Page 31 of The Heir's Defiance

Ronan shakes his head. “Not anymore. This isn’t a cold war. It’s a fuse. And you’re wasting time pretending we have more of it to burn before the bomb goes off." He flips the file shut and walks to the door. “Get your head on straight. She doesn’t walk away clean if the rest of us are covered in blood.”

The door clicks shut behind him, and I hear the snickers of one of the capos as they follow him out the door.

I stay rooted. Not because I have nothing to say and no other protests left in me but because if I open my mouth, I won’t stop.I will tear into him for his bad choices, and where will that leave us? The number one and number two of this family at odds with each other? It would be signing my own death certificate.

Ronan wants a clean break. He wants me to cut the rope, but I can’t. Not with her. Not when every part of me knows it stopped being strategy the second she kissed me. And now she's killed for me. She chose me. And he wants me to turn that into a weapon.

I walk back to the table, pick up the photo he slid aside. Nora’s not in it, but her shadow is. I feel it across everything now.

I won’t use her.

Not even for him.

18

NORA

Iget 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.

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