Page 7 of Mafia Crown

Hazel lowers herself to a kneeling position and stares at me, her chin tilted up, her eyes locked on mine. Slowly, she removes her glasses and places them on the floor. As she does, all the fear drains from her gaze.

“I hope you rot in Hell,” she says, her words seething through clenched lips. Tears stream down her face, soaking into her skin.

It unsettles me. For the first time in years, my finger hesitates on the trigger.

“I’m sure there’s a spot reserved for me,” I reply truthfully. No crime goes unpaid, and the cost is always blood and pain.

The sharp buzz of a phone breaks the silence, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s coming from Hazel’s pocket. The screen lights up the inside of her jacket.

“Take it out. Slowly.”

She frowns, not seeming to understand.

“The phone ringing in your pocket—take it out slowly.” I keep my words calm and low.

Her hands shake as she pulls it from her pocket, her movements stiff. The screen lights up with a name—Mary.

“Who’s Mary?” I don’t want anyone arriving for a few hours. I assumed no one would. I need time to clean up.

“A friend. I promised to call her back,” she says, her voice tight. Too tight. I hold out my hand for the device, and she hands it over without a fight.

“What were you calling her for?” My voice is low, steady, almost trusting.

Her gaze darts to the floor, and straight away, I know the next words out of her mouth will be a lie.

“Just having a chat.”

“Lying doesn’t suit you.” I step closer. “Try again.”

Her shoulders slump, and she exhales shakily.

“I told her I was being followed. She said I should call her back.”

“What’s her full name? Where does she live?”

She frowns again, but the fear has returned to her gaze. This time, it’s not fear for herself but for her friend. She glances at the gun.

“She’s not in Ireland,” she blurts out.

“That’s not what I asked you.”

Hazel looks up at me, tears making her gaze waver.

“Mary Walsh, and she lives in France.” Her words come out almost angry, like the thought of her friend in France has hurt her. But the name is what really catches my attention—Walsh. My grip on the gun tightens instinctively, but my focus shifts.

“Mary Walsh,” I repeat, testing the name on my tongue. “And you’re her friend?”

Hazel nods. “She’s my best friend.”

She’s also in France, so there’s no chance of her arriving here. But I also know one of the Walshes’ wives moved to France not long ago after a threat on her life had her husband sending her away.

The connection is too significant to ignore. Mary Walsh. The gun in my hand suddenly feels heavier, my decision more complicated. Killing Hazel is what I have been ordered to do, but keeping her alive, though? That opens new doors, doors that have never been opened before.

I lower the gun, the motion deliberate and slow.

Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t dare speak.

“You’re my leverage now,” I say, the words falling cold and sharp between us. “Congratulations, Hazel. You’re my captive.”

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