Then her expression crumples and I think she might cry, which would honestly be easier to deal with than the fighting.
But Emma doesn’t cry.
Instead, she slumps back against the seat, breathing hard, and her free hand comes up to wipe at the mascara smudging beneath her eyes.
Her veil is askew, hanging off to one side, and strands of dark auburn hair are falling loose.
The carefully applied makeup is running, her lipstick smeared, and the pristine white dress is already getting dirty.
She looks wrecked, but it’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and I hate myself a little for noticing.
This isn’t about Emma Brennan and her sea-glass eyes and her creative threats.
This isn’t about the fact that she hit and scratched my face twice and I’m oddly impressed, or that she nearly kneed me in the cathedral and I barely dodged it.
This is about revenge.
Pure and simple.
This is about making Connor Brennan understand what it’s like to lose someone.
This is about Gabriel.
But looking at Emma now, slumped against the seat with her chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve made a mistake.
Not in taking her—Connor deserves this—but in assuming she’d be an easy captive.
A passive victim.
Emma Brennan is clearly going to be a complication.
“I want to call my mother,” she says suddenly, her voice hoarse. She’s not looking at me anymore but staring at the back of the driver’s seat. “She has a heart condition. The stress of this could?—”
“No phone calls.” I cut her off before she can finish the emotional manipulation. Nice try, though. “Not to your mother, not to your father, not to anyone.”
“She could have a heart attack!” Emma’s head whips around and there’s real fear in her eyes now. “You don’t understand, she?—”
“I understand that you’ll say anything to try to get leverage.” I release her wrist and sit back, putting a few inches of distance between us. “Your mother will be fine. Connor will make sure of it.”
Emma’s jaw clenches and I can see her biting back whatever she wants to say.
My driver takes a corner fast enough that Emma has to grab the door handle.
We’re heading north out of Manhattan, taking side streets and doubling back to make sure we’re not followed.
By the time Connor figures out which way we went, we’ll be at the safe house.
“Where are you taking me?” Emma asks quietly.
The fight seems to have drained out of her, at least temporarily, and she’s back to that careful composure I saw in the cathedral.
The mask.
Emma Brennan, mob princess, doing what she was trained to do.
“Somewhere safe.”
She scowls. “That’s not an answer.”