31. Atara
Atara
A sound leaves Lorcan’s throat and it's not the angry roar I’ve grown used to.
I slide down the cold hardwood wall right next to him.
My red silk dress bunches around my knees, already ruined, smudged with soot and someone else’s blood.
I don't care about the dress. I don't care about the fact that we’re in a hallway in a ruined ballroom with fifty enforcers standing just beyond the double doors.
"Lorcan," I say softly. "Hey. Look at me."
His eyes are wide, glassy, and completely blank.
He’s staring straight through the opposite wall.
His breathing is fractured, shallow little gasps that make his chest heave violently against his charcoal shirt.
His hands are clawing at the polished floorboards, his knuckles raw and bleeding, leaving dark, wet streaks on the wood.
He’s drowning. The King of the West Coast is completely under, and the water is five years deep.
No way am I letting him stay down there.
I don't call Kieran or Echo. If his men walk through those doors right now, they’ll see the Don with a cracked crown, and right now, Lorcan doesn't need to be a Don. He just needs to breathe.
I grab his wrists, and they are shaking so violently that my own arms vibrate from the contact. I pull them away from the floor and drag him forward.
He doesn't fight me, I don’t think he even has the strength left to be angry. He falls into me like a felled oak, his forehead slamming into the crook of my neck, his heavy shoulders trembling against my chest.
"I've got you," I whisper, wrapping my arms around him.
He smells like expensive sandalwood and the copper tang of the ballroom floor. His breathing is a fast stutter against my skin, his chest shaking so hard I can feel the rhythm in my own ribs.
I start to rock him. Just a slow, subtle sway against the wall, the way you hold a child who forgot the world is allowed to be quiet.
And then, I start talking.
"We're going to do some math, Lorcan," I say, keeping my voice low, rhythmic, and absolutely certain.
"Simple math. Let's count the ledger. Five years is 60 months. Sixty months is 1825 days. That’s how long you’ve been carrying Elara's ghost in your head.
That is a stupid amount of interest on a debt you don't even owe. "
He lets out a ragged, choked gasp, his fingers fisting into the red silk at my waist. He’s holding on so tight the fabric groans, his knuckles pressing into my ribs like I’m the only solid thing left on the planet.
"In Brooklyn, my rent was $1800 a month," I go on, my cheek resting against his damp hair.
I keep rocking him, steady, slow. "For a studio.
The radiator hissed every morning at five.
It sounded like an angry cat. My friend Tania tried to fix it with duct tape once.
It didn't work. The tape melted and smelled like burning plastic for three weeks.
Our landlord told us it was 'character.' I told him his legal liabilities had character. "
I feel his chest heave. The breathing is still shallow, but the wild, terrifying spikes are beginning to round out.
He's listening. Keep going.
"The sunroom in your house has exactly 12 windows," I whisper into his hair. "The puzzle has 500 pieces. We've done 312 of them. Most of the sky is left. You told Maeve the sky is just light getting confused by the air. That’s a terrible explanation, by the way. It’s physics. It’s light scattering through atmospheric particles.
But I let you have it because you looked so pleased with yourself. "
He doesn't answer, but his fingers slowly relax their grip on my dress, his hands flattening against my back, warm and heavy.
"Breathe in for four," I command, pressing my palm flat against his spine, feeling the massive muscles beneath the fabric. "One, two, three, four. Hold it. Now out. One, two, three, four. Again, Lorcan."
He follows the count. It takes ten minutes. Maybe twenty. Time doesn't work right in a corridor after a shootout, but slowly, the tension in his shoulders begins to bleed out. His frantic gasping slows, replaced by deep, chest-filling breaths.
He doesn't say a word. He doesn't look at me. He just stays there, his forehead pressed into my shoulder, his breathing turning slow, heavy, and rhythmic.
He’s exhausted. Genuinely, completely exhausted. He settles against me as his body finally gives up the fight, and within minutes, his muscles go slack.
He actually fell asleep.
I look down at the dark curls of his hair. The ruthless Don of the Irish Syndicate is sleeping on my shoulder like a tired kid.
I wait. I stay perfectly still for another ten minutes, until his breathing is deep and rhythmic, a solid, heavy thrum against my collarbone.
Then, slowly, carefully, I shift his weight. I slide out from under him, supporting his head with one hand so it doesn't hit the hardwood. I lay him back against the wall, propping his shoulder against the trim so he doesn't roll over.
I stand up. My legs are stiff, my knees aching from the floor, my thighs sore from.
.. well, from earlier. I look down at myself.
The red silk dress is wrinkled and smudged, but I’m still wearing my tailored black tuxedo blazer over my shoulders.
I slip it off. It’s too big for him, but the wool is thick and warm.
I drape the blazer over his shoulders, tucking the lapels around his chest to keep the drafts out. He stirs, a low, gravelly grunt leaving his throat, but his eyes stay closed.
