Page 48 of Mafia Crown

“I don’t know.” His jaw clenches, and his gaze shifts briefly to the blood on the knife. “But I need you to stay here.”

Stay here while he disposes of more bodies.

He strides toward me but stops just short, the tension in the air thick enough to suffocate us both. “I thought they were in here with you.” His eyes roam my face, and for the first time, I see it—worry. It’s there in the tightness of his lips and the faint crinkles near the corners of his eyes. He was worried about me.

I never thought that would be possible.

A droplet of blood splatters onto the floor, and my gaze drops to his arm. There’s a gash running along his forearm, blood trickling steadily from the wound.

“You’re hurt,” I say, my voice soft.

He glances at the injury and dismisses it with a shrug, as if it’s nothing more than a scratch. “Stay in the house.”

I nod, but he’s already turning away, a man on a mission. The back door closes behind him with a heavy thud, and I’m left standing there, the silence pressing in around me.

I spend the next few minutes cleaning up the blood trails, my hands trembling as I scrub the floor. Charlie, my loyal shadow, stays by my side, his small whines filling the otherwise quiet house. I try not to think about what Kieran’s doing out there—disposing of two bodies. I had heard the gunshots earlier, sharp cracks that shattered the night. Charlie had sensed something, too. He’d whined at the door, pacing restlessly, then collapsing in the hall until Kieran finally returned.

I had hidden in the living room, heart pounding in my chest, hoping the noise was nothing more than Kieran outside. But when I heard movement in the hall, I’d crept out, hoping it was Kieran.

It was. Only, he wasn’t the man I was expecting.

He had grabbed me, pinned me against the wall, his breath hot and ragged against my skin. The primal intensity in his eyes had been terrifying—a man teetering on the edge of madness. And now, even as I scrub the floor, I can still feel the ghost of his grip on me.

I glance at the window. Rain pelts the glass in steady waves, blurring the view outside. I can’t see him from this angle, and the waiting is unbearable. The unknown gnaws at my nerves, leaving me restless.

Where is he? What’s he doing now?

I press my forehead against the cold glass, breathing in deeply to steady myself. But it doesn’t help. The fear is still there, gnawing away like a parasite.

A thought enters my mind, sharp and intrusive. He’s busy burying them. I could run. He might not even notice I’m gone.

I turn away from the window, my feet carrying me to the front door before I realize I’m even moving. I stop and stare at the door, my heart thudding. I could leave. I could find a way home.

But then what?

The realization hits me like a slap. Patrick is sending men to kill me. If I go home, I’ll be easy prey. They’ll find me before I even get a chance to breathe.

The hysterical laugh that bubbles up gets caught in my throat. The safest place for me is with Kieran. The man who just killed two people. How the hell did this become my reality?

I can’t bear the thoughts swirling in my mind, so I grab the first aid kit and wait by the back door, my fingers gripping the handle tighter than necessary. The minutes stretch like hours, but eventually, Kieran returns.

He’s soaked through, rainwater dripping from his hair and trailing down his face. His clothes are streaked with mud and dirt, but there’s something in his gaze that looks…different.

Hope.

He holds up his hand, and between his thumb and forefinger is a tiny chip, no bigger than a SIM card.

“What is it?” I ask, stepping back as he kicks the door shut behind him, sealing off the rain. Small puddles form at his feet, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“It might give us answers,” he says, “about who these people are.”

He strides to the drawer and starts rummaging. I step closer, catching a glimpse of what’s inside—several unopened boxes, all containing brand-new phones. He grabs one, tears it open, and pulls out the phone with practiced ease.

I don’t say anything as he works, sliding the chip into place. Every few seconds, he wipes the rain from his face, the droplets sliding down his jaw and onto the floor. His fingers are steady, but his lips press into a thin line, frustration already brewing.

When the screen finally lights up, he curses under his breath. “It’s encrypted,” he says, his voice rough.

“I know someone who might help,” Kieran says, already reaching for another phone from the drawer. His fingers leave wet streaks of water and blood on the sleek surface.

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