Page 41 of His Forced Irish Mafia Bride

I exhaled through my nose despite myself.

Nora poured herself a glass of water without asking. “So,” she said, too casual now. “What am I walking into here?”

I leaned back against the counter. I couldn’t think of a clean way to put it. “The way he talks is weird.” I said finally.

“That’s not very specific.”

“It’s just him,” I added. “It’s how he talks.”

Nora didn’t interrupt. She just waited. I shook my head a little.

“Like everything has already happened. Like I’m catching up to him instead of meeting him.” That earned a small pause from her. She was interested.

“Mm,” she said softly. “So he’s that kind of man.”

I looked at her. “You know guys like him?”

“I’ve met a few,” she said. “Different faces. Same problem.”

I didn’t like how easily she said it. Or how it made sense. Nora leaned back again, more relaxed now.

“So,” she said, her voice lighter again. “You’re either irritated or intrigued.”

I didn’t answer fast enough.

She laughed once, quiet. “That’s what I thought.”

I looked away. The city outside kept moving like it didn’t care what was happening in the penthouse.

Nora bumped my arm lightly as she passed me. “Relax,” she said, heading toward the living room like she owned the place. “I’m here now.” And somehow that was the first thing I’d heard all day that actually felt true.

Before I knew it Nora was making a sandwich for me like she’d done a hundred times at Murphy’s. I leaned back againstthe counter, watching her. She added lettuce, folded it, and pressed it down slightly.

Then, still focused on the sandwich, she said, “I asked around about your husband.”

“Where?” I asked.

She added pickles, slow and careful, then continued like she was talking about the weather. “The old dock. Freight people. The kind who don’t stay in one system long enough to be tracked properly.”

She finished making the sandwich and finally cut it in half. “I went to look for people who react when Sean’s name comes up.” Nora took a bite first, like she was giving herself permission to say the rest after. “One of them mentioned a name.” She wiped her fingers on a napkin, still leaning on the counter. “Peter Earl.”

“Who is he?”

“He used to move through Marseille port operations,” she said. “Before that, Geneva logistics arbitration circles. He’s the kind of man who shows up when money changes hands internationally. They said he was tied to Sean at some point. Not currently. More like…someone who knows who Sean was before he became who he is now. If you’re trying to understand Sean, you can start there.”

She tapped the counter once, lightly, like closing the thought. “I can get more,” she added. “But that name is the first real thread I found that doesn’t loop back on itself.”

Silence settled between us. She took another bite of the sandwich, like nothing important had happened.

Peter Earl…who the hell are you?

CHAPTER TWELVE

Sean

Declan kept talking while the screens rotated through reports about port activity and transfers. He showed accounts draining slowly enough to avoid panic. The room stayed quiet except for his voice and the low electronic hum buried inside the walls of the office.

Everything here was built for precision. Dark wood and cold lighting. Glass sharp enough to reflect every movement. Usually it helped me think clearly.