Page 133 of Pietro
"What?"
"She never broke. Twenty-four hours of Declan's worst, and she gave him nothing about your operations. Connor respects that. Respects you for earning that kind of loyalty."
"She's not loyal to me. She's stubborn."
"Same thing, in our world." Finn moves to leave, then pauses. "Connor also said... he understands now why she chose you. Said maybe she saw something he was too blind to notice."
"Which is?"
"That you'd burn the world for her. Not for what she represents or who her father is. Just for her."
The truth of it settles into my bones like cement. "Yes."
"Good." Finn's smile carries years of regret. "Siobhan would have liked you, I think. Would have wanted this for her daughter—a man who sees her as Nora, not as an O'Sullivan."
He leaves me with that thought and the coffee and the weight of tomorrow's violence.
I'm coming baby.
NORA
Drip.
A single drop of water. A hammer blows in the concrete silence.
Drip.
Another second of my life I’ll never get back.
My fingers throb in time with the dripping. A sick fucking orchestra. Middle, ring, pinky. He snapped them back until bone scraped and I screamed myself raw.
I test the chains again. Metal teeth bite into my wrists. Fresh blood, warm and slick, trickles over my palms. I breathe, and fire lances through my ribs. A gift from his boot. Yesterday? The day before? Time is a smear of pain and darkness.
The basement door creaks open. Light spills down the stairs. Then his tread.
The sound of a man savoring his power. The bastard is enjoying this. He appears with a plastic bottle and what might generously be called bread.
"Morning, princess." He sets the items on the floor just out of reach. "Though I suppose it's afternoon now. Hard to tell down here, isn't it?"
I keep my eyes forward, focusing on the water stain shaped like Ireland on the far wall. My mother used to trace Ireland's outline on maps, telling me stories of counties she'd never seen.
"Silent treatment today?" Declan circles my chair, trailing fingers across my shoulders. A shudder wants to race up my spine. I lock my muscles, refusing to give him the satisfaction. "That's fine. You'll need to save your voice for the wedding vows anyway."
The laugh escapes before I can stop it—hoarse, cracked, but genuine.
His hand fists in my matted hair, yanking my head back. "Something funny?"
"You still think there's going to be a wedding." Blood from my split lip reopens as I smile.
The slap rocks my head sideways. Stars explode across my vision.
Declan releases my hair, moving to lean against the wall where I can see him. "Your father already agreed. Documents are being drawn up as we speak."
"Connor O'Sullivan agreed to hand his daughter to the man who tortured her?" I work my jaw, testing for new damage.
"He agreed because he's practical. This marriage ends the war between our families. Unites the Irish front. Makes us strong enough to take on the Italians properly." He picks up the water bottle, uncaps it, and takes a long drink while I watch. "Plus, he knows what you really are now."
"And what's that?"
