Page 21 of Mafia Wars

Sara straightens, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Why? You staying around here or something?”

“Oh, yeah.” I wave a hand, dismissing the question before it can take root. “Had a serious leak at my place. Cian…” I pause, my stomach twisting as I say his name. “Cian was kind enough to let me crash for a bit while it gets sorted.”

The lie slips off my tongue with alarming ease, the practiced skill of someone who’s had to lie before—too many times. Sara doesn’t respond immediately, just studies me with a look that says she’s trying to decide whether I’m full of it. I feel the weight of her scrutiny, the pause stretching too long.

Finally, she sighs and pulls her keys from her pocket, tossing them onto the counter between us. “My shift ends in two hours,” she says, her voice carrying a warning.

“I’ll be back by then,” I promise, snatching the keys before she can change her mind. “Thanks, Sara. I owe you.”

She doesn’t reply, just takes a sip of her coffee, her eyes lingering on me as I leave. My heart doesn’t slow until I’m in the car, gripping the steering wheel like it might steady me.

The drive to the apartment feels longer than it is. Every glance in the rearview mirror sends a spike of paranoia through me. I’m not being followed—I’ve checked enough times to be sure—but the fear doesn’t care about logic. It sits heavy in my chest, a constant companion.

When I finally pull up outside the building, I’m hit with a fresh wave of anxiety. The curtains in the living room are still drawn, the same way I left them. From the outside, it looks untouched. Normal. But I know better. I sit there for a minute, my fingers drumming on the wheel as I scan the street. No unusual cars. No one is loitering. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that someone’s watching. Waiting.

“Get it together,” I mutter to myself before stepping out of the car and locking it behind me. I jog up the steps, my keys already in hand. The door creaks as I push it open, and the smell hits me first—stale air mixed with something faintly metallic. My stomach flips.

The living room is a disaster. Cushions ripped apart, drawers yanked from the coffee table and overturned, their contents strewn across the floor. The recliner, his recliner, is tipped onto its side. My breath catches in my throat. Who the hell did this? The Gardai? Or someone else?

“Shit,” I whisper, stepping carefully over the mess. My shoes crunch on broken glass, and I wince, my eyes darting to thesource. A photo frame—one of Mark and me from years ago, before everything went to hell. It’s been smashed, the photo crumpled and torn. I force myself to look away.

The recliner is empty. No phone. I curse under my breath, my hands balling into fists. Of course, it’s not there. Why would anything go right for once?

I move to the bedroom, stepping over more wreckage. Every drawer has been pulled out and dumped, the mattress flipped onto its side. Whoever did this wasn’t just looking—they were sending a message. My pulse quickens as I start rifling through what’s left. Socks, shirts, nothing useful. Where is it?

Panic claws at my throat as the minutes slip away. I can’t be here too long. Sara’s shift ends in less than two hours, and the last thing I need is for her to start asking questions. My fingers shake as I open another drawer, rummaging through the chaos.

That’s when I hear it.

A noise. Faint, but distinct. A floorboard creaking just outside the bedroom door.

I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. The air feels suddenly heavier like the walls are closing in. Someone’s here.

I grip the edge of the dresser, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my ears. My eyes dart to the door, half expecting it to swing open any second. I’m trapped. There’s no way out except through the door, and whoever’s on the other side…they’re not here to help.

My mind races, trying to come up with a plan, but all I can do is stand there, frozen, and pray they don’t find me first.

The door creaks open, slow and deliberate. I can’t breathe, my chest tightens as if the air’s been sucked from the room. But when the figure steps into view, it lunges—and I’m hit with a jolt of relief and dread all at once.

Cian.

“What are you doing here?” His voice is a low growl, his sharp eyes taking in the wreckage around us.

“I didn’t do that. It was like this.” My voice is shaky, defensive.

Cian’s gaze flickers back to me, and he nods. “I know.”

I blink, caught off guard. “How do you know?”

He steps further into the room, his towering frame filling the small space. Seven feet of muscle and menace, and right now, all of it’s directed at me. “Because I did this.”

His words hit like a slap, and before I can stop myself, I’m moving toward him. “Did you find a phone?” My voice cracks, desperate. I’m praying he has it. I need it.

Cian’s expression doesn’t shift as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the phone. Relief floods me, so overwhelming I almost cry.

“I need it,” I say, reaching for it.

He doesn’t move, keeping it just out of reach. “Why?”

---