Page 11 of Mafia Wars

“You can thank me,” Cian says, his tone low, almost a growl that reverberates in my chest.

I blink, startled by his response, but the words slip out anyway. “Thank you.”

I frown as I speak, hating the way it feels. Knowing how messed up it is. My stomach knots, but Cian’s grin only widens, sharp and wolfish, like he’s amused by my conflict.

“You’re very welcome,” he says smoothly.

His grin fades, his expression darkening as he leans forward slightly. “Has anyone else ever hurt you?”

The question catches me off guard, and for a moment, my mind flashes to my parents. The fights, the neglect, the chaos of growing up in a house ruled by addiction. But they weren’t cruel, not intentionally. They weren’t likehim. Would Cian even understand? Or would he see their failures as unforgivable and add their names to his list?

I shake my head, deciding some truths are better left buried.

Cian narrows his eyes, studying me like he’s searching for cracks in my answer, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he shifts gears, his voice calm and commanding. “You’ll stay here for a few days.”

He’d said this earlier, but it hadn’t fully registered. Now it feels final, like a door quietly locking behind me.

“Won’t someone be looking for me?” I ask, setting the second empty glass on the table. My head feels light, the alcohol a warm, numbing fog, but my stomach twists with unease.

Cian picks up my glass, his movements measured, almost too casual. “Like who?”

The question stops me cold. I don’t have an answer, not a real one. The truth is, no one’s been looking out for me in a long time. But the Gardai—that’s what they’re supposed to do, isn’t it?

“Like the Gardai,” I say, the words trembling out. The moment they leave my lips, my stomach churns, regret pooling deep in my gut.

Cian doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even hesitate. “They won’t be looking for you.”

His calm certainty makes my skin prickle. “How do you know that?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. For a moment, I don’t think he’ll answer.

Then he does.

“Because we own the Gardai.”

His words slam into me, a cold, undeniable truth delivered without an ounce of apology. My pulse quickens, and my head spins—not from the alcohol this time, but from the realization of just how far his reach extends.

And yet, against all reason, I don’t feel fear. What I feel is something much worse.

Relief.

CHAPTER SIX

CIAN

I PACE THE length of the living room, each heavy step echoing off the hardwood floor. Her wide eyes follow me from where she’s perched on the edge of the couch, her small frame almostswallowed by the dim light of the room. She looks nervous—like she’s waiting for me to change my mind and tell her to leave.

“I’m telling you,” I say, forcing the words out evenly, “you need to stay here for a few days. Just until things die down.”

The truth is, it’s not necessary. I’ve handled worse, and I know I could handle this without dragging her into it. But there’s a pull I can’t ignore, like an invisible thread tying me to her, winding tighter every time I look at her.

“And who decides when it ‘dies down’?” she asks finally, her voice trembling slightly but defiant. “You?”

“Yes.”

The word comes out clipped, sharper than I intend, and hangs in the air like an iron weight. Her hands tremble slightly, betraying the cracks in her armor. I let out a slow breath and walk to the chest behind the couch, pulling out a fur blanket. She flinches when I approach her, and I hate the fear in her eyes.

“Here,” I mutter, draping the blanket across her lap. The soft fabric pools over her legs, but she doesn’t relax. Not yet.

I sit down beside her, watching as her fingers twist and untwist the edge of the blanket. Her hands are small, delicate, but there’s a rawness in the way she worries the fabric, like she’s trying to unravel her own thoughts.

---