each attempt ending in futility. My breath comes in ragged gasps, the taste of desperation thick in my mouth.

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