The Thief (Houlihan Men of Dublin #4)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

freddie

The whiskey burns, but not enough. Nothing burns enough anymore.

I stare at the amber liquid in my glass, watching the dim pub lights flicker in the reflection of the liquid. Three months in London and I still can't outrun the ghosts. Three months of empty hotel rooms, nameless faces, and fights that leave my knuckles bloody but my mind still screaming.

The bartender, some kid with too many piercings and not enough sense, slides another drink across the scarred wood. I don't remember ordering it, but I down it anyway. The burn is familiar now, almost comforting in its predictable pain.

Ava.

Her name cuts through the haze like a blade.

Even here, in this shithole pub, where no one knows Freddie Kinnock or the Thief or any of the other names I've worn like armor, she haunts me.

Since we were kids, it's always been her.

Two nights we had together—over the span of five years, we had two amazing nights that I thought meant everything.

Turns out they meant nothing. At least not to her.

The worst part? I still don't know if any of it was real.

My phone buzzes against the bar. Another text from Stephen, probably. Or Maverick. They've been checking in since I disappeared from Dublin, making sure I haven't done anything permanently stupid. Good friends. Better than I deserve, considering I've been radio silent for weeks.

I ignore it.

The pub door swings open, letting in a gust of cold London air and three lads who look like they've never seen the wrong end of a fight. University types. Soft hands, softer jaws. They're loud, already drunk, and taking up space like they own it.

Normally, I'd ignore them. Normally, I'd finish my drink and disappear into the night like smoke. But tonight, with Ava's ghost whispering in my ear and the taste of betrayal still bitter on my tongue, I'm not feeling particularly normal.

"Oi, mate," one of them calls out, nudging his friend. "Look at this sad cunt nursing his drink alone."

I don't turn around. Don't need to. I can hear the sneer in his voice, smell the privilege radiating off him like expensive cologne. These boys have never had to fight for anything in their lives.

"Probably crying into his beer about some bird," another one laughs. "Pathetic."

The glass stops halfway to my lips. My hand is steady—it's always steady—but something cold and dangerous unfurls in my chest. The same feeling I get right before I slip into a mark's house, before I take what doesn't belong to me. Except tonight, what I'm taking is satisfaction.

I set the glass down with deliberate care and turn on my stool. All three of them are watching me now, feeding off each other's courage like the pack of hyenas they are. The loudest one, who’s blonde and wearing designer clothes his daddy's money probably paid for, steps closer.

"What are you looking at?" he sneers.

I don't answer. Instead, I study them like I would any other job.

Blonde boy's stance is all show, weight on his back foot.

His friend to the left keeps glancing at the door–he'll run first. The third one's trying to look tough, but his hands are shaking slightly.

Nerves or cocaine. Either way, weakness.

"I asked you a question," Blondie says, getting in my space now. His breath smells like expensive whiskey and poor decisions.

"I heard you," I say quietly. My accent cuts through the London noise like a blade, pure Dublin, sharp as broken glass. "I'm just trying to decide if you're worth the effort."

His face flushes red. "The fuck did you just say to me?"

I smile. It's not a nice smile. Stephen taught me well over the years. Sometimes the most ominous thing you can do is let them see exactly what you are.

"I said," I repeat, slower this time, "I'm trying to decide if beating the shit out of you three will make me feel better about my fucked-up life."

The bartender's already reaching for something under the bar. Probably a cricket bat or a phone to call the cops. Doesn't matter. This won't take long.

Blondie swings first. It’s telegraphed, clumsy, the kind of punch you throw when you've never been in a real fight. I duck under it easily, step inside his guard, and drive my knee into his ribs. The air goes out of him in a whoosh, and he drops like a sack of shit.

His friends hesitate; that crucial moment where they realize this isn't going to go how they thought.

I don't give them time to reconsider. The one on the left gets an elbow to the nose that sends blood spraying across the sticky floor.

The third one actually tries to run, but I catch him by the collar and introduce his face to the bar.

Three university boys down in less than thirty seconds. Jer would laugh his ass off if he were with me now.

The thought of my boss, the closest thing to a father I've ever had, sends a familiar pang through my chest. I wonder what he's thinking about my little London vacation. He’s probably ready to drag me back by the ear and put me to work. Good. I need the distraction.

"Right, that's enough of that," the bartender says, cricket bat in hand. "Out. Now. Before I call the police."

I drop a twenty on the bar—more than enough to cover my drinks and the cleanup—and step over Blondie's groaning form. Outside, the London air is cold and sharp, cutting through the whiskey haze like reality always does.

My phone buzzes again. This time I check it.

Stephen: Call me back. We need to talk.

Emmanuel: Freddie, just let us know you're alive.

Maverick: Brother, whatever you're doing, just come home.

Home. Dublin feels like a lifetime away—another world where I was someone different, someone who mattered. Someone who had a family, even if it was built on blood and bullets.

I start walking with no destination in mind. That's been my life for three months; walking without purpose, existing without meaning. Just another ghost haunting the streets of a city that doesn't know my name.

