Page 65 of Mafia Crown

I laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because I don’t have an answer that fits. Love? No. But I care. More than I should. More than makes sense. Kieran isn’t a good man, but he’s not a bad one either. His life, his choices, they’ve been dictated by circumstances beyond his control. And despite everything, he kept me safe. I can’t ignore that.

“He’s important to me,” I say finally.

Mary studies me, then shrugs. “He’ll be fine. They’re big boys. They can take care of themselves.”

I wish I had her certainty. The way she speaks, like the future is already set in stone, like she can see a version of events where everything turns out okay. But I don’t argue. What’s the point? I’m too tired to fight, too drained to do anything but follow her instructions. So I do as she says. I head for the shower.

The bathroom is large, and everything is white down to the large towels that hang on a heated rail. My movements are mechanical—strip, step in, turn the knob. The water blasts hot, scalding even, but I don’t adjust it. I let it burn, let it sear away the grime, the stress, the lingering ghost of Kieran’s touch. My skin reddens, my muscles sting, but I welcome the pain. It’s better than the numbness. Better than feeling nothing at all.

I brace a hand against the tile, letting the water beat down on me, washing away everything. Or trying to. But the filth is more than physical. The worst parts of it are beneath my skin, buried deep where no amount of heat can reach.

By the time I step out, my skin feels raw, but I don’t care. The steam has turned the mirror into a fogged-over blur, and I’m almost grateful for it. I don’t want to see myself right now.

When I come back into the room, Mary has food waiting. Something simple—bread, cheese, a bit of fruit. My stomach twists at the sight of it, rejecting the idea before I even take a bite. I know I need to eat, but the thought alone exhausts me. It feels like a chore, another obligation when I have nothing left to give.

“Do you have any.. …” I start.

Mary points at a pile of fresh clothes on the bed.

“Thank you.” I gather them and return to the bathroom, dressing quickly in the simple jeans and a white shirt. Mary is taller than me, so I have to tuck the fabric at my heels; otherwise, everything fits. Slipping on fresh socks, I return to the room and put on my own shoes.

“Do you feel better?” Mary’s voice is soft, and I want to gush everything to her, but I’m hesitant with her. She had lied about who she really was or who she married into. But, I push that all aside, knowing I lied to her, too.

“Yeah, the shower was nice.” I sit. I pick at the food because I know she’s watching, waiting for her moment to ask me questions.

“I know it was Kieran's voice on the phone, but I don't understand why you're lying,” Mary says.

I swallow the small blueberry I just popped into my mouth. It feels lodged in my throat, so I take a sip of water, forcing it down.

“I'm not lying. Sean tried to kill me.”

My mind flashes back to that moment in the cabin—Sean standing in the kitchen, the cold finality of Kieran pulling the trigger. My stomach twists. “I don't know what you think you heard, but Kieran has protected me,” I say, because no matter how complicated the truth is, that part remains.

Mary reaches across the table, her warm hand covering mine. “I want to believe you, Hazel, I do. But, it's one million euro. My husband...” She hesitates. “He won't take kindly to losing that kind of money.”

A chill runs through me. “What will your husband do?” I ask, dread gnawing at my insides.

She doesn’t even hesitate. “He'll find whoever took it and kill them.”

She says it so simply, so matter-of-fact, and suddenly, I wonder if I even know her at all.

“Well, you can't kill a dead person,” I say.

The silence stretches between us, thick and unspoken, until I break it.

“I need to call my parents,” I say, my voice rougher than I expected. “I need to get Charlie.”

Mary’s eyes soften. She smiles, and it’s nice; she looks like the Mary I know.

“Why don’t we pick up Charlie and go see your parents?” she suggests.

The words hit harder than I expect, like a sudden impact to the chest. I blink, staring at her, trying to process the offer.

Home. My parents. John.

The thought is a shock to my system. Like cold air after too much heat. Like something foreign pressing against my ribcage, threatening to break through.

It’s the first time since this nightmare started that the idea of normal doesn’t feel like an impossible dream.

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