Page 10 of Mafia Wars

“Here,” he says, pressing it into my hand. “Sip.”

I don’t argue. I lift the glass to my lips, the burn of the alcohol grounding me for a moment. When I lower it, he’s kneeling in front of me, so close I can see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.

His hands rest lightly on his thighs, but his gaze is locked on mine, intense and unrelenting. “You’re safe,” he says softly, like he knows exactly what I need to hear. “I’ll handle everything.”

Safe. That word echoes in my mind, tangling with the other thoughts swirling around. I should feel anything but safe with him. But I can’t take my eyes off him.

What is wrong with me?

I sit on the worn leather couch, the sting of alcohol still on my tongue. My hand trembles, the glass almost empty, as if nearly finishing it could erase what I just saw. Cian leans against the table, his dark brown eyes studying me, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. His laughter is light, almost boyish, and for a moment, it’s hard to believe he’s capable of…that.

But I know what I saw.

“Take another sip,” he says, his tone low, steady. “It’ll help with the shock.”

The shock. As if alcohol can mend the crack running through my mind. I empty the glass anyway, feeling the burn sear down my throat. He smiles—not mockingly, but with some quiet understanding, like he’s done this before. Maybe he has.

He takes the glass from me and rises to refill it, moving with a calmness that feels at odds with everything that just happened. “Aren’t you worried about getting in trouble?” I ask, my voice coming out smaller than I intended. It’s not the first question I should ask, but it spills out anyway.

His back is to me as he pours, and his shoulders rise and fall in what might be a shrug. “That’s not something you need to worry about.”

The weight in his voice doesn’t invite more questions, but I can’t stop myself. “He wasn’t always cruel.” The words slip out, quieter than before. I barely hear myself, but Cian does.

He pauses, glancing over his shoulder, his gaze softer now, less dangerous.

“When he found me years ago, I was homeless.” My voice breaks, and I hate how it makes me feel weak. “He took me in.”

Cian hands me the refilled glass, his fingers brushing mine. He doesn’t say anything right away; he just sinks back into the couch beside me. Too close. His presence is overwhelming, larger than life, but I don’t feel afraid. Not of him.

“How did it start?” he asks, his tone gentler now, coaxing.

I hesitate, the words caught somewhere between my chest and throat. But I nod, taking another sip to steady myself. “Small things,” I begin. “Telling me where I could go. Then what to wear.” My face heats, shame bubbling up. “I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”

Cian’s jaw tightens, his expression darkening, but he stays silent. Waiting.

“When did the hitting start?”

My breath catches, and I look down at the glass in my hands, watching the liquid tremble. “The first time was when I was still a nurse,” I admit, the memory surfacing like a cold wave. “A male friend dropped me home after a late shift. He was convinced I’d cheated. I hadn’t.” The knot in my throat tightens, but I push the words out. “After that, he wouldn’t let me go back to my job.”

I shake my head, a bitter laugh escaping. “Things just got worse.”

Cian doesn’t say anything for a moment, and the silence stretches, heavy. Then he asks the question I’ve heard a hundred times before, the one that makes my chest feel like it’s caving in.

“Why didn’t you leave?”

I force myself to meet his gaze. Those dark eyes aren’t judging me—they’re steady, patient, like he already knows the answer but needs to hear it from me.

“Because I had nowhere to go.”

The confession hangs between us, raw and unfiltered. Cian doesn’t look away. He doesn’t flinch or offer false comforts. He just stays there, grounding me, his presence a steady pulse in the chaos.

“I think something is wrong with me,” I admit, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. Maybe it’s the shock, maybe it’s all the alcohol—or maybe it’s the fact that I’m confessing to someone who can kill so easily. I’m not sure what makes me say it.

Cian’s eyes flick to mine, sharp but not unkind. “Why?”

I hesitate, the truth clawing its way to the surface. “Because I have the urge to thank you… when I should be horrified.”

The admission hangs in the air, heavy and twisted, and my gaze drops to the table. My voice feels distant, like I’m watching myself from the outside. What’s wrong with me?

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