Page 24 of Mafia Crown

“So, I’d like the camera turned off in the bathroom,” she adds.

I almost laugh. The camera was never on. I don’t need to watch her in there—I already know everything I need to. But I don’t tell her that. “Later,” I say instead. “We’re leaving today.”

Her brows knit together, and I see the questions forming in her eyes. She doesn’t ask right away, but when she does, her voice is edged with suspicion. “Where are we going?”

I pull off my t-shirt and find a fresh one; the one from last night stinks of bleach. “You’ll see.”

“Kieran—”

I glance at her, and her cheeks are red; she chews her lip.

“We are going to another safe house.”

She exhales what sounds like pain and fear. I have no other words for the look on her face. Something inside me twists, but I push it aside.

“You need to go to the basement.” My tone leaves no room for argument.

Hazel freezes, her body stiffening as the words sink in. The dim light overhead casts a soft glow on her hair, and for a moment, she’s a statue—untouchable, defiant. Her gaze lifts to meet mine, a flicker of rebellion sparking like a match striking against steel. I know that look. She’s deciding how far she can push me before I snap.

"Why?" she asks, her voice steady but low, as if she’s trying not to crack. "I won't try to run."

She glances out into the hall, her sharp eyes scanning the shadows as if weighing her options. But I already hear Charlie coming, the soft thud of his paws on the hardwood floor growing louder by the second.

"I have a few things to tie up before we leave," I say, stepping closer. The room feels smaller now, suffocating with the tension between us. Her gaze darts across the space, pausing on the nightstand where I stashed the gun earlier. Her lips press together, a silent acknowledgment that she knows exactly where it is.

"Don’t," I warn, pushing the weight of my authority into the word. "Hazel."

She flinches slightly but doesn’t break eye contact. I don’t want to hurt her, but if she forces my hand, I will. She has to know that. I won’t make the mistake of underestimating her again. Not after she saved me from falling to my death and reminded me just how unpredictable she can be.

"I don’t like the basement," she finally admits, her voice barely above a whisper.

I exhale slowly, fingers curling into fists at my sides. “It’s only for a short time,” I say, softening my tone against my better judgment. I shouldn’t have to explain myself. Not to her. But the fact that she pulled me back from the edge—literally—earns her this small courtesy.

Her shoulders rise with a sharp breath, then fall just as quickly. She mutters something under her breath, too quiet for me to catch, before turning away from the door. Defeat lingers in her steps, heavy but reluctant. I watch her as she moves, the set of her jaw tight, her movements stiff, like she’s fighting the urge to spin around and scream at me.

I grab my shoes and slip them on, my fingers moving with practiced ease. Then I reach for the gun, sliding it into the waistband of my jeans with a familiar weight that grounds me. Charlie trails behind, his tail wagging lazily as if this is just another routine task. For me, maybe it is. For Hazel? I’m not so sure.

The basement door creaks open, and I follow her down the narrow staircase. The cool air wraps around us like a second skin, the faint scent of damp concrete and old wood filling my nostrils. It’s darker down here, the only light coming from the dim bulb overhead, casting shadows that seem to stretch and breathe.

Hazel doesn’t say a word as she reaches the bottom. She crosses the room, her bare feet padding softly against the cold floor before she sinks to the ground, back pressed against the wall. Her knees draw up to her chest, and she wraps her arms around them like she’s trying to make herself smaller, invisible. But I see everything—the way her fingers grip her legs, the tension in her shoulders, the way her gaze fixes on the floor instead of me. She’s unraveling, one thread at a time.

I step closer, but she doesn’t look up. She’s regretting her decision to save me. I can feel it radiating off her like heat.

I hesitate, my fingers flexing at my sides. I should say something, maybe even thank her again. But what would be the point? She doesn’t want my gratitude. She wants out. Out of this basement. Out of my world.

But there’s no out. Not for her. Not anymore.

The door creaks as I pull it shut behind me, the sound echoing like the closing of a cell. I glance at her through the small window in the door and see her flinch, but she doesn’t move. For a brief second, guilt coils in my chest, tight and suffocating, but I shove it down. I don’t have time for this. Not now.

I turn away and get to work, my mind already shifting to the tasks ahead. But even as I load the gun and check the ammo, I can’t shake the image of her sitting there—silent, defiant, and broken all at once.

And I wonder how long she’ll stay that way before she fights back.

I leave the house and take Hazel’s car, filling it up with gas before heading inside a store to purchase food to replace what we used in the cabin. I make sure to grab extra to take with us to the next place before heading back to the cabin. I move through the house quickly, resetting everything. The food in the fridge, the furniture placement—everything needs to look untouched. I clean the last few spots of dirt on the floor, double-checking for anything out of place. By the time I’m done, my muscles ache, and the smell of bleach clings to my skin.

I grab a duffel bag; stuffing it with supplies: non-perishables, water, medical kits—anything we might need. The bag is heavy, but it’s reassuring. Prepared. Controlled. I put it all into the trunk of the car along with Hazel’s belongings; the only thing I keep is her shoes, which I carry with me down to the basement.

She’s still sitting where I left her, Charlie resting his head on her knee. She looks up as I approach, her eyes narrowed in quiet rebellion.

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