Page 67 of Mafia Crown

I let out a breathy laugh, shaking my head. “No.”

Hours pass in a blur of talking, of laughter, of a normalcy I wasn’t sure I’d ever get back. The house smells the same—warm and safe, like fresh bread and vanilla. My mother keeps touching my arm, my cheek, as if reassuring herself that I’m real. My father listens more than he speaks, his watchful eyes never straying too far from me. John, ever the entertainer, keeps the air light, his presence a constant source of comfort.

But when the time comes, I tell them I’m staying with Mary.

“Are you moving back to Ireland?” my mother asks, directing the question at her instead of me, as if she already knows my answer.

Mary shakes her head. “No, just visiting. That’s why I was at the Gardai station; I was renewing my passport.”

Mary was a very good liar, and once again, I wonder ifI everknew her.

My mother frowns, lips pressing together, but she doesn’t push. She doesn’t ask why I won’t stay. Maybe she senses the answer. Maybe she knows that even though my feet are on familiar ground, I’m not the same girl who left.

John catches my eye and grins. “You always did know how to make an entrance, Hazel.”

I smile, warmth flooding my chest. And for the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself believe it.

I’m home.

My mother insists that Mary and I stay at the house, sharing my old room like we’re kids again. I know she means well, but I can’t—not after everything.

“I’m staying with Mary for a few nights,” I tell her. “But I’ll check in every night, and I’ll spend some time with you when Mary flies back to France.”

She exhales, the tension in her shoulders easing just enough. It’s a lie—one I hate telling—but the truth would only keep her up worrying.

I give my dad a firm hug, then turn to my brother. He’s been all smiles since I walked through the door, but I see it—the exhaustion clinging to him, the weight of everything we don’t say. I hold on to him a little longer, feeling the slight tremor in his grip before I step back.

My mother walks me to the car, and Mary gets in first, giving us a moment. The night air is cool, but her arms around me are warm, desperate.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” she whispers, hugging me tight enough that, for a second, I wonder if she’ll ever let go.

I squeeze back, guilt threading through me. “I promise I’ll call when I get to the hotel.”

She nods, but the worry still lingers in her eyes, refusing to let me go completely. My father joins her on the driveway, wrapping his arms around her, and I’m glad—at least they have each other.

The drive to the hotel is quiet, shadows stretching long across the road. By the time we get there, exhaustion has sunk deep into my bones.

The second the door shuts behind us, I turn to Mary. “You lie so well.”

She doesn’t smile. “In this world, you have to.” There’s something almost sad in the way she says it.

I scrub a hand down my face. “What if my parents call Connor?”

“He’ll tell them the same story. Don’t worry.” She steps closer, fingers wrapping gently around my arm. “Please, just rest. You’ve been through too much.”

She’s right, but my mind refuses to shut down. Still, I climb into bed, phone in hand, and dial my mother. The relief in her voice is immediate, and I let her talk, let her believe everything is fine.

When I hang up, my thoughts drift to Kieran. It feels strange not being with him, a hollow ache settling in my chest. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but I hope—no, I need—to see him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

KIERAN

THE NIGHT AIR is thick with tension as we move toward the O’Donnell compound. We’re not alone—Marcus has brought backup. Half a dozen foot soldiers, men who know exactly what’s about to go down. Some of them are eager, hungry for blood. Others wear that hollow, resigned look of men who have done this too many times before. I fall somewhere in the middle.

We split into two teams, just as planned. My breath is steady, my grip firm around the pistol in my hand. Three of my men and I move along the eastern perimeter, staying low, every step precise. Shadows stretch long under the dim glow of distant streetlights. Marcus leads the others toward the front entrance. The O’Donnells have no idea what’s coming.

A sudden crash shatters the fragile silence—the signal. Marcus’s team has made their move. A half-second later, the night erupts with gunfire. The sharp, staccato bursts of semi-automatics split the air, echoing between the buildings. Shouts. Screams. Chaos. They’ve taken the bait.

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