20. Nora
NORA
T he hallway to my father’s study seems to narrow with every step.
The thick wood panels box me in, portraits glaring from their frames with dark eyes.
My grandfather, his brothers—men who may have built this legacy but only by ruining others.
My footsteps make no sound on the runner as I stop just short of the door, and I don’t knock because he knows I’m coming. He ordered me to come down here.
Inside, Da stands at the window with his back to me.
His shirt sleeves are rolled to the elbow, tie slack with his collar open and one hand gripping a lowball glass that has a few fingers of amber liquid in it.
The room smells faintly of tobacco as if he just snuffed a cigar, and he glances over his shoulder like he has eyes in the back of his head and saw me approach.
"He likes you," he says without turning.
I stay near the door but I tiptoe in a few steps. "What does that mean?" I'm not foolish. I know what it means for both Connor and me, that Da will use Connor's affection for me to control us both.
He turns now, eyes bloodshot from anger. "O'Rourke," he says, stepping toward the table where a map of the docks is spread. "After that mess at the memorial—Callum says the man looked at you like you were his last meal."
I don't respond because there’s no safe answer with him.
He knew I took an interest in Connor, and he assumed Connor took the same interest in me, but somehow, it's been confirmed to him now.
Now the greedy, impatient nudges for me to exploit that connection will turn vile and sinister, and I won't be able to stop him.
He taps the edge of the map. "I want you to meet with him again. Soon. Make it feel spontaneous. Make it feel… intentional."
I watch his hands, not his face. "Why?" My heart flutters nervously.
I knew this was coming, that Da would escalate things at some point and I'd either have to take a stand or watch Connor come into his crosshairs.
I just didn't expect him to move so quickly.
The Russians must really be pressing him in the wake of my rejection. Volkov is probably out for blood.
He looks at me like I’ve asked whether the sky is still up. "Because if he’s emotionally compromised, he’s vulnerable. And if he’s vulnerable, he’ll give us something useful."
"I'm not a spy, Da. I don't want to spy on him," I almost whisper.
The words come out hollow sounding because that's how I feel—hollow.
I feel like a husk of the person I'm supposed to be, of the person I am when I'm with Connor.
The fight hasn't left me. It's just grown quieter because of fear. Watching my cousin’s friend crumple on the ground at my hand woke me up. Da is in this for blood—Connor's blood.
His smile is slow and without joy. "I want you to be smart. Use what you have."
"And what is that, exactly?"
"You know what it is." He says it like it’s obvious—like the years he spent turning me into something ornamental were just prep work for this.
"I'm not naive, Nora. Liam told me you're slipping out, spreading your legs for that sack of shit.
" His eyes narrow on me. "Do it again, and when you've got him by the balls, we'll pin him down.
We worm our way in and take over the O'Rourke name or the Russians will destroy us.
We need the power that comes with that legacy. "
I cross my arms. "You didn’t ask whether I was willing." My protests sound so feeble now, and I sound weak. I hate myself, and I hate the idea of my family suffering almost as much as I hate the idea of losing Connor or doing something that will put him in danger.
His eyes go dead. "I’m not asking, Nora. We had an arrangement and you backed out. Now you will do as you're told."
The silence that follows is suffocating. I feel the walls pressing closer, the heavy curtains dulling the light and his shadow stretching long across the carpet between us. It feels like he could swallow me whole.
He lifts a folder from the table and flips it open. "Next time you see him, I want names. Contacts. Weak points in their supply chain. Anything that tells me how deep the O'Rourkes are into the South Quays."
"How am I supposed to get that information? He likes to fuck me, not confide in me. He's not a fool. He's loyal to his family and he's not going to give anything up." Now I'm shaking mad. I can't believe he's putting me in this position.
His voice lowers. "Don't pretend you can't do this. You were born to do this. You just forgot what side you're on."
A knock at the door breaks the moment and Da doesn’t tell them to enter.
Two men file in anyway—both in dark jackets, expressions flat and eyes locked on him.
Liam isn't one of them, which means my father has wised up and figured out I've been forcing the man to do my bidding.
I could still bury him, but what would be the point now?
"These are Farren and Daryle," Da says. "They’ll be accompanying you for the next week."
My spine stiffens. "You don’t trust me anymore?" It's a stupid question to ask the man who trusts no one, but it's going to make seeing Connor the way I want to next to impossible. I have to try something, so I pout like a girl whose father can be manipulated.
He downs the whiskey, face twisting at the taste, then slams the empty glass onto the table. "You never gave me a reason to."
Farren doesn’t speak. Daryle nods once. He's all duty and nothing else between his ears.
The kind of nod reserved for orders that don't require a response.
