Page 40 of Mafia Crown

That doesn’t sit right with me. “Does Sean have anything to do with this?”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” Lee says. “But this is getting messy. You need to call Patrick and check in.”

I grunt, I am not ready to call Patrick yet. There’s more to uncover here. “Anything else?”

Lee hesitates. “Yeah. A while back, Dave’s wife was almost kidnapped. The same gang was suspected, but we never had solid proof. They had to move her overseas to keep her safe.”

That bit of information is like a key turning in a lock, unlocking doors to possibilities I don’t fully understand yet. Pieces start shifting, sliding into place one by one, but none of them fit together neatly. It’s like trying to assemble a puzzle without knowing what the final picture is supposed to be. If they tried to grab Dave’s wife before, what would they want with Hazel now? My thoughts spiral, catching on theories that don’t settle. Did they make the connection that Hazel is friends with Mary? Could taking Hazel be a way to lure Mary out of hiding, to strike at someone they couldn’t reach the first time?

I rub the back of my neck, the tension settling deep in my muscles like a weight I can’t shake off. My fingers press harder than I intend, but it does nothing to ease the pressure. “Okay, Lee. Thanks.”

“Don’t forget to call Patrick,” he says. His voice is heavier this time, and that edge of concern in it unsettles me. Lee isn’t the type to get rattled, so if he’s worried, things are worse than I thought.

I end the call and shove the phone back into my pocket. My gaze drifts toward the hallway, where silence has taken hold. Hazel must still be in the bath, and the thought of her behind that door is like another layer of pressure, one I can’t afford to let distract me. I lean back, my mind racing through what little I have to work with.

The news of Hazel being on the run would have spread by now. Patrick wouldn’t have kept it quiet; he’s too cautious for that. Some of his men are probably on the lookout for her already, and word could’ve traveled fast. It’s possible the gang that tried to take Mary heard about Hazel and connected the dots. If they knew I was the one handling this, they would’ve had no problem tracking me here.

I reach up instinctively to touch my brow, where a dull ache throbs like a constant reminder of today’s mess. But I stop short, wincing, knowing that pressing into it will only ignite more pain. I exhale sharply and stand. Charlie’s ears perk up, and he lets out a low whine as he lifts his head from where he’s sprawled in front of the fire. His brown eyes follow me, questioning.

“Stay where you are,” I say, my voice softer than usual. He lowers his head between his paws, but the tension in his gaze mirrors my own.

I head into the kitchen, the cold tile floor grounding me for a moment. I grab two painkillers from the cabinet and wash them down with a glass of water, the cool liquid soothing the tightness in my throat. The pills won’t solve anything, but they’ll take the edge off, give me enough clarity to think straight. I stare at the glass for a second, watching the ripples as I set it down. The reflection that stares back from the surface is fractured and distorted. Fitting.

Framing Sean for taking Hazel is still my best option. It’s not clean, but it’s possible. I just need the right evidence to present to Patrick, something solid enough that he won’t question it. But this isn’t just about fooling Patrick—it’s about keeping Hazel alive and finding a way out of this mess for both of us.

Letting Hazel walk away from this depends on two things: either Mary finds out what’s going on and begs her husband to intervene, or I give Patrick information about the gang that tried to take Mary. If I can prove they’re a bigger threat than Hazel ever was, it might buy her life—and mine. But that’s a delicate game to play. Patrick doesn’t trust easily, and if he senses I’m lying, he’ll bury me alongside her.

I press my fingers to the edge of the counter, the cold marble grounding me for a brief second. But the weight of what I need to do is still there, crushing and suffocating. I’m not sure how to piece it all together yet, but I know one thing for certain: I need time. Time to gather the evidence. Time to manipulate the players on the board. Time to make sure Hazel doesn’t end up dead.

I glance toward the hallway again. Hazel is a variable I can’t control completely, but I have to try. If I can keep her compliant—just for a little longer—I can figure this out.

One step at a time. Don’t think about the long game. Focus on what’s next.

I take a breath, clenching and unclenching my fists as the plan solidifies in my head. The painkillers start to kick in, dulling the throbbing ache behind my eyes. But they can’t touch the pressure in my chest. That’s mine to carry.

I push off the counter and head back toward the living room. The fire crackles softly, and Charlie lifts his head again as I pass. His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, it feels like he knows exactly what’s going on in my head. I give him a small nod, as if to say,I’ve got this.

Even if I’m not sure I do.

Not yet anyway. But I will.

I have to.

I make my way upstairs and knock on the closed bathroom door. I knock twice. No answer.

My heart rate kicks up. Did she run again?

I shove the door open, but the bath is empty, water still lingering on the porcelain surface. For a second, I just stand there, frozen in place, the thought of her gone pulling me under like a riptide.

But then I hear the soft creak of my bedroom door. I turn, and there she is, stepping out with a towel in her hand, her damp hair clinging to her skin. She’s wearing one of my t-shirts, the hem brushing her thighs. She freezes when she sees me, her gaze dropping to the floor. Her cheeks flush red.

“I ran out of clothes,” she murmurs.

It’s a simple statement, but something about it hits me differently. The way my shirt clings to her curves. How small she looks in my clothes. How vulnerable. A funny, unwanted sensation tugs at me, like I’m seeing her for the first time.

I clear my throat. “That’s okay.”

She doesn’t respond, just clutches the towel tighter as if it’s some kind of shield.

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