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, andsome promises can't be broken without costin' pieces of your soul.
It's because I actuallylikeGiovanni.
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.
