Page 6 of Mafia Crown

I check the lock on the front door three times as I speak to Mary. Charlie rubs against my leg, and I lean down and pat his head.

“So, tell me about France. How is the weather?”

Mary’s voice sounds happier as she speaks. “It’s close to Irish weather, but minus all the rain.” I grin.

“So it’s nothing like the Irish weather,” I say.

We both laugh, but the rumble of thunder has me stopping just before a flash of lightning lights up the room. “Speaking of rain, we have a storm here now. I’d better unplugeverything …” The power cuts off, and I curse.

“Everything okay?” Mary asks.

“Yeah, I just need to find a candle. The power is gone. I’ll call you back.”

“Okay, hun.”

After we hang up, the storm rages outside, mirroring the chaos in my head. Rain lashes at the windows, and thunder shakes the roof, the sound reverberating through the walls. I light a candle, its small flame flickering in the drafts. The dim light feels fragile, like it could go out at any moment. But it gives me light. Charlie races past my legs and dives behind the couch as another roar of thunder scares him. He hates storms. Normally, these are my favorite nights. I love reading by the candlelight as the world is thrown into chaos outside, while inside my small cottage, I’m safe.

That sense of safety has been smashed. I slip my phone into my pocket and get down on my hands and knees. “Come on, Charlie, it’s okay.” I try to coax him out from behind the couch, but he isn’t budging.

Then I hear it—a faint rustle at the back door. My breath catches, and I freeze.

No. Not now.

The sound comesagain, louder this time. My heart races as I grab the nearest weapon within reach—a heavy brass candlestick that was once my grandmothers, one of the items I inherited after her death, along with a set of China that I only use at Christmas, all her books and this brass candlestick. The flickering light from the lone candle throws long, dancing shadows across the walls as I inch toward the door and out into the tiny hallway that connects to my kitchen.

I can’t see anything and curse myself for not bringing the candle. But I can make out the shadow of the man who’s standing in my kitchen. Tall and imposing, his wet hairplastered to his forehead. He’s drenched from the storm, but the cold look in his eyes sends a shiver down my spine as he steps closer to me.

“You must be Hazel,” he says, his voice smooth but coiled tight with menace.

My hands tremble as I tighten my grip on the candlestick. “Get out,” I snap, trying to keep my voice steady.

His lips curl into a smirk, and he steps closer, his presence filling the small room. “Easy now,” he says like he’s talking to a skittish animal; he’s so close I can smell the cold and an undercurrent of his aftershave.

I swing the candlestick with all the force I can muster. He’s fast—faster than I expect—but not fast enough. The edge of it catches his shoulder, and he stumbles back, muttering a curse under his breath.

“Not bad,” he says, rubbing the spot. “Didn’t think you’d put up a fight.”

His smirk fades, replaced by something harder, more dangerous. He straightens, his dark eyes locking onto mine like a predator sizing up its prey.

“I’m not here to hurt you, Hazel. But I suggest you listen carefully,” he says, his tone as sharp as the storm outside. “Because whether you like it or not, your life just got a hell of a lot more complicated.”

CHAPTER FOUR

KIERAN

SHE STILL GRIPS the candlestick; her gaze darts around the darkened space. I told her I wouldn’t hurt her—that was just to stop her from screaming. The reality is, I need to end this now.

I slip the gun out of my jacket pocket, and her eyes grow wide. Her fingers loosen their hold on the candlestick, and it hits the floor with a heavy thud.

“Get on your knees.” My voice is calm. It’s easier this way, less blood splatter if she isn’t standing. I have the silencer on.

“I’ve done nothing wrong!” Her words are as erratic as her breathing. She hasn’t followed my instructions. She’s still standing there, staring at me, looking like she might throw up.

“Hazel,” I say her name calmly, as though her behavior is nothing but dramatic, and all she needs to do is follow my simple instructions to end this nightmare. “Get on your knees.”

A sound close to a whimper escapes her chest. Her eyes, magnified by her glasses, appear even larger.Fuck.She looks so young.

I hold the gun steady, its weight familiar in my hand, but my target isn’t what I expected. Human behavior fascinates me in moments like this. There are three types of people: those who fight—it makes the kill easier. Those who beg for their lives—I expect that, and it doesn’t bother me. And then, the worst ones: the ones who accept it.

---