Page 23 of Mafia Crown

I glance back at the cabin door. How far would I get? My heart starts to pound.

“Don’t, Hazel.”

I screech and spin on my heel. He’s standing there watching me, I thought he had left.

“What?” I’m breathless.

He walks toward me, and my heart is ready to leap out of my chest. “Don’t make me chase you.”

I’m eye level with his chest, and I slowly look up into his ice-blue eyes. “Maybe you could let me go, no chasing involved.”

He tilts his head, but I see something in his gaze that gives me hope; he’s unsure. Before I can analyze the look any longer, he moves past me and locks the door, removing the key and pushing it into his pocket.

After that, I don’t see Kieran, soI spendthe rest of the day with Charlie in the cabin.

That night, I lie awake, the ceiling above me painted with shadows that shift like ghosts. The house is silent except for the rhythmic rise and fall of Charlie’s breathing at the foot of my bed, a small comfort in the otherwise suffocating stillness. My mind won’t shut off. My thoughts circle endlessly around everything Kieran did today—the way he listened, the rare laugh that escaped him like he hadn’t heard the sound in years, the way his hand trembled when I touched him by the ledge. I close my eyes, but it only makes his image clearer.

He’s not as unfeeling as he wants me to believe.

Somewhere inside this cold, ruthless man is a crack—a weakness. And if I’m smart, I’ll use it to escape. I should already be planning my next move—mapping out the best route, calculating how far I could get before Kieran realizes I’m gone. But the thought of leaving makes my chest tighten in a way that has nothing to do with fear.

Deep down, I wonder if part of me wants to stay. Just to see what happens if that crack splits wide open. To see who Kieran really is when all the pieces fall apart.

And to find out if I’m the one who can put him back together.

CHAPTER TWELVE

KIERAN

I PATIENTLY WAIT until Hazel drifts off, her breathing slowing to a soft, steady rhythm. Her lashes flutter briefly before settling against her cheeks, and a slight twitch of her hand signals she’s lost to the world of dreams. Beside her, Charlie doesn’t move—his small body curled into a warm, protective ball of fur pressed snugly against her side. His soft snores rise and fall in time with her breaths, creating a peaceful harmony.

I ease out of the room and tread carefully. The old wooden floorboards groan beneath my weight, protesting quietly as I make my way toward the door. Even the faintest creak feels like thunder, but no one stirs.

I reach for the flashlight I stashed earlier near the door, its cold metal casing familiar beneath my fingers.

My breath clouds the air as I step outside. The night is cool and crisp, the kind that bites at your skin and makes you alert. Perfect for clarity—and hunting down threats.

I scan the area, the beam of my flashlight cutting through the shadows. The ground is soft from last night’s rain, leaving the kind of surface that holds secrets if you know where to look. And I do.

I crouch near the edge of the clearing, where the dirt path winds back toward the trees, and that’s where I see them—footprints. Someone was here. Someone close enough to watch the house, close enough to lure Charlie outside.

I grit my teeth, my mind racing through possibilities. An enemy? Someone looking for Sean? The thought tightens something cold and heavy in my chest. If they came for him, they’re too late. He’s rotting at the bottom of the lake, and no one will find him. Not unless they drain the damn thing. And by then, I’ll be long gone.

I rise, my eyes scanning the distance, but the night offers no answers, only the rustle of leaves and the whisper of the wind. We can’t stay here. Not anymore.

On the way back to the house, my mind drifts to Hazel for the thousandth time. She saved me, pulled me back from the ledge when she could have let me fall. It would have been easy for her. One less problem in her life. But she didn’t. And that thought—thatactof mercy—it lingers. Makes everything more complicated.

Could I kill her now? No. The idea feels...wrong. Too much, but I’m not sure how this will end.

Inside, the warmth of the house contrasts sharply with the chill outside, but I don’t let myself relax. Not yet. I grab the bleach from under the sink and start scrubbing. Every surface, every trace of us being here, has to be wiped clean. My hands move on autopilot, muscle memory from years of doing this kind of work. Blood, fingerprints, evidence—it all vanishes under the harsh smell of chemicals.

When I finally crawl into bed, the sun is starting to rise, casting a dim light through the curtains. I close my eyes, but my mind refuses to shut off. Images of footprints, Hazel’s pulling me back from the ledge, and the weight of my own secrets swirl together until exhaustion finally wins.

I wake to the sound of pacing outside my room door. The footprints spring to mind, and I jump out of bed, with my fingers wrapped around the gun I stashed under the pillow. I open the door but keep hidden until I see a flash of red curls. I relax and open the door fully.

Her voice is soft but hesitant as she takes me in. “I want to take a shower.”

I leave the door open and stash the gun in a nightstand drawer at my bedside; when I turn, she’s watching me, her hair tangled, lips pressed together like she’s debating whether to say more, yet her eyes scan the room I’m staying in like she might learn something about me. She won’t.

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