I take a deep breath, smooth down my dress, and turn toward the corridor doors.
My turn to run the numbers.
I push the heavy double doors open and step out.
The hallway outside is filled with his men. Kieran is leaning against the wall, a bloody, makeshift bandage wrapped around his forearm, looking like he's about to pass out. Echo is pacing, his hand glued to his radio. A dozen other enforcers are standing in a silent, tense circle, waiting.
The moment the door clicks, every single head snaps toward me.
"Where is he?" Kieran asks, taking a step forward, his eyes wide. "Atara, is the boss okay?"
"He's sleeping," I say. My voice is quiet, but it has a cold, flat weight to it that stops the room cold. "And he is not to be disturbed. Understood?"
Echo frowns, stopping his pacing. "Sleeping? In the middle of an active breach? We have three different fronts, Atara. We can't just—"
"He's sleeping because his body shut down after saving his daughter," I cut him off, stepping into the center of the hall.
I cross my arms, looking Echo straight in the eye.
"If you wake him, I will personally find that ledger I audited and show the Feds exactly where you keep your retirement fund.
Do you want to argue with me, or do you want to do your jobs? "
The room goes dead silent. Kieran looks at Echo, then back at me. A faint, surprised glimmer of amusement touches Kieran's eyes.
"What do you want us to do?" Kieran asks.
"First, clean the ballroom," I say, my mind clicking into the logical, structured mode I use for crises.
"I don't want a single trace of this shootout left by morning.
The hotel manager needs to be paid off, the local police need to be redirected, and the media needs a story about a gas leak.
Kieran, you handle the payoffs. Use the secondary offshore accounts—the ones Vance didn't touch. "
Kieran nods, his jaw setting. "I'm on it."
"Echo," I turn to him. "Silas didn't walk in here alone. He had to have a route, a vehicle, and a safe house. He’s bleeding from a severed tendon in his right arm. He can’t drive himself, and he’s going to need a surgeon who doesn't ask questions.
Map every black-market clinic within a fifty-mile radius.
I want his exit route tracked by midnight. "
"And the Senator?" Echo asks, his voice tight. "He saw the whole thing. He's probably halfway to the FBI by now."
"The Senator won't say a word," I say, a cold, sharp smile touching my lips.
"I spent three days auditing his committee accounts.
If he goes to the Feds, he goes to prison for tax evasion and money laundering.
Lock him down. Tell him if he breathes a word of tonight to anyone, his career and his freedom are over. "
"And the compound?" a guard from the back asks.
"Double the perimeter," I command. "Nobody goes in or out without my authorization. Maeve is to remain in the bunker with Maria. If I see a single security lapse, Sean is going to have to explain to Lorcan why he failed his daughter twice in one night."
They don't argue. Nobody hesitates.
"You heard her," Kieran barks at the men. "Move!"
The enforcers scatter, the hallway clearing in a flurry of hurried footsteps and quiet murmurs. Kieran stays back for a second, looking at me with a soot-covered grin.
"You're pretty good at this," he says, a small laugh breaking through his fatigue.
"I'm an auditor, Kieran," I say, rubbing my temples. "I fix broken systems. Go get your arm patched up."
"Yes, ma'am," he says, giving me a quick nod before heading down the hall.
I'm alone in the corridor now. The silence of the building settles back in, heavy and cool.
I take a shaky breath and lean against the wall. My body is finally starting to register the exhaustion. The heels of my shoes are digging into my feet, my shoulder is bruised where Silas grabbed me, and my red silk dress is a complete disaster.
But I feel... alive. For the first time since Ireland, I don't feel like a hostage. I feel like a partner.
I need to check on him.
I start walking back toward the quiet room where Lorcan is sleeping. I want to make sure his breathing is still steady.
The phone in my clutch buzzes.
I pull it out, expecting a security alert from Echo or a perimeter update.
The screen flashes with a name I never expected to see again. Tania.
My heart leaps into my throat. A sudden, overwhelming wave of pure happiness washes over me, and I slide the screen open, pressing the phone to my ear.
"Tania!" I gasp, my voice breathless with relief. "Oh my god, Tania, you have no idea—"
"Not quite, Atara."
The voice isn't Tania's.
It is a low, rasping, wet sound. The sound of lungs filled with sand.
Silas.
My blood turns to ice. My smile vanishes, the phone cold against my cheek.
"Where is she?" I whisper, my fingers tightening on the metal of the phone until my knuckles turn white. "What did you do to her?"
"She’s safe. For now," Silas chuckles, the sound jagged and wet. "But she’s very popular in Las Vegas. Everyone wants to meet her. I think she’d like to see you, Atara. Fifteen minutes. I'm sending a car to the north gate. Come alone. Or your little friend gets a very different kind of surprise."
The line goes dead.
I stare at the blank screen, the silence of the corridor suddenly tasting like ash.