7. Atara
Atara
The hum of the SUV’s engine is the only thing keeping me from screaming at the top of my lungs. Or maybe I am screaming. My throat feels raw, and the words are just tumbling out of me like a broken vending machine that only dispenses panic.
But while my mouth runs, I’m observing. Two armed men in front. One lethal man beside me. Doors that lock from a console I can't reach. I talk because talking fills the terrifying silence, buying me time to process a situation that is rapidly spinning out of my control.
"I have a lease in Brooklyn, Lorcan! A lease! Do you know how hard it is to get a decent studio in a walkable neighborhood with a co-signer? I have a job track I’ve worked four years for.
I have a plant that will literally die if he isn't watered by Tuesday.
You cannot just cargo me to another continent because some old enemy named Silas decided to play sniper! "
Lorcan is a statue. He’s sitting in the back seat with me, his arms crossed over a chest that I was kissing less than an hour ago.
The memory makes me want to vomit. Or punch him.
Probably both. He hasn't looked at me since we left the resort.
He just stares out the tinted window at the dark Irish countryside blurring past, his profile looking like it was hacked out of granite.
"Sir," Kieran says from the front seat, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. "Three minutes to the airfield."
"Good," Lorcan grunts.
"It is not good!" I snap, leaning into Lorcan’s space. "Do you hear me? I am a person. I am a citizen with rights. You are kidnapping me. That’s a felony. Multiple felonies! We’re talking federal prison, orange jumpsuits, the whole deal."
Lorcan finally turns his head. His eyes are like smoke—heavy, gray, and completely unreadable. "Atara. Shut up."
"Oh, 'Shut up.' Great. Fantastic. The 'psychopath’s Guide to Crisis Management.' Chapter One: Tell the girl to shut up." I fall back against the leather seat, my hands shaking so hard I have to tuck them under my thighs.
I’ve spent my entire life being the sensible one.
The girl with the plan, the predictable future.
And the literal second my life blew up back home because of Mark, I did the one thing I’ve never done: I let go of the steering wheel.
I came to Ireland on a whim, looking for a clean break, a tiny taste of a reckless adventure.
Just one. And it is just my absolute luck that the one time I decided to stop being cautious, I walked straight into a war zone.
"Mark is a coward who used you," Lorcan says, his voice flat and final. "And this isn't a dream. It’s a transition. Your old life ended when that window shattered. Fucking accept it."
Fucking accept it?! This bastard!
And what? Used you? He says it like he's reading it off a chart.
And that's the part that lands wrong, because that's exactly how Mark treated me—a convenient tool, someone to do the heavy lifting until he didn't need me anymore. Two men in one week have looked at me and decided they get to control my trajectory. I spent years playing an entry-level role in my own life. I will not sit quietly while I get reclassified as this man’s collateral damage.
The SUV swerves onto a private tarmac. A sleek, black Gulfstream jet is idling there, its engines whining like a banshee. It doesn’t have a logo. It doesn’t have a tail number I can see. It just looks… expensive. And dangerous.
The car stops. Kieran and Echo are out in a second, their eyes scanning the perimeter like they expect an ambush. Lorcan opens my door and steps out, then reaches back for Maeve. She’s still wearing those pink headphones, clutching her rabbit, her eyes sleepy and trusting.
I don’t get out. I plant my feet.
"I’m not moving," I say, clutching my knees. "I’m staying right here until you tell me who the hell you actually are. No more 'businessman' crap. Give me the truth, or you’re going to have to carry me onto that plane, and I will fight you every step of the way."
Lorcan sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. He hands Maeve to Kieran, who takes her toward the jet without a backward glance. Then he turns back to me, leaning his forearms on the roof of the car, looming over the open door.
"You want the truth, Atara? Fine. I’m the Don of the Irish Syndicate.
I run the West Coast operations out of Las Vegas.
I control the docks, the distribution, and about half the politicians you see on the news.
I deal in power. And right now, my power is being challenged by a dead man who would gut you just to get to me. "
I stare at him for a beat. The only sound is the engines. The wild reality of what he’s saying tries to settle in, but my brain rejects it.
