Can't answer.
My silence is answer enough.
"Right." Lorcan's jaw tightens. "Here's the situation. The LaRiccias are huntin' Giovanni. They don't yet know that he killed Rico, but they will. These things always come out eventually—someone talks, someone makes a mistake, a financial trail gets uncovered." He takes a step closer. "And when they find out? When they learn there's a witness who saw everythin'?"
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 itwillget 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 actuallydriveit 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'thunkof 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 acassette collection," she says slowly, flippin' through them. "Handwrittenlabels. 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.
