Page 8 of Mafia Kingdom

I start the car and drive away, my mind racing with plans and possibilities. I know I need to talk to Marco, to see if that small kindness he showed me once can be extended just a little bit further. It’s a long shot, but it’s the only shot I’ve got.

I drive through the dark streets, my grip tight on the steering wheel. My heart is pounding, a mix of fear and determination pushing me forward. I pull up outside the pubwhere Marco and his crew used to drink. I haven’t been here in ages, and for all I know, he might not even come here anymore. But I have to try.

The pub is as I remember—well-lit always freshly painted, and the most high-end pub in the area. Its clients not so much. I hesitate at the entrance, my stomach churning. This is dangerous territory, and I’m painfully aware of it. But what choice do I have?

I push open the door and step inside. The place is overflowing with people, loud and crammed. I scan the room, looking for any sign of Marco. My eyes land on a large man behind the bar, one of Marco’s old friends. I steel myself and walk over to him.

“Hey,” I say, trying to sound confident. “Is Marco here?”

He looks me up and down, suspicion clear in his eyes. “Marco isn’t here,” he says gruffly. “But you can wait if you want.”

I nod, my throat tight with anxiety. “Thanks,” I manage to say, then retreat to a corner where I can keep an eye on the entrance. I sit down, trying to make myself as inconspicuous as possible.

The minutes drag by, each one feeling like an eternity. I can feel eyes on me, the weight of their gazes making me uneasy. I know I don’t belong here, and I can sense the hostility in the air. But I have to stay. I have to talk to Marco.

As I wait, I think about the last time I saw him, the way he had stepped in to protect me at that party. Maybe there’s still some of that kindness left in him. Maybe he’ll help me again.

A group of men near the bar start laughing loudly, their voices carrying over the din. I catch snippets of their conversation—boasting about their exploits, mocking those who’ve crossed them. I shiver, trying to block out their words. This place is a den of danger, and I’m right in the middle of it.

CHAPTER FOUR

Sasha

I SIT IN the corner of the pub, trying to make myself as small as possible. The dim lighting casts shadows that I hope will hide me, making me blend into the worn leather of the booth. My fingers, trembling slightly, tear at a beer mat, shredding it into tiny pieces that scatter across the table like confetti from some celebration. The noise around me – the clinking of glasses, the murmur of conversations, the occasional burst of laughter – feels distant, muffled, as if I'm submerged underwater. It's a strange sensation, being here but not really being present.

I want to leave. The urge to get up and run is almost overwhelming. But every time I think about standing up, an image of my sister pops into my head. Guilt and fear churn in my stomach like a storm. What if she's not okay? What if she's crying somewhere in Aunt Karen’s home, missing our home, missing me? The thought is a dagger in my heart, twisting deeper with each imagined sob.

I force myself to believe that she's happy, probably watching TV and laughing at some silly cartoon. It’s a fragile hope, but it's the only thing keeping me from bolting out of here to get her. If I let myself think otherwise, I know I won’t be able to stay. My mind races with a thousand scenarios, each moreterrible than the last, but I cling to that one image of her smiling, carefree.

"Hey there," a voice interrupts my thoughts, jolting me back to the present. I look up to see a guy leaning against the table, grinning at me. Great, just what I need. He tucks long strands of blond hair behind his ear, a silver cross dangling from it, swaying gently as he moves. His presence is unsettling as it snaps my illusion of being invisible until Marco arrives.

"Why so lonely?" he asks, his eyes twinkling with mischief. There's an unsettling charm to him, something that makes my skin prickle.

I force a smile, trying to appear casual, though my heart is pounding. "I’m waiting on someone," I say, hoping to discourage him.

"Seems serious," he says, inching closer. "Can I sit and wait with you?”

Panic surges through me. I don't want to engage, but I need to see Marco, and this guy might be my only way. "Yeah, take a seat," I reply, my voice barely steady.

He grins and drags out a chair, turning it backward and sitting down. “The name is Baz.” He holds out his hand, and I take it, our handshake brief and quick. “Sasha,” I say quickly.His grip is firm, his smile disarming.

Every time the door opens, I pray it’s Marco, but none of them look like him. Each figure that steps in sends a wave of disappointment crashing over me. I scan their faces, their postures, looking for any sign of recognition, but it's always just another stranger.

Baz chats away, his words a distant hum in my ears. I nod and smile at the right moments, but my mind is elsewhere, consumed by worry and impatience. The pub feels like a prison, the air thick with the scent of beer. I glance at the clock, itshands crawling painfully slow, each tick the opposite rhythm of my racing heart.

“So, does this guy have a name?” Baz’s words halt all my internal fretting. I've been spiraling in my mind, imagining every possible disaster this meeting could bring.

I nod. “Yes, Marco.” I don’t know his second name, but the flash in Baz’s gaze tells me he knows exactly who I am talking about. My heart skips a beat. Does Baz know more than he's letting on?

Baz raises an eyebrow, his grin widening. "Marco, huh, on a date?" His tone is teasing, but there's an undercurrent of curiosity.

I shake my head quickly, feeling my face heat up. "No, it's not like that. I just need to talk to him." The words tumble out too fast, too desperate.

He holds up his hands in mock surrender, still grinning. "Okay. If it’s not a date with Marco, maybe you can go on one with me?” His grin is infectious, and for a split second, I forget why I'm here.

He’s cute, but right now, I don’t need to be dealing with this. I want to tell him to just leave, but maybe my face does as he rises, holding up his hands. “I get it,” he says, backing off. I can sense his disappointment, and a pang of guilt hits me.

As he starts to walk away, panic flares in my chest. I can't let him go without helping me. "Wait," I blurt out, my voice higher than I intended. The last thing I need is for him to think I'm interested when I have a mission to complete.

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