Page 37 of Mafia Kingdom

Malone's eyes widen with genuine terror. "Boss, please—I didn't know—"

My gun is in my hand before he can finish, the movement so fluid it's almost graceful. "Make an example of him," I tell Tony, pressing the weapon into his hand. "Make sure everyone hears about it."

"Marco, please," Malone begs, his voice cracking. "I've got kids—"

"You should have thought of them before," I say, already turning away. The pleading dissolves into broken sobs behind me. I don't look back. In this business, betrayal means death. No exceptions. Not even for men who've served faithfully for years.

In my office upstairs, I pour another measure of Jameson, the whiskey my father always favored. The familiar burn steadies me as I process what we've learned. Malone isn't clever enough to orchestrate this on his own. He was following orders—orders that came from Ian, one of my father’s men for twenty years.

The muffled sound of a gunshot comes from below, and I close my eyes briefly. Another necessary death, another message sent. This is the weight of leadership—making choices that keep blood off your hands while knowing it still stains your soul.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Sasha

I WAKE TO sunlight streaming through the windows, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings. Then it all comes rushing back—Marco, the kiss, our agreement. Two days. That's all I have to endure, and then I can get Lily and leave this nightmare behind.

Buddy is curled at the foot of the bed, his breathing steady. He seems to have recovered from last night's episode. I reach out to stroke his soft fur, taking comfort in his familiar presence among all this chaos.

The events of yesterday replay in my mind—Baz in the hospital, Marco threatening to keep me here, that kiss that I should regret but somehow don't. I press my fingers to my lips, as if I might still feel the pressure of his mouth against mine.

A knock at the door startles me out of my thoughts.

"Who is it?" I call, sitting up and pulling the covers around me.

"It's Ana," a woman's voice responds. "Mr. Walsh sent me with breakfast and some clothes."

Mr. Walsh. The formality makes me want to laugh. Or scream. I'm not sure which.

"Come in," I say, quickly combing my fingers through my tangled hair.

Ana enters, a middle-aged woman with silver-streaked dark hair. She carries a tray loaded with food—toast, eggs, fruit, and coffee that smells divine. Behind her, two men bring in several shopping bags.

"Good morning, Miss Gillespie," she says with a slight accent I can't quite place. "Mr. Walsh thought you might like some fresh clothing." She gestures to the bags. "And he said to tell you that you may use the gardens this morning if you wish. Buddy is welcome there as well."

I blink in surprise. "The gardens?"

Ana nods, a hint of warmth in her professional demeanor. "Yes, miss. It's a lovely day, and Mr. Walsh thought you might appreciate some fresh air."

The men set down the bags and exit without a word. Ana places the breakfast tray on a small table by the window.

"Mr. Walsh had to step out on business but will return before the event tonight," she explains. "He's arranged for a hairstylist and makeup artist to arrive at three."

I nod, taking this in. A brief flash of freedom, even if it's just the gardens, sounds like heaven after being cooped up inside.

"Thank you, Ana," I say, genuinely grateful for her kindness.

After she leaves, I investigate the shopping bags. They're filled with clothes that look suspiciously my size—jeans, t-shirts, sweaters, even underwear, and bras with tags still attached. The thought of Marco selecting lingerie for me sends heat rushing to my cheeks, though it was probably Ana who did the actual shopping.

I choose a pair of jeans and a simple green T-shirt, then quickly shower and dress. The clothes fit perfectly, which is both convenient and unsettling. How did he know my size?

Buddy perks up when I tap my thigh, his tail wagging furiously. "Come on, boy," I say, scratching behind his ears. "Let's get some fresh air."

Downstairs, I'm met by two security men who silently escort us to the back of the house. One of them opens a set of French doors that lead to the most spectacular gardens I've ever seen.

The estate grounds stretch out before me, meticulously landscaped with vibrant flower beds, stone pathways, and ancient trees. A fountain sparkles in the center, the sound of running water immediately soothing. Beyond the formal gardens, I glimpse rolling lawns that seem to extend forever, bordered by dense woods in the distance.

It's breathtaking, and for a moment, I forget that I'm essentially a prisoner.

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