Chapter 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 actually drive it 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' thunk of 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 a cassette collection," she says slowly, flippin' through them. "Handwritten labels. 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.
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's dedication to 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 than better, but sure, we'll pretend warped magnetic tape has superior audio quality to digital files." She holds one up. "Oh my God. You have The 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.
Actually funny—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 actually like her.
Not in the abstract way you like people you're helpin'. Not in the detached, professional manner of keepin' an asset safe.
I mean I like her. 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 have sea 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'm observing," 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 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.
"Like what?"
"About you. Your life. Where you're from. The normal things people ask when they're trapped in a car together for a whole night of kidnapping fun."
I side eye her. "Are ya still kidnapped, then?"