"The Don?" I let out a sharp, breathless laugh, the sound climbing an octave. "The Don. Right. What is this, a movie? Do you have a secret handshake? Do you make people kiss your ring while you stroke a white cat?"
"Atara—"
"Is there a cat? Because I feel like there should be a cat if you're going to commit this hard to a delusion." I’m laughing so hard I’m crying, the tears hot and stinging against my wind-burned cheeks. "You’ve watched too many mob films, and now you’ve kidnapped an innocent person because you’ve completely lost touch with reality. "
"Welcome back, Don," a voice calls out.
I freeze. The pilot is standing at the bottom of the jet's stairs. He’s dressed in a crisp, dark uniform, and as Lorcan approaches, the man actually bows. A deep, respectful incline of the head. "The flight plan is filed. We’re cleared for immediate departure."
The laughter dies in my throat. It feels like a lead weight dropping into my stomach.
I look at Lorcan. He isn't laughing. He isn't even smiling. He’s just watching me with that heavy, patient look.
The guns. The bodyguards. The absolute, terrifying efficiency with which he killed those men in the hallway. The bow from the pilot.
The air in my lungs turns to ice. He’s serious. This isn't a delusion, and it isn't a joke. He is exactly what he says he is. We’re really in trouble,
"Oh my god," I whisper, my voice cracking. "You’re… you're actually a crime lord."
"Yes. Now, get on the fucking plane, Atara."
I step out of the car, my legs feeling like they’re made of wet noodles.
I look at the jet, then back at the dark, empty Irish hills.
I could run. I could bolt into the dark and hope I can outrun the men with the silencers.
But looking at the perimeter guards and the sheer isolation of this airfield, running blindly isn't brave. It’s a fast track to getting a bullet in my back.
I need to be smart if I want to survive this.
I walk up the stairs. The interior of the plane is staggering. It reeks of untraceable, unchecked wealth. Cream leather, gold accents, a fully stocked bar that looks completely out of place for a nightmare.
I find a seat as far away from Lorcan as possible.
Maeve is already tucked into a seat across the aisle, her headphones off now. She looks at me and smiles, her little face illuminated by the cabin lights. "We’re going to the treasure, Atara! Daddy says the treasure is in the desert!"
"That’s great, Maeve," I say, trying to force my voice to sound normal for her sake. "A big adventure in the desert. Very exciting."
Lorcan sits across from me. He doesn't say anything as the plane taxies. He doesn't say anything as we take off, the G-force pinning me into the expensive leather. I watch Ireland disappear beneath a thick, indifferent layer of clouds, and a cold wave of clarity washes over the panic.
Once we’ve reached cruising altitude, the pilot’s voice comes over the intercom, and the 'Fasten Seatbelt' sign dings off.
I unbuckle and stand up. I can’t sit still. My brain is finally clicking back into gear, shifting from hysteria to survival.
"Okay," I say, pacing the narrow aisle, forcing my voice to remain steady.
"Let’s look at this logically, Lorcan. If this Silas guy is using me to get to you, keeping me near you only makes it easier for him to strike.
If you leave me in a neutral location—somewhere quiet where nobody knows me, I become a dead end.
By taking me with you, you're putting a target right on your own back. It doesn't make sense."
It's a solid point, delivered without screaming. And for half a second, I see him actually weigh it, his eyes tracking my movements.
"Logic doesn't apply to Silas," Lorcan says, his voice a low vibration. "He doesn't want a dead end. He wants to watch me watch you. If I leave you anywhere, he finds you, he kills you, and he sends me the video. In Vegas, I have walls. I have men. I have an empire."
"Your 'empire' has holes in it!" I say, stopping in front of him, my voice dropping to a harsh whisper so I don't wake Maeve. "The window at the resort? Remember that? Your walls didn't stop them from almost killing us tonight."
"The window was a lapse. It won't happen again."
"You can't guarantee that! You’re not a god, you’re just a man with a heavy security budget. Your underworld wars are not my problem. I don't belong in this world."
"The rules changed tonight, Atara," he says, his voice dropping into that dark register that makes my skin prickle. "They’re my rules now. You’re in my world."
