Page 69 of Mafia Crown

A single shot rings out.

His head snaps forward, a fine mist of red spraying the wall before he collapses like a puppet with its strings cut. Marcus lowers his gun, but instead of holstering it, he steps forward, slow and deliberate, the barrel still warm in his grip. He stares down at the body, his expression blank, unreadable. Then, without a word, he fires again—this time into the back of the man’s skull. A dull, wet sound follows, and brain matter splatters across the already-stained floor.

No mercy. No hesitation. Just certainty.

He exhales through his nose, wipes a streak of blood from his cheek with the back of his hand, then presses the heel of his boot against the corpse’s face, grinding down as if testing the integrity of the bones beneath. When he steps back, there’s nothing left but ruin.

Silence.

The heavy scent of blood thickens the air, mingling with the acrid bite of gunpowder. My ears ring, drowning out everything else. The bodies lie still, twisted and broken, their eyes glassy and unseeing.

I press harder against my wound, feeling the warmth seep between my fingers. We won, but my vision wavers, the edges darkening. The job is done.

Now, we just have to survive the aftermath.

“Fuck,” I mutter, knees finally giving out.

Anton catches me before I hit the ground. “We need to get him out of here.”

Marcus doesn’t answer right away. He just stares, his gaze sweeping over the bodies like he’s cataloging his work. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, cold.

“We’re done here.”

We didn’t just come for a massacre.

We came to send a message.

And Marcus made damn sure they got it.

As they haul me to my feet, I glance around one last time. Blood pools across the concrete floor, viscous and dark, bodies strewn like discarded meat.

No hesitation. No wasted time.

Just death.

And that’s the last thing I see.

EPILOGUE

HAZEL

THE AFTERNOON SUN drapes golden light across the fields, warming the earth as a soft breeze carries the scent of lavender through the air—my sanctuary.

I lean against the wooden fence, phone pressed to my ear, watching Charlie chase butterflies across the wild grass. My hands are smudged with soil from the vegetable patch, but I don’t mind. Dirt under my nails means I’ve spent the day breathing, living.

Mom’s voice crackles over the line, filled with warmth and exasperation all at once.

“So, what’s this big thing you wanted to tell me?”

I swallow, suddenly feeling like a child about to confess to stealing a cookie. “It’s about John.”

A pause. “Oh?”

I take a breath. “Mom… John is gay.”

Silence. Then laughter. Genuine, amused laughter that takes me completely off guard.

“Hazel,” she says between chuckles, “even a blind person would know.”

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