Page 30 of Mafia Crown

The words hang between us like smoke, curling and suffocating. But it’s not her voice that catches me—it’s the way her green eyes darken, a shadow of fear clouding them. She knows the weight of what she just said. She knows how dangerous that knowledge can be.

“Yes, you do,” I answer, my voice low but firm.

Her lip trembles, and she draws in a shaky breath like she’s trying to suppress a tidal wave of emotions. Tears threaten to spill, but she holds them back, barely.

“I swear,” she says, her voice cracking, “I’ll never tell anyone.”

I scratch my brow, the irritation simmering under my skin. Her promises are worthless to me. Words mean nothing in my world—only actions do. I let my arms drop to my sides and sigh. “A dying man will tell me anything. Do you know how many promises I’ve heard while a man’s bleeding out, begging for mercy?”

Her response comes like a gunshot, sharp and unexpected. “I don’t give a fuck.”

The words hit me, and for a second, I’m caught off guard. Hazel surprises me—a rare feat and not one I take lightly. My gaze sharpens as I study her. There’s fire in her voice, defiance laced with desperation, and it’s strangely impressive.

“I’m not a dying man,” she continues, her voice steady but her eyes glistening. “I’m not part of your world. I’m not a killer, and I don’t deserve to die.”

Her gaze wavers, flickering like a candle about to go out, as if she’s trying to reconcile the unfairness of it all. The weight of the situation is crashing down on her, and I can see her battling it, clawing for some semblance of control.

“I know,” I say, and I mean it. “There’s nothing fair about this.”

That’s the truth. There’s no justice here, no mercy, no happy ending waiting in the wings. This world chews people up and spits them out without a second thought.

Hazel rises, and it’s too fast, too sudden. The chair legs scrape against the floor as she stands, her movements jerky. And that’s when I see it—the glint of metal clutched in her hand.

A screwdriver.

So, that’s what she was hiding.

My lips twitch, not into a smile, but something close. This woman—this firecracker with trembling hands and tear-filled eyes—thought she could outsmart me with a tool that’s barely sharp enough to puncture skin.

But still, I don’t move. Not yet. I want to see what she does next. I want to see how far she’s willing to take this because if there’s one thing I know for sure about Hazel, it’s that her desperation makes her dangerous.

And dangerous can be fun.

Hazel’s grip tightens on the screwdriver, her knuckles whitening as she holds it like a makeshift knife. “You will let me go,” she barks, her voice cracking as a tear slips from the corner of her eye.

I don’t flinch. “I won’t be doing that,” I say calmly, evenly, as if she’s holding a spoon, not a weapon.

“Yes, you will…” Her voice is louder this time, desperate, like she’s trying to convince herself just as much as me. She takes a step closer.

I rise from the chair slowly, my movements deliberate, unshaken. I let the silence stretch, watching her chest rise and fall as her breathing turns erratic. “Or what, Hazel?” I take a step toward her, my gaze locked on hers. “You’re going to hurt me?”

Another step. She falters.

Her hand lowers slightly, the tip of the screwdriver dipping as her confidence cracks. I can see it in her eyes—the war raging inside her. She’s frazzled, unsure if she’s capable of following through. But then I close the gap between us and tower over her. The heat of her body radiates against mine, her breath hitching as she tries to hold her ground.

Her grip tightens again. A last-ditch effort.

“Will you puncture my neck?” I murmur, tilting my head ever so slightly as if offering her a target. “Watch me bleed to death right here in front of you?”

Her face pales. The thought alone is making her sick. I can see it in the way her lips part, in the way her gaze flicks down to my throat and quickly back to my face as if the idea is too much for her.

She wouldn’t have the strength. Not for something like that. She wants to believe she’s capable, but that’s the thing about people like Hazel—they’re driven by emotion, and emotion makes them weak.

“Tell me,” I press, my voice low and steady, “how are you going to kill me?”

“I’m not like you,” she barks, a burst of anger flaring before it fizzles out into something fragile.

She’s bending, like a tree in a storm, swaying, shaking, ready to snap or uproot entirely. I could break her if I wanted to. But I don’t need a broken damsel in front of me, crumbling under the weight of her fear. I need her to hold on to whatever strength she has left.

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