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'sdedicationto 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 thanbetter, but sure, we'll pretend warped magnetic tape has superior audio quality to digital files." She holds one up. "Oh my God. You haveThe 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.
Actuallyfunny—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 actuallylikeher.
Not in the abstract way you like people you're helpin'. Not in the detached, professional manner of keepin' an asset safe.
I mean Ilikeher. 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 havesea 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'mobserving," 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.
Because she's a goddamn treasure, isn't she? A propera stór—that old Irish endearment, the kind Da used to murmur to Ma when he thought we weren't listenin', the one that meansmy 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 shewantsto, not because she has to.
If I were him?—
Which I'm not.
But if Iwere—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'.
