Page 20 of Mafia Crown

The sound of leaves rustling as the phone disappears is strangely final. Done.

We ride back in the dark, the air colder now, biting through my jacket like knives. Hazel doesn’t say a word. Her grip loosens as exhaustion takes over, her body leaning heavier against me. She’s shivering, even with the heat of the bike beneath us. I feel it through her touch, the small tremors that she probably doesn’t realize she’s making. Instinct kicks in. I rev the engine harder, speeding us home before the cold does more damage.

By the time we return to the safe house, dawn is breaking. The sky is streaked with pink and gold, the sun stretching its fingers across the horizon like it’s trying to warm a world that doesn’t deserve it. The safe house looks deceptively peaceful in the soft morning light, but I know better. There’s no peace here—just a temporary pause.

Hazel stirs against me, half-asleep and trembling. Her breath hitches when I stop the bike, and she blinks up at me through heavy lids, her gaze glassy with fatigue. “We’re back?” Her voice is barely a whisper, like she doesn’t quite believe it.

“We’re back,” I confirm. I swing my leg off the bike and help her off, but her knees buckle. Without thinking, I catch her, her body slack and weightless against mine. She mumbles something incoherent, her head lolling onto my chest. For a moment, I freeze. The pull is there again—the one I’ve been trying to ignore since this whole mess started. The warmth of her, the softness, the way she instinctively snuggles closer as if she belongs there. She doesn’t. But try telling that to my brain.

I carry her inside, stepping carefully over the creaky floorboards. She feels too light in my arms, like someone who’s been carrying the weight of too many secrets. When I lay her down on the bed, she curls into the pillow, her breathing evening out almost instantly. I should leave. Turn away, shut the door, and forget this moment ever happened. But I don’t. I linger, watching her breathe. My fingers twitch, wanting to brush a strand of hair from her face, but I stop myself.

This isn’t for me. None of this is.

I shake it off, forcing myself to step back. The door clicks softly shut behind me as I head upstairs. The kitchen is dim, shadows stretching across the walls as the sun rises higher. My phones are spread out on the table, each one a lifeline to a different piece of this puzzle. Hazel’s phone buzzes to life, the screen lighting up with a notification—just a missed call. I don’t care who it’s from. None of it matters right now.

The first call I make is to Mary. Predictably, she picks up on the second ring, her voice sharp like she’s already been pacing. “Hello!”

“I have Hazel, and I want a payment if you want to see your friend again.” I keep my tone calm, even.

“Is she okay?” Mary sounds panicked, but this isn’t her first rodeo.

“She’s safe,” I reply, keeping my tone cold and detached. Emotion won’t get me what I need. “But not for long unless you pay up.”

Her breath hitches. “Let me speak to her first.”

“No.” Iend the call.

Hazel’s phone starts ringing, the sound cutting through the silence like a knife. The irony isn’t lost on me—Mary wants reassurance, but she’s not getting it. Not yet. I let it ring twice before powering it off and tossing it into a drawer. Mary’ll wait. She doesn’t have a choice. By the time we reach the next safe house, she’ll be desperate enough to play along. Her husband will pay, and that payment will give me exactly what I need: leverage.

Everything in this game is about leverage. And I’m damn good at collecting it.

I rub the back of my neck, the tension there refusing to ease. The plan is solid. I’ve thought it through, every step, every contingency. So why does it feel like the ground beneath me is shifting?

I stare out the window, watching the golden glow of sunrise wash over the trees. The tension in my chest twists tighter, a knot I can’t unravel. Something about this isn’t sitting right. Not Patrick’s threats. Not Hazel’s calm compliance. Not even the way she looked at me before she fell asleep—like she saw something in me I wasn’t ready to acknowledge.

Three days. That’s all I’ve got.

I exhale slowly, I have three days to turn this around. Three days to make sure Mary pays, Patrick backs off, and Hazel stays alive long enough to be useful.

Three days to figure out why, for the first time in years, I feel something other than control slipping through my fingers.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

HAZEL

I WAKE UP to the smell of leather and the faint scent of pine, my head pounding like it’s been squeezed in a vice. Another day in this prison disguised as a safe house. The room is dim, the early morning light leaking through the heavy curtains like it’s ashamed to show its face. My hands rub the softness of the blanket, but comfort here feels like a joke—just another cruel game in Kieran’s world. The last thing I remember is being on the back of the motorcycle, pressed against his body. Heat rushes to my cheeks for more reasons than I care to admit. I push back the blankets and unzip my jacket to let my body cool down.

The floor creaks outside, and I know it’s him. Kieran. My captor. My distraction. My complication.

The door opens, and there he is, with his usual unreadable expression. Dark hair slightly tousled, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, exposing tattoos and veins. His eyes, cold like steel, flick to me briefly before he sets down a tray holding a plate of toast and scrambled eggs. No words, just the faint clatter of ceramic on the tray. I stare at him, refusing to say thank you. I’m surprised when he doesn’t leave. My heart startsa funny beat. I know Ihave to use this opportunity to make him open up since he hasn’t left yet.

"You’re quiet today," I say instead, breaking the silence. "Something on your mind, or is brooding your natural state?" I know I shouldn’t poke at him, I should be relaxing him, opening him up, but his stoic composure has that effect on me—it pisses me off.

He glances at me with that detached look, the one that says he’s five steps ahead of whatever conversation I think I’m starting. "Eat your breakfast."

"Ah, yes. Obedience," I murmur, stabbing the eggs with my fork. "Do you always follow orders or just the ones that keep you alive?"

His jaw tightens, and I know I’ve hit a nerve. "I follow orders that matter," he replies.

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