I should be repulsed by everything he represents.
But I’m not.
I’m intrigued.
I’m excited.
I’m…
God help me, I’m falling for the gangster.
13
She ravels. Survival mode is kind of her thing.
The words echo in my mind as I navigate the Aventador onto the highway toward Pittsburgh, feeling the engine purr beneath us like a predator waiting to pounce.
Notunravels—ravels.
Pulls herself together under pressure instead of falling apart.
Becomes more functional in crisis, not less.
Tightens rather than loosens.
Condenses rather than scatters.
Interesting. Genuinely interesting.
When she came down those stairs, I almost stopped breathing. The white outfit was a stroke of genius, truly. It transformed her petite Welsh pony frame into a two-year-old thoroughbred at the starting gate for the first time—sleek, gleaming, and brimming with untapped potential. The crisp lines of the tailored skirt accentuated the delicate curve of her hips, while the silk blouse draped perfectly across her shoulders, creating an impression of both strength and vulnerability that was utterly captivating.
Most people are disasters waiting to happen. They operate on borrowed competence, one missed alarm from total collapse. Their composure is a facade held together by routine andcomfort, crumbling at the first sign of stress. The slightest deviation from their carefully constructed normalcy sends them spiraling into dysfunction—missed deadlines, forgotten appointments, emotional meltdowns in parking lots.
But Emmaleen Rourke transforms twenty minutes of “don’t embarrass me” into a complete metamorphosis—farmer’s market bohemian to corporate accessory in three... two... one. She emerges not just dressed differently but carrying herself with a precision that suggests she’s been rehearsing this role her entire life, though I know she hasn’t.
Everything about her is measured right now.
Not in a calculating way—the way I measure things.
But in a disappearing kind of way.
She’s positioned herself in the passenger seat perfectly upright, taking up minimal space, as though she’s calculating exactly how much of my car she’s allowed to occupy. Even her breathing seems measured. Controlled. A survival mechanism honed through necessity, not taught in finishing school. Her hands rest in her lap, fingers interlaced so tightly the knuckles have gone white, though I doubt she’s aware of it. The white outfit makes her look like a ghost trying to haunt the smallest possible corner of my Lamborghini.
She doesn’twantto be seen.
She wants to be invisible.
Why?
I want to know why.
The silence stretches between us. Not uncomfortable, exactly. More like unfinished business. A conversation waiting to happen. The purr of the Aventador’s engine fills the space between us, a constant reminder of power held in check. She stares straight ahead through the windshield, her reflection barely visible in the tinted glass, another layer of disappearing.
I could ask direct questions. That would be efficient. But efficiency isn’t the point here. Information freely given is more valuable than information extracted. People lie when they feel interrogated. They reveal when they feel engaged. The art is in making them want to talk, to offer pieces of themselves without realizing the value of what they’re giving away.
“Let’s play a game,” I say, keeping my eyes on the road, my voice casual as though suggesting something entirely inconsequential.
She turns slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing her features. “A game?”