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)
"No." The word comes out sharp, defensive. I start shaking my head, pulling my hands back instinctively. "No, no—Lorcan, don't—"
Because I know this look. I've lived through this look. It's the look of someone who's about to tell you that the world as you knew it ten seconds ago no longer exists. It's the look that precedes words like "I'm so sorry" and "there was nothing anyone could do" and "you need to prepare yourself."
This look does not belong in Lorcan's living room.
This look does not belong on his face while my hands are still warm from his touch.
This look does not belong here, in this moment, when I just chose Giovanni—when I just claimed my monster and my chaos and my broken fucking future.
"Ya can't go home," he says quietly, his voice carrying that particular Irish softness that men only use when they're trying to cushion a blow that can't be cushioned.
Then he exhales—slow, controlled, the kind of breath someone takes before stepping off a ledge—and the sound of it makes my stomach drop before he even continues.
"Emmaleen." Not a stór. Not beloved. My actual name, spoken with the careful precision of someone handling explosives. "I just got word."
The room tilts.
"Word about what?" My voice comes out strange—too high, too thin, like it's being squeezed through a closing throat.
Lorcan's gray eyes lift to meet mine, and in them I see it—the terrible weight of knowing, the burden of truth he doesn't want to carry but can't put down.
"Giovanni… he…"
I stand up suddenly—so fast the room spins, edges blurring as blood rushes from my head. The floor feels unstable beneath my feet, like the earth itself is rejecting my weight. Lorcan moves with me, rising to his full height, and his hand finds my shoulder—large, warm, grounding—holding me steady when my knees threaten to buckle.
"He what?" My voice cracks on the words, fraying at the edges. "Spit it out! What the fuck is happening here!" The volume climbs with each syllable, desperation bleeding through. "He what?"
Lorcan's jaw works as he swallows whatever explanation he's trying to piece together. "I don't even know," he says finally, and there's something raw in his voice—confusion, anger, grief all tangled together. "I don't know what he was thinkin', girl. I don't understand it myself." His hand tightens on my shoulder, anchoring me even as his words start to pull me under. "Because I just got word from me Uncle Fearghus that Giovanni drove up to Luca LaRiccia's gate in Little Italy, demanding to be let in, and they—"
"They what!" The scream tears out of me before I can stop it, ripping through the careful quiet of his living room like shattered glass. My hands are shaking now—no, my whole body is shaking, trembling with the kind of terror that lives in your bones before your brain catches up. "They what!"
Lorcan's eyes close for just a second—half a breath—like he's praying for the right words or maybe just the strength to say them. When they open again, they're filled with something worse than pity.
Something that looks like mourning.
"All I know is that…" He stops. Starts again. His voice drops lower, softer, like he's trying to cushion the blow even though we both know there's no cushioning this. "They pulled him out of his car, he hit the ground, and then they dragged his body away."
The words stab me like a knife—one after another, each one deeper than the last.
Pulled him out.
Hit the ground.
Dragged his body.
My vision narrows to a pinpoint, the edges going dark and fuzzy. I can feel my pulse hammering in my throat, hear the roar of blood in my ears.
Lorcan stares at me for one long, brutal moment—his face carved from stone, his eyes holding mine like he's trying to will me to understand something he can't quite say.
Then he shakes his head, slow and deliberate, and the movement feels like a death knell.
"Ya can't go home," he says quietly, each word weighted with finality, "because we think he's… dead."
21
Cold. Hard. Concrete against my cheek.
The first thing that registers is the smell—mildew and old blood.
The second thing is pain, sharp and insistent, radiating from my temple in waves that make my stomach twist.
I try to open my eyes.
The world swims.
Fluorescent lights overhead—buzzing, flickering—cast everything in sickly yellow. I'm on the floor of a bank vault.
My hand lifts slowly—everything moves through molasses—and my fingertips find wetness at my temple. When I pull them away, they're dark with blood.
Fuck.
The room tilts as I try to sit up. Nausea crashes through me in a violent wave and I have to stop, forehead pressed to my knees, breathing through my nose until the urge to vomit passes.
Blood. Head wound. Basement.
The memories slot into place with cruel precision.
Guards. Shotgun. Being dragged from my car by the throat. The hit that came from my left—never saw it, just the sudden explosion of white-hot pain and then nothing.