Page 25 of Mafia Kingdom

Marco’s eyes flash with frustration. “You should’ve waited. I would’ve come for you.”

My heart races. “Baz offered to help. I didn’t think—”

“That’s the problem, Sasha. You didn’t think!”

Marco’s voice slams into me like a physical blow, reverberating in the confined space of the car. My pulse stutters, then quickens, the weight of his fury pressing down on me. His hands grip the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles are bone white, the muscles in his jaw flexing with restrained rage.

I flinch but force myself to hold my ground. “I did think,” I mutter, though, even to my own ears, it sounds weak.

His sharp inhale is all the warning I get before he turns on me, his eyes burning with an intensity that makes my breath hitch. “No, you didn’t.” His voice drops lower, more dangerous. “Because if you had, you wouldn’t have put yourself in danger. You wouldn’t have involved Baz. And you sure as hell wouldn’t have gone anywhere near your father.”

A cold pit opens in my stomach. Is that what this is really about? I swallow hard and glance out the window, watching the city blur past in a mess of neon and shadows. It’s easier than looking at Marco, easier than facing the storm I can feel building between us. My hands clench in my lap, nails pressing into my palms.

When the car jerks to a stop outside his house, frustration flares inside me. This isn’t where I want to be. I don’t belong here.

“I want to go home,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

Marco lets out a sharp laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Are you serious?” He twists in his seat to face me fully, his dark eyes narrowing. “After everything that just happened, you still think you have a home to go back to?”

The words land like a slap, stinging more than I want to admit. I press my lips together and push open the car door, stepping into the cold night air. I open the back door, and Buddy jumps out, tail wagging. My body is sluggish with exhaustion, but I ignore it, focusing instead on the steady sound of Marco’s footsteps behind me and Buddy’s clicking nails on the concrete ground. .

Inside, warmth engulfs me, but it does nothing to chase away the ice in my veins. People are gathered in the kitchen, their voices low, tense. I barely register their presence, too focused on the way Marco stalks past them without so much as a glance.

“So you called Baz to collect you and take you to see your father?” His voice is razor-sharp, slicing through the air as he turns to face me. His posture is stiff, his hands flexing at his sides like he’s struggling to hold himself back. “That was your brilliant plan?”

Something about his tone snaps what little restraint I have left. My exhaustion, my fear, the suffocating control he keeps tightening around me—it all boils over. “Yes, Marco, that was my plan,” I snap. “Because,unlike you, I don’t want to be a prisoner.”

His jaw tightens. “A prisoner?” His voice is deathly quiet now, more dangerous than when he was shouting. He takes a slow step toward me, and despite myself, I retreat, my back hitting the edge of the counter. “You think that’s what I’m doing? Keeping you locked up like some captive?”

I lift my chin, refusing to let him intimidate me. “That’s exactly what you’re doing.”

His breath is warm against my skin as he leans in, his eyes locked onto mine. “Then tell me, Sasha,” he murmurs, voice laced with something dark and unreadable. “Why, whenever you are in trouble, you call me?”

My heart slams against my ribs, but I don’t have an answer. Because I don’t know. Because he’s right, I’ve asked him twice now to help me.

He takes a step back, and it’s like a curtain is pulled over his head. His composure returns. “Then what happened in the car?”

I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself.“I turned to pet Buddy, and the next thing I knew, Baz was shot.” The memory is vivid and haunting, a stark reminder of how quickly everything can change.

Marco’s eyes narrow, his frustration palpable. “You didn’t see who did it?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “It all happened so fast.”

A TV in the background drones on, a news anchor's voice cutting through the tension. “A member of a street gang was found dead with his neck broken,” she says. I freeze, the color draining from my face. On the screen is a mugshot of Dave—the man who had been using my home as a lab. I take a step toward the TV with a finger pointed at it.

“Did you?” I can’t finish my sentence, my voice barely more than a whisper. Fear grips me as I turn to Marco.

He follows my line of sight to the TV. He doesn’t answer, but the look in his eyes is enough. He did it. He killed Dave. The realization makes my blood run cold. I’m very afraid now, more than I’ve ever been.

“Doctor Orla will check you over for any wounds,” Marco says abruptly, turning away from the TV and from me.

“I was already checked. I’m fine,” I protest, trying to assert some control over the situation.

“Don’t fight with me,” Marco snaps, his voice rising. It’s not a request; it’s an order. I have no choice but to obey.

Reluctantly, I follow him down the dimly lit hallway to another room. Doctor Orla waits inside, her expression impassive as she gestures for me to sit on the cushioned bench. I glance back as Marco closes the door behind me.

This room is designed like an operating room. Dr. Orla doesn’t speak; instead, she moves with practiced efficiency, her hands cool and clinical as they skim over my skin, checking for bruises, fractures—any sign of damage. I already told them I’m fine, and I repeat it now, my voice clipped, but she ignores my impatience, methodically finishing her examination.

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