Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
He doesn't finish the sentence.
Doesn't need to.
"They'll kill me," I whisper.
"They'll kill you," he confirms. "Slowly. As a message. To Giovanni, to the Bavgas, to anyone who thinks they can touch LaRiccia blood without consequences."
My knees feel weak.
"So I'm takin' you to Boston," Lorcan continues. His voice is calm. Measured. Like he's explaining a business transaction instead of my potential murder. "That's where I've got power. Where I can keep you safe. And once we're there, once you're protected, we'll work out everythin' else. Giovanni, the families, all of it."
He holds out his hand. "But we need to leave now, a stór. Before this gets worse—and it will get worse. There's no stoppin' it now, luv."
I stare at his outstretched hand.
At the door behind him.
At the beginning of whatever comes next.
7
I wait.
Hand extended between us like a bridge she can't quite cross.
The road to hell is paved with hesitation—every grand disaster in human history started with someone standin' exactly where Emmaleen is now, knowin' the right choice and choosin' the wrong one anyway because fear's a better salesman than sense.
Then her fingers close around mine.
Right.
I lead her outside, the October air bitin' enough to make her gasp. The Aston's waitin' where I left her—1985 V8 Vantage, British Racing Green, manual transmission, the kind of car that demands you actually drive it instead of just steerin'. Cost me a fortune to restore her properly, but some things are worth the investment.
I open the passenger door for Emmaleen, wait until she's settled, then close it with the satisfyin' thunk of proper engineering.
Round the bonnet, slide into the driver's seat, key in the ignition.
The engine roars to life—that gorgeous V8 growl that makes every petrol station visit an act of devotion.
God, I love this car.
Five-speed manual, hydraulic steering, no fuckin' computer chips tellin' me when to shift—just metal, and fuel, and physics workin' together like they should.
I pull away from the cabin, gravel crunchin' under the tires. The dashboard clock blinks 9:47 as we hit the main road.
"Glove box," I say, noddin' toward it. "Pick some tunes, will ya?"
Emmaleen opens it carefully, like she's expectin' a trap, and pulls out the stack of cassettes I've accumulated over the years. She holds them up to the dim glow of the dashboard, squintin' at my handwritten labels.
"You have a cassette collection," she says slowly, flippin' through them. "Handwritten labels. Is this—are you cosplaying as a hipster, or is this a genuine fetish? Because I need to know if I should be concerned about the level of commitment you've brought to this aesthetic choice."
I can't help it—I laugh. Proper laugh, the kind that catches me off guard.
She continues, warmin' to her theme. "Like, did you wake up one day and think 'you know what would make my life complete? Rewinding tapes with a pencil'? Because that's dedication to a bit, my guy. That's performance art."
"They sound better," I say, grinnin' despite myself.
"They sound like nostalgia," she counters, still flippin' through the cases. "Which is different than better, but sure, we'll pretend warped magnetic tape has superior audio quality to digital files." She holds one up. "Oh my God. You have The Cranberries. Plural albums. On multiple tapes."
"They're Irish."
"So is Guinness, but I don't see you brewin' it in your bathtub for authenticity."
Christ, she's funny.
Actually funny—not performatively clever or trying to impress, just... herself. Quick, and observant, and completely unafraid to mock me to my face, which is either terrifyin' bravery or evidence she's got no idea who I actually am. Probably both.
And I think—God help me—I actually like her.
Not in the abstract way you like people you're helpin'. Not in the detached, professional manner of keepin' an asset safe.
I mean I like her. Proper like. The kind where you want to keep hearin' what comes out of someone's mouth next because it might make you laugh again, and wouldn't that be grand?
Which is dangerous.
Which is completely, catastrophically stupid.
Which is happenin' anyway despite every logical reason it shouldn't.
Her words, sharp and quick and completely unfiltered. She keeps goin', voice lighter now, almost playful. "Let's see... U2, obviously. Thin Lizzy. The Pogues. Sinéad O'Connor. Hozier. Are you required by law to own these, or is it voluntary cultural preservation?"
"Bit of both," I admit.
She snorts—an actual, ungraceful snort—and pulls out another tape. "Wait. Wait wait wait. You have sea shanties? Like, legitimate—" She turns it over. "—authentic Irish maritime work songs compiled by Some Bloke Named Fergus?" She dissolves into giggles. "This is the most aggressively Irish glove box I've ever encountered. Do you also have a tiny Claddagh ring in here? A miniature Book of Kells? A leprechaun?"
"You're takin' the piss."
"I'm observing," she says, grinning now, proper grinning, and it transforms her whole face into somethin' younger and unguarded. "With deep anthropological interest in your... choices."
I focus on the road, shiftin' into fourth as we merge onto the highway, but I'm smilin' too.