18. Nora
NORA
I get there early because I want Connor to see me and know it's okay as soon as he gets here. To see that I’m here—really here—before the performance starts.
I chose this place for its bright lighting and ambience.
Da would read into it and say I'm soft and that I should be more like Callum, but this place feels safe, like no eyes are watching us here, though I know Da has men everywhere.
I picked the booth by the window. Not the most strategic, but the one that makes it easiest for him to spot me when he walks in.
And I hope he notices that I dressed like this is a real date, not some covert, clandestine meeting that may end up with him being hung out to dry.
That I didn’t pick this outfit for my father. I picked it for him.
I order sparkling water and keep my coat on, fingers curled around the chilled glass.
It anchors me. This place is too quiet. They don't even have soft music playing, which would deaden the conversation.
If there are listening ears around, I have to be careful.
I doubt I'm going to be able to do this without cracking. Da wants blood. I want Connor.
Connor walks in ten minutes late and looks like someone pressed him into a sharper version of himself—tailored suit, fresh shave. The scar above his brow still stands out, but he's handsome and it does things to my body. He’s never cared about appearances before. So this is for my father, clearly.
He finds me without needing to scan the room and walks in my direction, keeping his eyes on me.
He slides into the booth across from me and the waiter is on his heels.
We don't even get to say hello in greeting before he orders whiskey. I pretend not to watch the way his jaw shifts when he says the name of the label. It’s expensive. A nod to the territory we’re in.
Then he tells the man we'll both have whatever's on special and turns to me when the waiter walks away. "Neutral territory?" He quirks one eyebrow up, and I nod, glancing around the room before I answer.
"Connor, you know this is a setup."
He doesn’t flinch, just leans back, resting one arm on the back of the booth like he’s settling into a fire. "Then why’d you come?"
"Because I had to. Because if I didn’t, he’d think I’m hiding something." I lower my voice. "And he is watching. Probably has someone posted across the street right now."
He watches me with too-careful stillness. There’s no warmth, but there’s no distance, either. Just that quiet storm behind his eyes—measured, waiting, a little bit hurt.
He looks at me like he’s trying to find the truth somewhere beneath my skin, where even I can’t touch it. I shift under his gaze, pulse ticking in my throat. The condensation from my glass is soaking into the tablecloth under my hands, and I'm melting just like it.
He must see it too—the way I can’t sit still, the way I keep touching the edge of my glass like it might give me something steady to hold onto. His voice cuts through gently, but it lands like a warning.
“You’re shaking.”
I shake my head. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.” He leans forward just enough that I can smell the whiskey on his breath—smoke and oak and whatever warmth he refuses to show in public. “Is this the part where you ask me about the trucks at the docks?”
I don’t answer right away. My nails dig into my palm under the table. “I don’t want to do this.”
“But you have to.” He says it without blame, just fact. He knows the script as well as I do. We both grew up reciting it.
I sit with it too long, that question hanging between us. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out right away. There’s a sour taste in my throat—guilt, panic, shame. I want to scream that I hate being in this position, that if I had a real choice, I’d burn down the whole city just to get us out.
But that’s the problem. I do have a choice. And I made it when I walked in here with a plan to give my father just enough truth to survive.
I’m betraying Connor. Even if it’s only a little.
And still, I want him to understand me. I want him to look at me and see that I want him more than I fear my father. I want to be his, even if I have to walk a wire to keep him safe. I think I love him.
I lift my eyes and meet his. “I can’t protect you if I don’t have something to give him.”
He nods once. “Tell him we’re still bleeding money at warehouse thirteen.
That I’m getting pressure from New York.
Leave out the names.” Before I can answer, the waiter returns, setting down a short crystal glass with a precise pour of amber whiskey.
Connor doesn’t thank him. He flicks his wrist, shooing the man away, and lifts the glass and takes a sip.
My throat constricts as his eyes meet mine over the rim.
I keep tracing the edge of my water glass with one finger. My hands are too restless, my breathing too shallow. I feel like the walls are folding in, and he’s just sitting there drinking like he’s carved from stone.