The Thames reflects the city lights like scattered diamonds. Pretty. Peaceful. Nothing like the Liffey back home, which smells like history and heartbreak. I lean against the railing and pull out my phone, thumb hovering over Stephen's number.

What would I even say? That I've been living like an animal, fighting in back-alley pubs and fucking strangers whose names I don't bother learning? That I can't sleep without seeing Ava's face, without remembering how she felt beneath me those two nights when I thought the world made sense?

The phone rings before I can make a decision.

Unknown number. International. I almost let it go to voicemail, but something makes me answer.

"Kinnock."

"Freddie." The voice is gravelly, Irish, and holds an authority that makes my spine straighten automatically. "This is Henry Gallagher."

I know who he is. I’ve met him a few times thanks to his grandson being married to Maverick’s sister—my sister, not by blood, but by life.

Henry Gallagher built the Irish mob in Ireland and then America from nothing and turned it into an empire that spans continents.

The fact that he's calling me directly means either I'm in deep shit or someone needs to die. Maybe both.

"Mr. Gallagher," I say, straightening up despite myself. "What can I do for you?"

"I need you to retrieve something for me. Someone, actually." There's a pause, filled by the sound of ice clinking against glass. "My granddaughter. A girl no one knew existed until recently."

"I'm not in the kidnapping business," I say automatically.

His laugh is dry. "She's not being kidnapped, boy. She's being brought home. These fuckers have made it a point to let us know she’s a target, and right now she's alone in Belfast with no backup and a fuck of a lot of people who'd rather see her buried than breathing."

Belfast. Fucking hell. "What's the catch?"

"No catch. Just a job. One that pays very, very well." Another pause. "I know you're not working for anyone right now. I know you're... between opportunities."

Between opportunities. That's one way to put it. Another would be emotionally fucked and running from everything that ever mattered.

"Why me?" I ask.

"Because you're the best thief in Ireland, and right now, that's what I need. Someone who can get in, get her, and get out without anyone knowing where she is."

I should say no. I should tell him to find someone else, someone who isn't half-broken and full of ghosts. But the alternative is going back to my hotel room, staring at the ceiling until dawn, and pretending I don't hear Ava's voice in every shadow.

"When and where?" I hear myself say.

"Belfast. Tomorrow night. I'll have the details sent to your phone within the hour." His voice carries a smile now, satisfied. "And Freddie? Don't disappoint me. This girl... she's all of Killian I have left."

The line goes dead, leaving me alone with the Thames and the weight of another man's expectations.

I should feel something, anticipation, fear, the old thrill of a new job.

Instead, I feel nothing but the familiar hollow ache that's been my constant companion since I found out Ava was married to the man who's destroying everything, not to mention the bastard who’s threatening everyone I care about.

* * *

Eight Weeks Ago.

Boston

The private investigator slides a manila folder across the table. His breath smells like instant coffee and cigarettes.

"I found what you were looking for," he says. "Though you're not going to like it."

I've been paying this bastard for three weeks. Three weeks since Ava died, a bullet to her chest. She was dead before she even hit the ground.

I open the folder.

Inside is a marriage certificate. Two years old. Ava O'Sullivan to Trace Harrington. Boston address. My hands don't shake, but they should.

Two fucking years.

"She was living a double life," the PI says, lighting a cigarette like he's delivering weather reports. "Married to Harrington but kept the Dublin flat for when she was in town on business."

Business. Right. What kind of business requires lying to everyone you know?

There are more documents beneath the certificate. Bank statements showing regular transfers from Boston. Plane tickets; Dublin to Boston, Boston to Dublin, over and over for four years. A life I never knew existed.

Then the death certificate.

My breath catches when I see the report. She was pregnant when she died.

Fuck.

I stare at the dates. Four years she’s been going back and forth from Dublin to Boston.

Four fucking years, and she’s been married to Trace for two of them.

Christ. Ava was a fucking bitch, playing the both of us.

Trying to keep me on the hook all while she’s got a husband across the fucking world. What the hell was she playing at?

"The husband's been asking questions too," the PI continues. "He hired his own people to look into her Dublin connections. You might want to keep your head down for a while."

I'm not listening anymore. He’s been looking at her connections with us? Does that mean she’s the fucking reason this shit has happened? Is she the reason why so many people have fucking died and everyone I care about is on edge, on alert? Because Ava was playing some twisted game?

Did I even know the woman? That’s the question that keeps spinning around my head. Many fucking times I saw different sides to her, but I always pushed it aside, thinking it was me fucking her around. Now I’m doubting what I know. Did she play me from the start?

"You alright?" the PI asks.

I close the folder, pay him what I owe, and walk out into Boston rain that feels like needles.

She was never mine. Never even close to mine. The question is: if she was married to that cunt, Trace, why did he kill her?

* * *

My phone buzzes. Henry Gallagher's details. Belfast. Some girl named Alastríona.

Maybe a job—any job—is better than drowning in London's gutters, waiting for the past to finally kill me.

I push off from the railing and start walking back toward my hotel. Time to pack. Time to remember what it feels like to be the Thief again.

Time to steal something other than moments I can't get back.