Page 25 of Mafia Crown

“Let’s go,” I say, holding out her shoes.

She hesitates for a moment before standing, scooping her shoes from me, and putting them on. She doesn’t ask any more questions but follows me back upstairs.

We step outside, and the air feels heavier now, like the world knows we’re running.

“You drive,” I say.

I can feel her tension as we pile into her car. I hand her the keys.

She stares at the keys in her hand, then at me. “Why?”

“Because I said so.” My voice is calm, but she knows better than to push.

The engine rumbles to life, and we pull out onto the road. The silence between us is thick, but I don’t mind. It gives me time to think, to plan. Each mile takes us farther from the footprints, the bleach, the memories of what almost happened.

I give her directions, and she follows them but glances in the rearview mirror at Charlie several times throughout the drive.

When we finally reach the house, it’s exactly as I left it—half-renovated, isolated, and perfect. The mountains stretch out around us, a natural fortress, and the trees sway gently in the breeze as if welcoming us into their depths.

I step out of the car and inhale deeply. This place will do. For now.

Hazel gets out slowly, her gaze sweeping over the unfinished exterior, the overgrown yard. “What is this?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Home.” I meet her eyes, watching the confusion, fear, and suspicion ripple through her. She doesn’t trust me. But that’s fine. She doesn’t need to. She just needs to stay.

As she stands there, I walk past her, unlocking the door, and stepping inside. The air smells of sawdust and fresh wood, the scent of something unfinished but full of potential.

“Come on,” I say over my shoulder. “It’s time to settle in.”

For better or worse, this is where we’ll be. And she’s not leaving until I say so.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

HAZEL

THE CAR CRUNCHES over the gravel driveway, slowing to a stop in front of the safe house. I shift in my seat, staring out the window. The place is halfway to being something livable—bricks stained from old weather damage, scaffolding leaning against one side, and mismatched shutters framing the windows. But when Kieran pushes open the door and steps out, it doesn’t feel neglected. It feels like it’s waiting to be finished.

My shoes hit the gravel, and the cool air nips at my skin. Charlie bounds out after me, tail wagging as if we’re on some kind of happy getaway.

Not quite.

Kieran pulls the bags from the trunk with practiced efficiency, throwing one over his shoulder and carrying the rest in his free hand. I follow him toward the door, nerves tightening like a knot in my chest.

The inside is unexpected. The main living room is complete—plush couches in deep brown leather, a fireplace that looks like it belongs in a catalog, and hardwood floors that gleam under the soft afternoon light streaming through the large windows.

It’s warm. Cozy. Nothing like the cold, dangerous world I’ve come to associate with him.

Kieran drops the bags by the entryway, kicking off his shoes without a word. “Hungry?” he asks, already walking toward the kitchen.

I hesitate before following, my steps light on the wooden floor. “I could eat.”

He starts gathering ingredients from bags he had brought in, moving with surprising ease, like he’s done this a hundred times. It’s strange, seeing someone who can shoot a man without blinking now slicing bread and unwrapping deli meat. I lean against the counter, fidgeting with my fingers as I watch him.

Charlie sits by my feet, looking up hopefully. Kieran tears off a piece of cheese and tosses it to him; I use the distraction to steady myself. Kieran doesn’t say much as he works, but the quiet isn’t exactly uncomfortable. It’s something else. A kind of domestic peace I forgot existed.

I clear my throat. “Is this your place?”

His hands pause, just for a second, before he resumes spreading butter on the bread. “Yeah.”

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