“That’s real?”
He doesn’t break eye contact. “It’s just enough.”
I nod, but my throat’s tight. There’s no winning this.
I’m feeding my father pieces of the man I love and hoping it’s not enough to kill him.
There has to be a better way than this, than to sell Connor out to make sure my father's business interests are protected.
Part of me wishes I'd have just married Volkov. At least Connor would be safe now.
Connor tilts his head slightly, eyes searching mine. “And what about us? You tell him about that too?”
“I…” My voice catches. “I’m not stupid. I couldn't really tell him, but he knows."
His jaw tics, but he doesn’t press. The silence holds between us until the waiter again returns and sets our plates down, muttering something about the special. The room seems too small, my hearing dampened by the pressure inside my skull. This is harder than I thought it would be.
I stare at my food like it betrayed me. “He thinks I’m playing you," I tell him when the waiter is gone again.
Connor huffs a laugh with no humor in it. “Your father is a tool, Nora." His head shakes. I can see his fury in the way the inky darkness takes over his eyes like storm clouds. His hands turn to fists and his jaw grows tight again.
I look at him across the table and my chest aches. “ I’m not.”
“I know,” he says, reaching for my hand. "And I won't let my brother force me to use you against your family, but this is a very dangerous game we're playing."
I look at him again, and the words are already in my mouth before I can second-guess them.
"I think I’m in love with you." The moment I say it, I want to take it back—not because I don’t mean it, but because it feels like placing a match too close to open gas. His face doesn't move at first. He just stares at me like he’s waiting for the catch.
Then, so softly I almost miss it, he says, "Yeah. I know."
I blink, startled. "You do?"
He gives a slow nod, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to break my heart. "I’ve known. For a while. I think maybe me too."
That should be enough. It should fill something inside me.
But all it does is scrape at the fear that's been eating me alive. "That man I killed," I whisper, voice cracking. "I see him every time I close my eyes. I didn’t mean to—I didn’t plan it. But I did it. And now I’m scared of what else I might do. What Da might ask of me next. What I’ll be willing to say yes to just to keep you safe. "
He doesn’t flinch and he doesn’t look away.
His voice is steady when he says, "Then let me be the one who burns the bridge. Not you. I’ll fight your father, your family, my brother—anyone.
I will rip the whole world apart if it means you don’t have to go numb just to survive.
" His hands clasp around mine, and I can barely breathe.
I'm glad he's there steadying me. I don’t want him to see me shaking. My throat is tight again, and this time, I don’t swallow it down. I stand quickly, afraid he’ll see the tears that are already starting to gather.
"I just need a minute."
I don’t wait for permission. I turn toward the hall, walking faster than I should, disappearing behind the curve that leads to the bathroom.
The second the door closes behind me, my hands hit the porcelain sink.
I grip it hard enough to make my knuckles pale.
The mirror doesn’t offer comfort—just my own face staring back, flushed and cracked around the edges.
My eyes look too much like my mother’s—tired, guilty, worn thin by things she never says out loud.
I love him. I don’t just think it—I know it now.
I know it in the way his voice threads into my chest and makes my lungs hurt.
I know it in the way he said he’d burn the bridge so I wouldn’t have to.
And still, I let my father use me. I sat there and smiled and nodded and took intel like it was a fair trade.
Da will use this. He’ll take what I give him and twist it until it becomes a noose. He’ll turn Connor into the fish and me into the bait, and I don’t know if I’ll be strong enough to stop it.
They want territory. They want to look stronger than the O'Rourkes so the Russians back off.
And I’m playing right into their game.
I press my forehead to the mirror. My breath fogs the glass, and I wish I could vanish into the haze. I’m not cut out for this war. Not when I’m in love with the enemy—and worse, when the enemy is the only person who still sees me as anything worth saving.
A soft knock startles me and I look at the door, already swiping the tears off my cheeks.
"Nora." Connor's voice is low. He’s not pushing, just asking. “Can I come in?”
I don’t answer right away. My hand trembles as I reach back and twist the lock. The door creaks open, and he slips inside, closing it behind himself and locking it again.