Page 9 of Mafia Wars

His smirk vanishes as his eyes flick to the gun. His hands shoot up, palms out, the universal sign of surrender. “Whoa, man, come on,” he stammers.

I slide the gun back into my waistband. “No fun in that, is there? You like hitting people, so here’s your chance.” I spread my arms wide, daring him. “Take a swing at me.”

He hesitates, glancing at his friends, looking for reassurance. None comes. They stay rooted to the spot, just as useless as he is.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he mutters, shaking his head, but the fear in his eyes betrays him.

I step closer, my voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “You like hitting women, don’t you? Makes you feel big, makes you feel in control. Well, here I am. Go on, big man, use me as your punching bag. What’s the matter? Afraid?”

My grin widens, but there’s no humor in it. Just sharp edges and promises of violence. He doesn’t take the bait. He’s too much of a coward for that. Instead, his hand darts to his pocket, and I catch the glint of a blade as he flicks it open.

Time slows. My gun is back in my hand before he even finishes the motion. His bravado crumbles instantly, replaced by something raw and primal—fear. Real fear. His eyes widen as I aim, my finger tightening on the trigger.

The shot shatters the stillness, loud and final. The bullet punches a clean hole through his forehead, and he collapses in a lifeless heap. His friends don’t even scream. They just run, their footsteps fading into the distance.

I tuck the gun away, my movements methodical, unhurried. There’s no need to rush. No one is coming—not yet. I turn and make my way back to the diner, the adrenaline humming low in my veins. My pulse is steady, my breathing even, as if I hadn’t just ended a life.

Inside, she’s frozen in place, her eyes locked on me, wide and unblinking. Her hands grip the edge of the table like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. I slide into my seat, pick up my coffee, and take a slow sip, savoring the warmth.

Behind me, the murmurs start. People press against the windows, drawn by the sound of the gunshot, but none of it matters. The only thing that matters is her.

“You killed him,” she whispers, her voice barely audible over the buzz of the diner.

I shrug, setting the cup back on the table. “He had it coming.”

Her gaze doesn’t waver, but there’s something different now. Fear, yes, but something darker, something that flickers like a shadow at the edge of a flame. Intrigue, maybe. Or something far more dangerous.

I lean back in my chair, letting the silence stretch between us. “Still hungry?” I ask, my tone casual, like we’re discussing the weather.

She doesn’t answer. But she doesn’t run, either.

And that tells me everything I need to know.

CHAPTER FIVE

LUNA

I CAN’T BREATHE. My chest tightens as though a vice is squeezing me, and the air feels too thick to pull into my lungs. My hands are trembling, my thoughts a whirlwind of disbelief,and something darker, something I’m afraid to name. He did that. He really did that.

Cian leans forward, his sharp gaze pinned on me. His voice is low, calm, like this is just another night for him. “I was sitting here the whole time with you,” he says. “I never moved.”

I nod, my head bobbing like it’s not even mine. It’s a lie—of course, it’s a lie. But a part of me, the part that isn’t screaming in terror, feels…relieved. What’s wrong with me? What kind of person feels glad that their boyfriend is dead?

“Luna.” His voice is softer now, a coaxing murmur. “It’s time to go.”

My eyes drop to his hand as he reaches for mine. The sleeve of his shirt—it’s dark, but not dark enough to hide the spots of red splashed across it. Blood. That’s blood. My stomach churns, but I don’t pull away. I don’t scream or cry, or do any of the things I should be doing. Instead, I let him take my hand, his fingers warm and steady around mine, and guide me to his car.

The door shuts with a muffled thunk, and I sink into the seat, staring straight ahead. The leather smells expensive, and it’s eerily quiet like the car itself is complicit in keeping secrets. Cian pulls out his phone, the glow of the screen lighting his face in sharp angles. He’s making a call, his voice low and clipped, but I can’t focus on the words. They blur together, like static, and all I can hear is the bang of the gun. Over and over, it echoes in my mind. Is Mark really dead?

“Luna.” Cian’s voice slices through the fog, sharp and clear this time. I blink and look up. He’s watching me again, his expression unreadable, but his eyes…there’s something fierce in them, something that holds me captive.

“You can’t go home,” he says, and just like that, the weight of it all crashes down on me. This isn’t a bad dream I’ll wake up from. This is real.

“You killed him,” I whisper, the words tasting foreign on my tongue.

“Yes.” No hesitation. No remorse. Just that one word, delivered like it’s a simple fact. Like it’s nothing.

The car ride blurs after that. When I come back to myself, I’m standing in his house—his massive, immaculate house that smells like leather and wood polish. My legs feel shaky as he guides me upstairs to a sitting room. The fire crackles in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on the walls, and Cian moves with a quiet confidence, pouring a drink into a heavy crystal glass.

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