Page 70 of Mafia Crown

I straighten. “What? You knew?”

“Oh, sweetheart. Of course, I knew. I gave birth to him. Pushed him right out.”

“Okay, too much detail.”

Another chuckle. “Your father knows also.”

Shock vibrates through me. “And you didn’t say anything?”

“He’ll tell us in his own time,” she says simply. “Your brother is stubborn, but he’s always known we love him.”

I shake my head, realizing for the first time that maybe I’ve underestimated them. I always thought I had to protect John, shield him from their judgment, but I never stopped to consider they might just accept him as he is.

“I should give you guys more credit,” I murmur, watching as Charlie stops chasing butterflies and lifts his head, ears pricked.

Mom hums in agreement. “Yes, you should.”

Charlie barks suddenly, sharp and insistent. My stomach drops—the bread.

“Mom, I have to go—the bread’s in the oven!” I hang up before she can respond and hurry inside, the scent of warm yeast hitting me the moment I step through the door.

I grab a cloth, pull the tin from the oven, and place it on the counter. The crust is golden, crisp, steam curling from the cracks.

A hand clamps over my mouth.

I freeze. My pulse slams against my ribs, breath catching in my throat. The fingers are firm, rough, pressing against my lips. The scent of leather and earth floods my senses.

A low voice whispers against my ear. “Not a sound, Hazel.”

My blood turns to ice.

Charlie’s barking grows frantic outside, his paws scratching against the door. My heart pounds so loud I swear it echoes through the kitchen.

I grip the edge of the counter, body rigid, mind racing.

I know that voice.

And it’s impossible because Kieran has been dead for three months.

Slowly, I turn.

Kieran.

He stands there, real, solid, breathing. My mind struggles to accept what my eyes see. I stumble back, my legs weak beneath me.

He doesn’t move, just watches me, waiting for the storm inside me to settle.

“No. No,” I whisper, shaking my head as if I can will him away. “I was at your funeral.”

Kieran scratches his brow, an old habit. “I'm sorry I put you through that.”

The dam inside me bursts. Fury, grief, disbelief—everything crashes together and explodes out of me.

“You're sorry?” My voice is raw, edged with something close to hysteria. “I was broken. I uprooted my whole life, moved to France because I couldn’t stand the reminder of you. I realized I loved you, Kieran. And ‘sorry’ isn’t good enough.”

Tears sting my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. My hands tremble at my sides, fists clenched so tight my nails bite into my palms.

When I finally stop shaking, he steps forward, slow, measured.

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