Page 3 of Mafia Crown

Across from me, Danny looks up, his eyes heavy with years of knowing me. He’s cuffed, kneeling, blood pooling beneath his busted lip where the Walsh goons worked him over. He’s been in my life since I was a kid—always quick with a story, quicker with a laugh. But tonight, he’s not Danny anymore. He’s a traitor. A lesson. A test.

"You don’t have to do this, kid," he says, his voice cracking just enough to betray the bravado.

But I do.

My chest tightens as I force my gaze to meet his. "Orders are orders." It’s a lie. Orders are an excuse, a shield against the weight of what I’m about to do. They tell me this is loyalty. But all I feel is the hollow ache of betrayal.

He nods, a sad smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "They got their hooks in you good, huh?"

I don't answer. I can't. Instead, I raise the gun, my grip steady now, even though my heart feels like it’s clawing its way out of my ribs.

Danny’s eyes never leave mine, and for a moment, the world goes quiet. No sounds from the pub, no wind, no heartbeat. Just him and me, frozen in time.

"I forgive you," he says softly, like it’s the last gift he has to give.

I pull the trigger.

The crack of the shot shatters the silence, and Danny collapses forward, lifeless. My stomach churns, but I keep my face blank. I have to. This is what they wanted—a cold-blooded killer. Someone who won’t flinch.

As I lower the gun, I tell myself it’s done. That this is the price of loyalty, but deep down, I know I’ve lost something tonight I’ll never get back.

The pub smells like damp wood and stale beer, even after years of abandonment. Dust hangs in the air, catching the faint beam of a single lightbulb swaying overhead. The Walsh family never cared about appearances; they only cared about power. Patrick’s waiting for me in the corner booth, his massive shoulders hunched over a whiskey glass. His face is unreadable—stone cold like always.

I cross the room slowly, boots scuffing against the sticky floor. My gut churns, and it’s not from the rancid smell. Patrick doesn’t call you here unless it’s serious. And I already know what this is about. It’s a small village, and news spreads fast about a recent killing.

“Sit,” Patrick says, not looking up.

I slide into the seat opposite him. The leather is cracked and cold against my back. He tosses a photo on the table between us. Hazel.

She’s younger than I expected, early twenties, maybe. Her red hair curls around her face like flames, but it’s her eyes that grab me—wide, green, defiant. They remind me of Saoirse, the way she used to look at me before everything went to hell. Innocent, but not naïve. Determined to survive, even when the odds were stacked against her.

“She saw the McGrath thing,” Patrick says, voice low but sharp.

I nod. I know what he means. Hazel saw too much, and even though Michael—the clueless rookie Garda—ignored her report, the fact she made one is enough. Patrick doesn’t take risks, and he doesn’t leave loose ends.

“She needs to go,” Patrick adds, his eyes boring into mine.

My stomach tightens. Killing’s part of the life; I’ve accepted that. But women and kids? That’s where I draw the line. They’re off-limits unless they’re a direct threat to the family.

But is Hazel a threat? She saw a murder, reported it, and for that alone, Patrick sees her as a liability. My code tells me no. My loyalty to the Walsh family tells me yes.

I pick up the photo, studying her face again. Saoirse’s eyes stare back at me, stirring memories I’ve worked hard to bury. I feel the weight of Patrick’s gaze, waiting for my answer.

“I’ll handle it,” I say, voice steady, but inside, I’m anything but.

Patrick raises his glass, satisfied. “Good.”

Patrick leans back in his chair, removing a cigar from his breast pocket; he doesn’t offer me one; he knows me well enough to know that I won’t accept it. He lights the cigar and takes a puff before resting it between his fingers, the smoky haze swirling around him. His laugh rumbles low, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. I sit on the edge of the leather booth, trying to keep my expression neutral. He’s tellingthatstory again.

“You know, Kieran,” Patrick begins, his voice a mix of pride and amusement, “there’s a reason they call you ‘Kill.’”

Oh, I know. I could probably recite the damned story myself at this point.

“You were just a kid back then,” he continues, his eyes narrowing with that look he gets when he’s about to impart some grand lesson. “There I was, in McDonagh’s pub. A regular night, nothing unusual. And these three bastards—tourists, they were—decide they’ve got something to prove. Start running their mouths about the Walsh name.”

I glance at him, watching the glint in his eye, the subtle smirk tugging at his mouth. He’s relishing this—the power it gives him.

Patrick chuckles, rolling the cigar between his fingers. “You stood up and squared your shoulders.” Patrick mimics the movement and glances at his men, who stand a few feet away. He always has protection with him. “You taught them a lesson they wouldn’t forget. Broke a chair over one of their heads, smashed a pint glass into the second’s face. The third? Well, he made the mistake of pulling a knife on you.”

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