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."
