14. Nora #2
Then I see one of my father’s enforcers creeping wide to the left.
His boots are silent on the gravel. His movements are tight and practiced.
He doesn’t flinch at the gunfire around him—he’s locked in.
His focus narrows to one target—Connor. The muzzle of his rifle lifts.
It centers on Connor’s back. I can feel my pulse in my throat, a thudding beat I can’t breathe around.
Every instinct in me yells to move, to scream, to do something, but if I did, they'd know I'm here.
My fingers go cold. My breath shortens. And still he creeps forward, taking position behind a stack of crates, almost level with Connor. He steadies his arm.
And I move.
My hand closes over the pistol inside my coat. I pull it out and unwrap it from the silk. I barely take time to think as I take aim. I rise to one knee, heart thundering. My hands are steady but my vision blurs at the edges.
I fire, and the shot cracks like a whip. He falls hard. No warning. No scream.
Connor never turns to see from where the shot came, but he looks down at the dead man and shouts into the night for his men to fall back.
I sink back behind the low wall, my breath catching. My hands start to shake. I can still feel the recoil buzzing in my wrists.
I killed one of ours.
The moment shatters something in me. I stay crouched behind the wall, the gun limp in my grip, breathing so hard it hurts. My stomach turns cold and hollow. I can’t stop replaying it—the way his body folded, the way the shot rang out too clean—my shot.
He never saw it coming. He never saw me.
My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out the distant yells below. My eyes sting but don’t tear. I’m not even sure I’m breathing anymore.
I stare down at the pistol. My hand won’t unclench. My fingertips have gone numb.
What the fuck did I just do?
I don’t run. I backtrack slowly, eyes on the roof slate until I hit the stairwell door. Inside, the dark swallows me. I grip the railing and descend fast, boots slick on metal, breaths shallow in my throat. The warehouse stays silent behind me. I don't think anyone knows I'm even here.
Outside, the street is damp and empty. I pull my hood low and walk three blocks before calling an Uber. The wait is unbearable—fourteen minutes stretched across a lifetime. When the car finally arrives, I slide into the back seat and keep my head down. The driver doesn’t speak. Good.
I can’t stop staring at my hands. They're smudged with grime and shaking in my lap.
I feel the press of the cold steel against my side and know I should've ditched the gun, but my prints are on it.
I swallow that fact hard and wish I could take it out and wipe it down.
Da will question where his spare weapon went and he'll accuse his men. I have to get it back somehow.
By the time I make it home, I'm fighting tears again, and the smell of gunpowder still clings to my coat.
The front hall is dark except for the orange wash from the sitting room where the hints of cigar smoke are wafting out.
I pass by the door, hoping to sneak up to my room and scrub the stain of sin off me, but he sees me pass.
My father’s voice cuts the silence. "You look like hell."
I peel off my coat and drape it over my arm, masking the weapon hidden inside, turning slowly to face him. "You have no idea."
He studies me, eyes sharp beneath the low light, his elbow resting on the arm of the chair like he’s measuring me against something invisible.
His gaze drags over my posture, my expression, the coat I haven’t put away yet.
There’s no warmth in it. Just cold, clinical appraisal—the kind you give a meal before deciding if it's worth eating.
His voice hardens. "You need to set something up with O’Rourke. Press him about the peace talks. The land disputes. If they're bluffing, now’s the time to unravel them."
I nod because it’s the only safe answer, but my hands are still shaking when I leave the room.
Inside, I’m splintering. I walk upstairs without feeling the steps beneath me.
My legs move on memory while my mind churns over what I’ve done.
I just killed a man to protect the one person I’m not supposed to protect.
And now I’m expected to use him, manipulate him—to weaponize the same man I saved.
My breath catches as I close the bedroom door.
I lock it, twist the bolt hard enough that it clicks too loudly, or maybe it's just my nerves being shot.
The coat slides from my arm and hits the floor. I don’t look at the silk-wrapped pistol hidden in its lining, but I hear the dull thud. Then I cross the room in a daze and step into the bathroom, absently moving toward the tap.
The shower’s water scalds my skin. I stand beneath it fully clothed for a long minute before I strip, letting the wet fabric fall and crumple at my feet.
I scrub until my skin turns raw. My nails dig into my arms, my collarbone, my thighs.
I can't stop. I see blood under my nails, but it’s not mine.
It isn’t his, either. It’s imagined—clinging there because my mind needs a place to put the guilt.
My knees give out before I can reach for the soap.
I slide down the tile wall, legs folding awkwardly beneath me.
The steam curls around my face as my forehead presses against my knees.
A raw sob punches out of me before I can hold it in.
I bite down on my lip to silence the next one, but it doesn't help. It breaks through too.
I pull at my hair, fingers fisting tightly, trying to anchor myself in something—anything. The sound of the water drowns out the crying but not the shame. Not the fear. My chest heaves and I can’t catch my breath.
I killed a man.
And I’d do it again. That’s what scares me the most.
My fingers tremble as I turn off the tap.
The silence that follows is almost worse than the water pounding in my ears.
I drag myself upright, muscles aching, legs slow to respond.
The steam has fogged the mirror, obscuring the face I can’t bring myself to look at.
I towel off in slow, mechanical motions, but it doesn’t help.
I still feel soaked in it—what I did, what it cost.
I wrap the towel around my chest and step into the bedroom. My body shivers slightly in the cooler air. I sit on the edge of my bed in the half-light, knees tucked close. Everything feels thinner now—my skin, my resolve, the line between who I thought I was and who I became tonight.
Connor is alive because of me, or at least, I hope he's still alive. I didn't stay long enough to watch him get in his car and leave. I don't know where he is or what he's doing, but now I feel more panic rising and a desperation to hear from him.
My phone is still in my coat pocket. I get up, retrieve it, and sit back down.
I open a new message.
Nora 11:42 PM: Are you still breathing?
I don't know what this means, but it means something, and probably something my father will hate.