He holds my eyes until I'm the one who looks away first, frustration burning hot in my chest. I want to throw something at his head to wipe that stoic look off his face. "I deeply, genuinely resent you right now."
"Good," he mutters, turning back to his tablet. "Resentment keeps you sharp."
I huff and stomp back to my seat. I look over at Maeve. She’s fallen asleep again, her head tilted against the window, the rabbit tucked under her chin. She looks so small. So innocent. She doesn't know her dad is a terrifyingly dangerous man. She doesn't know she’s being hunted.
My fury cools, replaced by a heavy, undeniable truth. I am caught in the middle of something lethal.
I reach into my purse, my fingers finding the familiar weight of my phone. If I can just get a signal when we approach land... text Tania, or find a way to alert someone outside his circle.
I pull it out, shielding it with my body.
"What are you doing?"
I jump, nearly dropping the phone. Lorcan is standing over me. I didn't even hear him move. He’s like a shadow that just materialized out of the air.
"Nothing," I say, shoving the phone behind my back. "Just checking the time."
"Give it to me."
"No. It’s my property."
He doesn't argue. He just reaches out and snatches it from my hand. He’s too fast, his grip completely unyielding.
"Hey! Give that back!"
He looks at the screen, then down at me. The flicker of anger in his jaw is cold.
"You were going to call for help," he says. It isn't a question.
"Yes! Because I’m being dragged across the ocean against my will!" I say, standing up to face him, my head barely reaching his chest. "I was going to tell someone where I am!"
"And Silas would have intercepted the signal," Lorcan says, his voice rising, sounding like an oncoming avalanche. "He has people who do nothing but monitor the digital footprint of everyone in my orbit. You would have given him a direct GPS coordinate to this plane.”
"I didn't know—"
"You'd have handed him my daughter." His eyes cut, just once, to the small sleeping shape of his daughter across the aisle.
The argument dies in my throat. The realization hits me hard, and then I see it—the slight, controlled tremor in his hands that he’s trying to hide. He isn't just angry; he’s fiercely protective.
"Your old life is on pause, Atara." He raises his hand and slams the phone onto the edge of the mahogany table.
CRACK.
The screen shatters. He does it again, with a rhythmic, terrifying force, until the phone is just a twisted wreck of metal and glass. He drops the remains onto the carpet at my feet.
I stare at the ruins of my phone. My photos, my contacts, my connection to safety—all gone. The tears are back, hot and stinging, born from pure, unadulterated fear. "You didn't have to do that."
"I told you," Lorcan says, his breathing heavy. He’s standing so close I can feel the heat radiating off him. "I’m keeping you alive. Accept the reality."
"I hate this reality," I whisper, my fists clenching as I hit his shoulder in sheer frustration. He doesn't even flinch. I strike his chest, a sob escaping me. "I hate you for dragging me into this."
He catches my wrists. He pins them together in one hand, pulling them up, pressing me back against the seat. His body is a heavy, solid barrier, trapping me completely.
"Hate me all you want, Atara," he growls, his face inches from mine, his gray eyes burning. "But you’re staying. You’re under my protection, whether you like it or not."
My heart hammers wildly against my ribs, a chaotic mix of fury, fear, and a strange, hyper-aware electricity that sparks whenever he's this close. His gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second, dark and heavy, before he pulls back.
He lets go of my wrists and steps away. "Get some sleep. We land in six hours."
He walks back to his seat and closes his eyes, shutting me out.
I sit there, shaking, staring at the shattered glass on the floor. The panic is gone, replaced by a cold, calculating stillness.
I look out the window at the dark Atlantic.
I’m terrified, yes, but I’m not stupid. Fighting him physically on this plane is a losing game.
Trying to escape into a strange city while an anonymous assassin is hunting him is suicide.
If I want to get through this, I have to stop reacting and start observing.
This isn't a permanent surrender. It’s a tactical pause.
I will go to Vegas. I will stay behind his walls, under his heavy security, because right now, that is the safest place to be.
I’ll keep my head down, keep Maeve safe, and let him deal with his ghost. But the very second this war is over, and the dust settles, I am walking out the door.
I will catch the first flight back to New York, get my life back on track, and pretend this entire twisted nightmare never happened.