She’d been fighting the Nazis for four long years, ever since she escaped the prison camp they’d sent her to after they killed her family. She was thirteen when she killed her first German—the one who shot her little brother in the face. Chavo was only nine, unarmed, no threat to the mighty military machine of the Reich, but their orders had been to kill any gypsies too young or too old to work, or too capable of fighting back, and to send the rest to serve in a labor camp. For all their polished boots and sharp salutes, Rosa knew the Nazis were, in their hearts, cowards. Unfortunately, she came to learn as the war became official and countries fell throughout Europe, so were most men. Which is why this Irishman, this fisherman, this sailor who’d almost drowned until she’d plucked him from the sea’s greedy embrace, he intrigued her. Padraic Hart didn’t waste her time with stupid questions, yet he didn’t follow orders blindly. He was loyal to his men—despite the fact he was no officer—and willing to risk his life for a chance to save theirs.
