Page 47 of Mafia Crown

I tear through the trees, the house coming into view as the night closes around me.

I reach the house, breath coming fast, but I force myself to stop at the door. As much as I want to barge in, yell Hazel’s name, and tear through every room until I see her, I can’t afford to be reckless again. I’ve already fucked up once tonight. I won’t do it twice.

My gaze flicks to the knife embedded in the door frame, and I pull it free. I press my back against the wall, close my eyes, and take three controlled breaths. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. The pounding in my head dulls, but my heart doesn’t slow. It keeps hammering like a war drum.

I twist the doorknob and push the door open, quiet and deliberate. Silence greets me as I slip inside. The kitchen is dark, untouched. Nothing’s out of place. The fridge hums.

I move further, my boots making no sound against the floor as I step into the small hallway. That’s when I see Charlie lying on the ground. My pulse spikes. I scan his body for any signs of blood, any wound that might explain why he’s down, other than sleeping, but then he raises his head and meets my gaze. His eyes soften, and he pushes himself up onto all fours.

Relief crashes over me like a wave, but I don’t show it. I walk to him, crouching just enough to press my hand against the top of his head, the warmth of him grounding me. I need this small connection, this reassurance that at least one thing is okay.

I let my fingers graze through his fur one last time before I stand. I’m already moving toward the living room when a flash of red catches my eye, and I freeze.

It’s her. Hazel.

She’s moving through the dim light toward me. Before she can say anything, I have her pinned to the wall, my hand covering her mouth. Her breath hitches beneath my palm, and her wide eyes meet mine. It’s not confusion or anger staring back at me—it’s pure, unfiltered fear.

My chest tightens. I hate seeing her like this, but I can’t let go. Not yet. I lean in, my lips so close to her ear that I can feel her tremble.

"Are you alone?" I ask, my voice barely more than a whisper.

She nods frantically, her warm breath hot against my hand. I pause, searching her eyes for any doubt, any sign that she’s lying, but all I see is desperation. Slowly, I release her and step back, keeping the knife low but ready as I enter the living room.

Empty.

I scan every corner, but there’s nothing—just Hazel and me. Relief hits me hard, so sudden and overwhelming that my fingers loosen on the knife, and the tip lowers until it’s pointing at the floor.

I turn back to Hazel. Her chest is heaving, her hand pressed against her heart as if she’s trying to calm it, but her head shakes slightly, like she’s fighting off some invisible force.

"What—what just happened?" Her voice is shaky, and she stumbles over the words.

She looks like she’s going to pass out. Her face is pale, her lips trembling.

I take a step toward her, but she flinches, and that small movement stops me dead in my tracks.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

HAZEL

KIERAN LOOKS LIKE someone who’s stepped straight out of a war zone—a blood-soaked soldier returned from battle. The thick streaks of crimson on his face and chest have me frozen, my breath hitching in my throat. I don’t even realize I’m asking him what happened until the words leave me in a shaky whisper.

He doesn’t answer. The knife in his hand is still dripping, and it’s his eyes—wild and manic—that pin me in place. One wrong move, and he might use that blade on me.

I swallow hard and repeat myself, my voice quieter now. “Kieran. What happened?”

No response.

He spins on his heel and tears through the house like he’s searching for something—or someone. I follow, but I keep my distance, my heart drumming erratically. My footsteps are featherlight compared to his thunderous strides. When he reaches the last room, he finally stops, breath heaving as he wipes the blood from his face with the back of his hand. The smeared mess only makes him look more dangerous, like a man too far gone.

“Kieran,” I say softly, my voice barely above a breath.

He turns sharply, like he’s just now realizing I’m here. His eyes latch onto mine, and I can’t tell what I see—regret? Fear? Whatever it is, it’s too much. This isn’t him. Not the Kieran I know.

“What happened?” My voice cracks, betraying the tears threatening to spill over.

“Two men were outside,” he finally says, voice rough, as if dragged through gravel. “They were here for you.”

My stomach churns. “Who are they?” I whisper. Are they more of Patrick’s men?

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