My hands curl into fists at my sides, but I can't do anything about this.
Da probably won't kill me, but he will force me to marry Volkov or some other putrescent lackey.
I don’t know what’s worse—that Da is using me or that part of me is already considering how to do it well. If I’m going to be watched, cornered, turned into bait, then I’m going to decide how it plays out. I huff out a sigh from my nose and turn toward the door with two new shadows in tow.
They follow me to my room, and before I reach the landing on the stairs, I heard Da's voice. "Be ready in fifteen minutes. We're having a sit down with Pyotr Vetrov…"
The name curdles my blood and I scream-growl as I stomp my foot, but it doesn't affect him. The men try to follow me into my room, and I press a hand into one's chest and push him back.
"Uh, feck no. You fecking perverts aren't watching me dress for lunch." A hard shove puts him in his place, and I step into my room, shut the door, and lock it before going straight to my window.
I throw the latch and shove it open, climbing out onto the ledge and stepping onto the roof just below. The shingles are slick under my feet, the air sharp against my skin. I duck out of sight of the driveway and pull my phone and dial Connor’s burner. It rings twice.
"Nora?" he says, and there's tension wound tight beneath the surface.
"I didn’t know if you’d answer." I feel on the verge of crying, and just hearing his voice comforts me.
"I always will, baby." Connor's voice wraps around me like a warm blanket soothing me, but I need more. I need to feel safe and steady.
I crouch low, arms wrapped around my knees.
"He’s pressuring me harder now. Said next time I see you, it had better not be for pleasure.
That if I’m in your bed, I should be in your head too—digging for intel, worming out secrets.
He wants proof that you’re compromised. He thinks if I push the right way, you’ll fold. "
He doesn’t answer right away, and when he does, his voice is quieter. "That’s what Ronan meant. When he warned me."
"Your brother warned you? About what?" I feel my body tensing as my awareness heightens. If they're playing their side and Da is pushing me to play our side, it's only a matter of time before the bomb detonates.
"Told me you might be bait. Said I’d be a fool to believe it was real."
I close my eyes and rub my face with one hand. "It is real, Connor. You know that, right? What I said—that I'm falling in love…" I heave a sigh of tension and wish it would remove the weight on my shoulders. "I meant it."
Connor pauses for a moment, and I feel tears welling up.
He has to believe me. I'd never play him.
Never in my lifetime could I be the slutty spy that spreads her legs and sucks a man's soul through his balls.
But when he doesn't respond, I push. I have to.
If I'm going to keep Da off his heels for a while longer, I need something better.
"What you gave me before—he says it’s not enough. He says if I’m already sleeping with you, then I should at least get something valuable out of it."
"You’re not a tool, Nora." The crackle in the line masks the quaver in his tone, but not entirely. He's furious and I can tell he hates my da. If the two were alone in a dark alley, I'd be buying a new black dress for a funeral.
"He thinks I am," I say quietly, and then I don't speak. The silence stretches again, and this time, it's pregnant with Connor's anger. I know he may never say the words, but he loves me. He's taking these risks and trying to help me, and it isn't for nothing. I have to show up for him too.
"He’s trying to set me up with someone else," I say finally. "Another Russian. Some new arrangement. Pyotr Vetrov is his name, and it’s happening soon." The prickling sensation that has been inside my brain as anxiety now needles its way across my arms and legs in goosebumps.
"Then go along with it," he says matter-of-factly.
I jerk upright. "What?"
"Keep your head down. Do what you have to. I’m not worried." Suddenly, his voice is calmer, right when mine leaps an octave.
"How can you say that?" The tears practically shoot from my eyes like fireworks. He can't think I want to marry someone else, especially not a Russian.
"I have a plan."
"That doesn’t make me feel better…" I want to tell him what a fool he is, how he's acting like an asshole, but I hold my tongue as he starts to speak again.
"It should. I’m not losing you. Not like this." This time, it's him sighing. "I told you you're mine, Nora, and I meant it. Just go along with the plan and keep your head down. Do you hear me? If you want to get through this and be on the other side in my arms, you do what I tell you."
I don’t know how to answer that. I stare out over the treetops with his words crushing my chest. I wipe tears from my cheeks, sniffle to avoid a dripping nose, and cover my face with one hand. "I’m scared, Connor."
"I’m not. That’s why we’ll win, okay, baby?"
The sky starts to cry with me, large, sloppy raindrops threatening to make my hair entirely impossible to style, and I whisper, "I have to go.
I love you." And I end the call without waiting for a response because I know he isn't ready to say it yet.
Then I sit there a little longer, the phone warm in my palm, the wind scraping at my skin.
I wish I believed him completely, but all I can do is hope he knows what he's doing.