Page 2 of The Heir's Defiance

“Connor,” he says, nodding once. “Didn’t know you were still around.” I hear the quake in his voice ready to shatter him.

“I am.” I don’t stop walking until I’m close enough that I can smell the whiskey on his breath.

“You were posted near the alley behind the pharmacy,” I say, not raising my voice.

He nods once, too fast, and straightens his shoulders as if posture might shield him from failure. “Nothing out of place that night,” he answers. “Did my full sweep.”

He doesn’t hold my gaze for more than a second. The lie has already begun to stretch at the edge of his voice.

"Nothing," I say again, letting the stone sink between us into a shallow grave. "You saw nothing while one of ours was left to burn behind a pharmacy?"

His throat tightens, and whatever answer he tries to shape dies before it reaches his lips. He understands the cost of lying to me.

"There was someone," he mutters eventually, his eyes shifting to the ground. "It happened around two. He wore a hoodie with the hood up and kept his head low. He acted like he belonged there, so I didn’t think it meant anything."

"You recognized him?" I ask.

He hesitates, then nods. "Might've been a Fitzpatrick." But his eyes flick back and forth between mine like he's waiting for a fish to bite.

I wait, but he says nothing more. "Might've been?" I repeat.

His voice quavers. "I didn't report it because I wasn't sure. Look, the guy seemed like he knew this place. I thought he worked for the pharmacy."

I hold his gaze. "But you saw him." Anger bubbles up. If he recognized the man and said nothing, he's got a lot worse problems coming toward him. "Tell Ronan what you know. Now," I bark.

Then I hit him once, knuckles driving through the bridge of his nose. The crack is immediate and heavy, and the blood follows. It runs over his mouth and down his chin in long, dark streaks. He stumbles into the wall, both hands rising far too late to defend himself or stop what’s already been done.

He wipes at the blood, trembling as he tries to find the right words. "I didn't think it was related."

"You should’ve said something the second you had a doubt," I say. "Next time you hesitate, it won’t just be your nose that breaks."

He crouches beside the dumpster, silently bleeding onto the pavement. I walk back inside and take the rear stairwell to the office. The door closes behind me, shutting out the voices downstairs. The quiet that remains isn't relief.

Corbin's death just lit a fuse under an already tense city, and war will break out at any second. If the Fitzpatricks did this, it means they're going to start pushing in other ways too, and if they push,their allies will push. And it will be up to me to stop this from escalating further.

If I can figure out how.

2

NORA

The dining room is colder than it should be. Heavy-backed chairs line the table, worn along the arms where years of hands have gripped the wood harder than necessary. The light overhead burns low, throwing shadows along the polished surface, warping the outlines of the men waiting for me.

My father sits at the head, a half-full glass of whiskey in front of him, untouched. Callum leans back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest, watching without offering any kind of welcome.

I stop short of the chair they expect me to take. The air feels heavy, like the walls themselves are bracing for what comes next.

"You’ve made a fool of yourself," my father says with an air of disgust. I feel the words hit before I hear them. The wood grain of the table blurs slightly as my vision dulls around the edges. I knew this moment was coming when I turned Artur away Wednesday evening.

"You didn’t just insult him. You insulted everyone who stood behind that arrangement. And now the Russians want something for the trouble you caused." If I could look him in the eye, I'd see how his veins bulge as he speaks to me. It's how he looks when he's livid.

My fingers curl into my palms. "I said no to a leash," I say, keeping my voice even. "If they took offense, that's their problem."

Callum shifts in his chair. The scrape of his boot against the floor sounds too loud in the tight room. He could stand up for me, tell Father how wretched it is to expect me to marry someone I don’t even like, as if this is the Middle Ages and I'm nothing more than a tool to form alliances.

My father leans forward, his arms braced against the table like he's ready to launch himself across it. "You think this was about feelings? About personal insults? You made us look weak. You gave the Russians reason to lean harder on our docks, our shipments, our men." The overhead light throws a hard line across his face, cutting the shadows at his jaw.

I keep my arms loose at my sides, though every nerve in my body wants to lash out. My fingertips dance over the table as I say, "Maybe they should ask why selling your daughter seemed like a reasonable deal in the first place."

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