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)
Because she's a goddamn treasure, isn't she? A proper a stór—that old Irish endearment, the kind Da used to murmur to Ma when he thought we weren't listenin', the one that means my treasure, the thing you'd defend with your life.
No wonder Giovanni's tryna keep her locked up in his dungeon like some dark fairytale come to life.
She's... worth it. Worth the risk, the obsession, the systematic dismantlin' of her defenses until she kneels because she wants to, not because she has to.
If I were him—
Which I'm not.
But if I were—I'd be doin' the exact same bloody thing.
Which causes me to breathe through the weight of what I've just done.
Kidnapped a woman from Giovanni Bavga's house.
His collared submissive, the witness to Rico LaRiccia's murder, the one thing standin' between Giovanni and a mob war that'll paint cities red.
History's full of moments like this—crossin' the Rubicon, Strongbow landin' in Wexford, Brian Boru marchin' on Dublin, the Vikings decidin' Ireland looked ripe for conquest. Single choices that echo forward, that can't be undone, that change the shape of everythin' that comes after.
Every one of those bastards thought they knew what they were startin'.
Most of them were wrong.
So—have I just declared war on Giovanni?
I turn it over in my mind, testin' the weight of it.
No.
And not because of the blood oath either, though that's bindin' enough—we buried somethin' together years ago, and some promises can't be broken without costin' pieces of your soul.
It's because I actually like Giovanni.
Wasn't lyin' when I told Emmaleen he's magnetic—he is. Brilliant, and fucked up, and dangerous in ways that make you want to get closer instead of runnin', which is probably how he ends up with women like Emmaleen in the first place.
We're not enemies.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever, if I can navigate this properly.
But I've still stolen his favorite toy, and that's... complicated.
Music suddenly floods the car—Hozier's voice pourin' through speakers that've seen better days but still manage decent sound. I keep my eyes on the road, hands at ten and two, breathin' steady through the strange weight of what's just happened.
Emmaleen's stopped talkin'.
The shift is noticeable—from her sharp commentary about my aggressively Irish music collection to this quiet that feels heavier than it should. Not uncomfortable exactly, just... different. Like we've crossed some invisible line and neither of us knows what comes next.
I tap my thumb against the steering wheel, keepin' time with the bass line.
Outside, Pennsylvania unfolds in darkness—trees and hills and the occasional lit window passin' by like memories you can't quite catch.
"Nice car," she says finally.
"Thanks."
"How old is it?"
"'85. Picked her up in Dublin eight years ago, shipped her over."
"She's beautiful."
"Aye. She is."
The conversation dies again.
Christ, this is awkward.
I reach for the radio, ejecting Hozier mid-verse, then start searchin' through the tapes until I find the one I want. The sound changes completely—mournful uilleann pipes, sean-nós vocals carryin' grief in every note, the kind of traditional Irish melody that sounds like it's been passed down through centuries of loss.
Emmaleen doesn't comment.
I glance at her properly this time.
She's exhausted. Completely knackered—dark circles under her eyes, skin pale in the dashboard light, shoulders slumped in a way that suggests she's runnin' on fumes. The adrenaline's worn off, leavin' just the reality of bein' kidnapped in borrowed clothes by a stranger drivin' her to Boston.
"You should sleep," I say. "It's a long road to Boston—seven hours if we're lucky, eight if we hit traffic near New York, though this time of night we should be grand."
"Grand," she repeats softly.
She pulls her knees to her chest, turnin' sideways in the passenger seat, facin' me instead of the windshield. My henley's way too big on her—sleeves coverin' her hands completely, collar slippin' off one shoulder. She looks impossibly small curled up like that.
And she's studyin' me.
I let her look for a minute, keepin' my attention on the road.
Then I catch her gaze in my peripheral vision and hold it for a beat—takin' in the dark circles and the exhaustion written across her features.
I return my attention to the road before the moment stretches too long.
"Do I pass inspection?" I ask, keepin' it light. Half-jokin', half-serious. Testin' where we actually stand now.
She doesn't answer immediately. When she does, her voice is quiet but steady. "Yes."
I wait.
"You're attractive," she says simply. Honest. No performative flirtation, no game—just observation stated as fact.
I laugh—genuinely surprised by her directness. "Christ."
"What?"
"Nothin'. Just—wasn't expectin' honesty."
"Would you prefer I lie?"
"No. No, honesty's... refreshing."
I try to focus on drivin' even though there's barely anyone else on the highway—just darkness stretchin' ahead and the occasional pair of headlights passin' in the opposite direction, gone before I can properly register them.
The silence settles again, but different this time. Less awkward, more... curious.
She shifts in her seat, pullin' the henley sleeves down over her hands.
"Can I ask you things?" she says.