Page 2 of Mafia Crown

But it was. Deep down, I know it was. He saw me. He sawme. I can still feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and unrelenting, like he’s branded me with it.

“Let’s go home,” I whisper, my voice barely audible as I tug Charlie’s leash and stand on legs that feel like jelly. Each step feels like an eternity, the distance to my front door stretching impossibly far.

When I finally reach the house, I all but drag Charlie inside and slam the door behind us. My chest heaves as I twist the locks—one, two, three times, just to be sure. I pull the curtains shut, double-check the windows, and flip the deadbolt on the back door.

Charlie paces nervously, his nails clicking against the floor. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” I whisper, but the words feel like a lie. They hang in the air, hollow and useless. I sink to the floor and wrap my arms around him, my breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. I’ve seen a dead body before, but that was different; Benny was clean in his favorite red suit, his face painted with makeup that made his face appear porcelainlike. The soft silk lining of the coffin had enhanced his unnatural appearance, but there was no blood, no visible injuries.

I can’t shake the feeling that he’s out there, watching, waiting. My eyes dart to the window, half-expecting to see those icy eyes staring back at me.

I sit on the floor for a long time, the cold seeping into my legs, before I finally stand. My fingers are still wrapped around my phone, and it’s like the shock is shattered, and I can think clearly.

My hands shake as I dial the local Gardaí station in Nobber. The phone rings twice before a familiar voice answers.

“Hello.”

Michael. Of course, it’s Michael. He’s a local lad, joined the Gardaí a few years back. I take a breath, but it doesn’t help.

“Michael, it’s Hazel,” I start, my voice uneven. “I think I’ve just witnessed a crime.”

The words bubble out of me faster than I can control. The more I say, the more ridiculous it sounds. I mean, things like this don’t happen here, not in our quiet little area.

“A crime?” His tone shifts, but there’s skepticism under the surface. “Are you sure the gunshot wasn’t just a farmer?”

I clench the phone tighter. “I know what I saw,” I snap. But his voice, muffled like he’s chewing something, makes my stomach sink.

“Hmmm. Connor’s starting at twelve,” he says, and I hear him pause—probably checking his watch. “I’ll send him around to take a look then.”

Frustration surges, hot and bitter. My grip on the phone tightens until my knuckles ache. “This isn’t a joke, Michael! A man is dead, and you want to wait hours? By then, the guy who did it will be long gone!”

“Why don’t you come down to the station and give me your statement?” His voice is calm, too calm, like he’s humoring me.

The thought of leaving my house sends a fresh wave of nausea rolling through me. “I’ve already told you everything,” I say through gritted teeth.

“So, he’s tall, his face was covered with a mask... What about his eyes? What color were they?”

I rack my brain, but the memory twists away, slipping out of reach. My stomach churns. Blue, I think, but can I be certain? “I can’t—” The words stick in my throat.

“Look, Hazel,” Michael interrupts, his tone softening. “I know your family’s been through a lot lately.”

Benny. I feel the name like a slap, sharp and painful. Everyone knows about Benny, my brother’s friend. His death was the first real tragedy this town has seen. And now they all think I’m fragile, imagining things.

I bite back the lump in my throat. “I’ll ring Kells,” I say, my voice hard. “Maybe they’ll take me seriously.”

Kells is the next local Gardaí station, and I should’ve called them first. I don’t care if it makes me look unreasonable.

Michael sighs, and I can almost see him rolling his eyes. “Fine. I’ll check it out,” he says, but he sounds like he’d rather do anything else.

“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice wobbling. Gratitude and frustration tangle together, leaving me feeling raw.

As I hang up, my legs shake, and the room feels too small. Too quiet.

CHAPTER TWO

KIERAN

THE FIRST TIME I killed a man, I was seventeen.

I stand in the alley behind O’Malley’s pub, the stench of spilled beer and garbage clinging to the damp night air. My fingers curl tighter around the handle of the gun, the metal cold and unfamiliar in my palm. I’ve held one before, but this is different. This time, it isn’t for show, this time, I’ll have to use it.

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