Page 17 of Mafia Crown

It’s pointless. I’m trapped.

I let out a guttural sob and lash out, sweeping a stack of books off the table. They hit the ground with a dull thud, and it’s not enough, not nearly enough. I rip a cushion apart, hurl a chair against the wall, my breath heaving, my vision tunneling. A scream tears from my throat, and I wonder if anyone is looking for me. Sobs tear through me. My father and mother aren’t bad people, but the truth is, they will just assume I’m busy. My brother, John, might wonder why I’m not answering his messages; that is… when he finally lifts his head out of his grief, and Mary…well, she abandoned me, didn’t she? Maybe she is the cause of all of this.

When I finally collapse onto the floor, the room is a wreck, and so am I. Charlie is there, nudging my arm, trying to lick my face, washing my tears and my pain away. I don’t know how long I’ve been down here, days, hours; time moves in shadows across the wall, and as I lie on the floor, drawing my knees to my chest, I watch day turn into night, the light fades and darkness crawls closer toward me.

The door creaks open, and I freeze. A dark figure steps inside before light floods the space. I sit up, but I don’t stand. His eyebrows raise as he takes in the chaos. For a moment, I think he’s going to explode, but instead, he just shakes his head. I’m considering getting up when I really look around at what I have done. My cheeksheat, and I grip the wall to stand.

“Sit,” he orders, his voice low and firm.

I don’t argue. I slump into the corner, pulling my knees to my chest. My cheeks still burn.

My captor sets to work, silently tidying up the mess I’ve made. The scrape of furniture against the floor and the soft rustle of papers are the only sounds in the room. His movements are deliberate, each step smooth and controlled. I can’t help but watch him, my eyes following the way his muscles shift beneath his shirt as he bends to pick up a chair, the precision in his hands as he gathers scattered papers, and the most interesting part is there isn’t a grain of anger in him as he fixes my mess.

There’s a certain grace to him, a quiet strength that commands attention even in something as mundane as cleaning up. The lines of his jaw are sharp, his posture unyielding yet somehow effortless. Despite myself, I feel a strange pull, a reluctant admiration for the poise he carries, as if nothing in the world could rattle him.

When he’s done, he lowers himself into a seat across from me, his back resting against the wall. His piercing gaze locks onto mine, pinning me in place. “Do you feel better?” he asks.

I think about it. I do feel better, but I’d feelpretty great if he let me go. I don’t say what I really think because I’ve been here for days, and being so caught up in my own head is driving me to a very dark place.

“I keep calling you ‘my captor’ in my mind. I’d prefer to give you a name,” I say, ignoring his question.

His lip tilts slightly. “Then give me a name.”

Dickhead, asshole, bastard. I can think of so many. “What is your name?” I ask.

“Kieran.”

“Kieran,” I repeat. I’m not sure if it suits him. Kieran is normal, maybe even kind; he doesn’t shoot people in the head or kidnap girls and their dog.

“Did Mary hurt you when she left?” he asks, his tone softer than I expect.

The question slices through my defenses like a knife, catching me completely off guard. My throat tightens as I try to form an answer. “She didn’t hurt me,” I whisper, my voice shaky. “Not... not like that.” I’m wondering why the change in topic.

He doesn’t push, doesn’t interrupt. He just waits, still and patient, his presence pressing against me like a weight I can’t ignore. The silence is unbearable, and yet, somehow, it pulls the words out of me. “She left without telling me. Just...disappeared. I found out later she was in France. Mary was all I had.” My voice cracks, betraying me, and I hate the way I sound—fragile, exposed.

His expression remains unreadable as he tilts his head, his voice steady and calm. “Mary isn’t who you think she is,” he says after a pause. “She’s tied to the Walshes. She’s not innocent in any of this.”

The air in the room feels colder, heavier. My chest tightens, and I shake my head, desperate to hold onto something—anything—that feels solid. “I don’t want to know,” I say quickly, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “I don’t want to hear it.”

But his silence is unyielding, stretching between us until it’s unbearable. Curiosity claws at me, relentless and insistent, and finally, I lift my eyes to his. “How did you get involved with them?” I ask, the question barely audible.

A shadow passes over his face, darkening his gaze. “My childhood,” he says simply, the words carrying a weight that makes my chest ache.

“I was only a kid when my mother disappeared, and I had to take care of my sister, so I did what I needed to do.” His voice is even but tinged with a sadness that’s impossible to ignore.

“What about your dad?” I ask. Charlie has decided to lie beside me, and I take comfort in the warm body pressed against my thigh.

“He died when I was a kid,” he answers.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “My dad is a farmer.” I offer up.

He leans forward, his brows dragging down. “I don’t want to know about your family.”

Asshole. “Here I thought we were bonding.”

He gets off the chair. “No bonding here, Hazel.”

My cheeks blaze. I want to beg him not to leave, but I know he will find that pathetic. Yet, I don’t want to be alone.

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