Page 28 of Mafia Crown

The unfinished rooms are filled with potential—arched doorways, exposed wooden beams, and large windows that let in natural light. But there’s a rawness to it, like the house is stuck between what it was and what it could be.

A large saw sits in one of the front rooms, the blade glinting faintly under the dim light. I step closer, my fingers twitching as I reach out, the thought of how sharp it must be flashing through my mind.

“Don’t touch it. It’s sharp.”

Kieran’s voice makes me jump, and I spin around, heart pounding. He’s leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching me.

“I was looking for a hairbrush,” I blurt out, my voice higher than I want it to be.

Both of his brows rise. “You won’t find one in here.” He pauses, then shrugs. “You won’t find one in the house. I’m sorry.”

I nod, running my fingers through my hair again. The curls snag on my fingers, and I give up, letting my hands drop to my sides.

“I’ve lit the fire,” Kieran says. “If you want to dry your hair beside it.”

The tension between us hangs like a thread waiting to snap, but I nod and follow him back to the living room.

“I’m going to wash, but you go ahead,” he says, disappearing down the hallway.

The first thing I do is check the front door, but it’s locked. Of course, it is, but I have to try.

The fire crackles softly, warmth radiating from the hearth. I glance around the room, noticing the stack of books on the coffee table. Did he leave them for me?

I pick up the first one—a worn paperback with creased edges and a faded cover. My fingers run along the spine as I sit down on the couch, pulling my knees to my chest.

But even as I sit here, in front of the fire, surrounded by warmth, my mind can’t help but remind me of one thing:

I’m still his prisoner. And no fire or cozy books will change that.

But Kieran is making itveryhard for me to remember he’s supposed to be the villain.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

KIERAN

I CHUCKLE UNDER my breath as I head to the bathroom. That moment with her near the saw was amusing as hell. When she spun around, there was something there—a split second, brief enough that most wouldn’t have noticed. But I did. Darkness. Dark thoughts. I know that look because it lives in me, too. She thought about it, just for a breath. Maybe hurting me. Or using that saw to make a run for it.

But instead of showing her hand, she lied. “Looking for a hairbrush,” she’d said, her voice just shy of convincing. As if I’m stupid enough to buy that.

In my room, I strip off my clothes, tossing them into a pile on the floor. The air hits my skin, cool and sharp, but I barely feel it. My mind’s still on Hazel, her slight tremble, the way she struggles to meet my gaze. I wonder if she knows how much of herself she gives away when she’s cornered.

I grab fresh clothes from the dresser—black t-shirt, dark jeans, clean socks, everything in its place like a well-rehearsed routine.

The bathroom smells faintly of the blue ray shower gel; she must have used it while bathing. I twist the taps, watching the water rush into the tub, steam curling upward. A shower would be better, quicker, but I haven’t installed it yet. It’s one of those tasks that never made it to the top of my list. Maybe because the time it takes to soak, to scrub the day off my skin, is sometimes the only peace I get.

I lower myself into the water, the heat biting at first before settling into something tolerable. Methodical. I wash with mechanical precision—soap over my arms, chest, neck. Nothing is rushed, but nothing is indulgent, either. There’s no point in luxury when you’ve spent your life clawing through blood and betrayal.

By the time I’m dressed, the clothes fit like armor—clean, pressed, ready for whatever’s next. I scoop up the dirty pile and head downstairs, the stairs creaking faintly under my weight. Hazel’s presence lingers in my mind, her dark thoughts replaying in fragments. She’s dangerous. Maybe not to me, not yet. But she’s got the potential to be just that, and for some reason, that makes me grin.

I don’t stop at the main living room where I told her to dry off at the fire. I left a stack of books to keep her occupied.

In the kitchen, I throw my laundry into the washer before I take out my burner phone and dial Mary; there is no way to trace me; the location will ping at some remote location in the Wicklow mountains. The phone rings twice before she picks up.

“One million euros,” I say.

Mary’s voice is sharp, as expected. “A million euros?”

I lean back against the kitchen counter, which still needs a lot of work; I started the renovations nearly two years ago, but work always pulled me away.

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