Page 27 of Mafia Crown

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans back, running a hand over his jaw. “I don’t know,” he admits. “But, I have to try.”

And just like that, the distance between us feels smaller. I should be terrified—he’s dangerous, unpredictable, and capable of things I’ll never understand. But right now, sitting here with him, I feel something different.

Something dangerous in its own way.

Hope.

Kieran leads me upstairs, the wooden floorboards creaking under our steps as we move down a dim hallway lit only by the fading sunlight streaming through a nearby window. He stops at the end and pushes open a door, revealing a bedroom.

The first thing I notice is that the room is finished, like the living room. The walls are a soft gray, the bed is neatly made with dark sheets and a heavy quilt. The windows have thick blackout curtains pulled back just enough to let in light, and the warm, clean scent of cedar fills the space. It’s simple but comforting.

“This is the only bedroom done,” Kieran says, rubbing the back of his neck. His fingers slip through his dark hair, making the strands fall messily across his forehead. His expression shifts, and I know he’s come to the same conclusion I have.

I glance toward the wardrobe, pulling open the door without thinking. The scent of him hits me first—something warm and woodsy, with a hint of leather. The wardrobe is lined with men’s clothing: jackets, shirts, and jeans neatly hung or folded—all his.

My stomach twists. I’m going to sleep inhisbed.

Kieran notices my reaction, his gaze flicking to the wardrobe before meeting mine. “You can have it,” he says, voice low but firm. “I’ll sleep somewhere else.”

I nod, knowing there’s no way in hell I’d share a bed with him. But the fact that he’s offering to give it up without argument does something strange to me. It’s unexpected—just like everything about him today.

“Follow me,” he says, motioning for me to come with him.

We move farther down the hall to a large bathroom, where a freestanding bathtub takes up most of the space. The tile floor is half-finished, with sections of smooth ceramic next to patches of bare concrete. It smells faintly of paint and sawdust, but it’s clean. The wide window lets in enough light to highlight the polished silver faucet and claw-foot tub.

“I don’t have a shower,” Kieran says, “but you can take a bath.”

I nod, but my gaze immediately darts around the room, scanning the corners and ceiling. I know what men in his world are capable of, and I won’t assume he’s any different.

When my eyes sweep over a vent, Kieran chuckles softly behind me. I whip my head around, heat crawling up my neck as I see the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“There are no cameras in my home,” he says. His voice is calm, as though he’s amused by my paranoia but not insulted by it.

I swallow and nod, feeling like an idiot. My cheeks burn, but I don’t let him see how embarrassed I am.

He doesn’t say anything else—just turns and leaves, the door clicking softly shut behind him. For a moment, I hesitate, staring at the door. The lock is broken. There’s nothing to stop him—or anyone—from coming in.

I place the stopper in the bath and run the hot water.

As the bath fills, I strip off and push my boots and clothes against the door. It won’t stop him, but it gives me the illusion of safety, and right now, that’s enough.

The bathwater steams, and I sink into it with a sigh, my muscles loosening for the first time in days. The warm water washes away the grime and tension, but not the constant buzz of anxiety in my chest.

Has anyone noticed I’m gone?How long has it been now—five days? A week? Time bends when you’re a prisoner. I close my eyes and let the water soothe me.

After I dry off and pull on fresh clothes from my bag, I run my fingers through my long, curly hair. I can’t find a hairbrush. Frustrated, I rummage through Kieran’s room, checking the drawers and nightstand.

That’s when I find it.

A Bible.

It’s tucked neatly in the bottom of a nightstand, and curiosity gets the better of me. I pull it out and flip it open, expecting scripture—but the pages have been cut out, creating a hollow space inside. Stacks of cash fill the void, along with two passports. I pull them out, inspecting the first one.

It’s a woman. Young, with soft features and long dark hair. His sister, I assume. She looks kind—too kind to be connected to someone like him.

The door creaks behind me, and my heart races as I shove the Bible back into place. Charlie’s head pokes through the door, his tail wagging as he trots toward me. I let out a breath, my hand settling on his head as he nuzzles me.

“Hey, boy,” I whisper, scratching behind his ears before getting up and continuing my search for a hairbrush. I don’t find one, and frustration gnaws at me as I wander through the house.

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