CHAPTER FIVE
Freddie
She's been silent for over an hour.
She’s now sitting in the passenger seat like a statue, staring out at the Irish countryside rolling past. I haven’t heard a word from her since we left Belfast; just the sound of her breathing and the occasional shift in her seat when the road gets rough.
I can't blame her. Her life just got turned upside down and shaken until everything familiar fell out. Now she's in a car with a man she doesn't trust, heading toward a family she's never met, because the alternative is staying in Belfast and dealing with Sean Jennings’ father.
Not much of a choice, really.
The M1 stretches ahead, empty at this hour. There’s nothing but fields and hedgerows and the occasional truck hauling goods to Dublin. The normal world going about its business while mine gets more complicated by the mile.
I should be focusing on the job. I should be thinking about Henry's reaction when I roll up with his granddaughter; about how to present this whole situation without making it sound like I had to kill people to get her cooperation. But my mind keeps drifting to other things. Darker things.
The way she moved in that alley. Like violence was just another language she spoke fluently. Like her father taught her more than just how to pour pints and avoid wandering hands.
She’s a dangerous girl. More dangerous than Henry knows, probably.
"You can change your mind," I say, breaking the silence. "We can turn around, drop you back in Belfast. Your call."
She doesn't look at me. "And then what?"
"Then you deal with whatever comes next."
"Like Sean's father coming for revenge?"
"Like that."
She's quiet for another few minutes, thinking it through. Smart girl. She knows there's no going back now, not after what happened in that alley. Blood's been spilled, lines have been crossed. Belfast's not safe for her anymore.
But then again, nowhere's really safe in our world. There are just different degrees of danger, different flavors of violence.
"Why do you care?" she asks suddenly.
"What?"
"Why do you care if I change my mind? You're just the messenger, right? The job's the same either way."
Good question. Why do I care? A week ago, she was just a name on a piece of paper. A target to be retrieved, nothing more. A package to be delivered to Henry Gallagher's doorstep.
Now, she's something else. Something I can't quite name.
"Maybe I don't like seeing people trapped," I say.
"Everyone's trapped by something."
"Not everyone."
"No? What are you trapped by?"
The question hits harder than it should. What am I trapped by? Guilt that Jer trusts me like a son and I’ll never live up to it? Anger at a dead woman who lied about everything? The need to prove I’m more than just a thief with good reflexes?
All of the above, probably.
"Ghosts," I say finally.
She turns to look at me then, her blue eyes studying my face like she's trying to read something there. It’s dangerous territory. I don't like being read, especially not by women who see too much.
"What kind of ghosts?"
"The kind that don't stay buried."
Ava's face flashes through my mind. Beautiful, lying Ava with her secrets and her married life, I never knew about. Sometimes I think the worst part isn't that she's dead; it's that I never really knew her at all.
Our last fight plays on repeat in my head like a broken record. I should've seen the signs, should've known something was wrong. But I was too caught up in the fantasy of what we were to see the reality of what she was.
"Where the hell have you been?" I ask.
Ava’s in my kitchen, making tea like she belongs there. Like she hasn't been gone for three weeks without explanation.
"Out."
"Out where?"
"Christ, Freddie, what are you, my keeper?"
She’s different. Distant. She keeps checking her phone, jumping every time it buzzes. Acting like she has somewhere else to be, someone else to see.
I should've trusted my instincts. I should've known.
"Just wondering. You've been... off lately."
"Off how?"
"I don't know. Secretive. Like you're hiding something."
That's when she snaps. She turns on me with fury I've never seen from her before, her eyes blazing like I've accused her of murder instead of just asking where she's been.
"You want to know where I was, Freddie? Fine. I was thinking. About this. About us. About what a fucking mistake this whole thing is."
The words cut deeper than any blade. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means I'm not some little girl you can keep tabs on. It means I have a life outside of whatever this is."
"Whatever this is? Jesus, Ava, you’ve never been like this. What the fuck?"
"You’re an arsehole, Freddie. You keep me on a string, dangling some slither of hope in front of me before pulling it away whenever I get attached.
You’re a bastard. We just fuck whenever the mood strikes.
So what I do is none of your damn business.
I am not yours, so you don’t need to keep tabs on me.
Hell, you don’t need to worry about me at all.
That’s something you're good at—burying your head in the ground whenever things get tough.
Walking away from those who mean something.
When was the last time you saw your da?"
Cruel. Designed to hurt. And it worked.
"Fuck you," I snarl.
"Fuck you and your paranoid bullshit."
The slap comes out of nowhere; a sharp crack across my cheek that leaves my ears ringing and my pride bleeding. Never saw it coming. Never thought she'd hit me.
"Get out," I hiss, voice quiet, dangerous; the tone I use when I'm one word away from doing something I'll regret. "Get the fuck out of my flat and don't come back."
She left. Packed up her apartment without a word and walked away, leaving Dublin. It was the last time I saw her alive.
Over a year later, and I’m staring at her gravestone, wondering if that fight was her way of saying goodbye. If she knew she was going back to her real life and needed to burn the bridge behind her.
I still don't know. I never will.
"You alright?"
Alastríona's voice pulls me back to the present. She's watching me with those sharp blue eyes, seeing more than I want her to.
"Fine."
"Liar."
"Takes one to know one."
"Fair point."
Silence stretches between us again, but it's different now. Less hostile, more… understanding. Like we're both carrying weight we can't put down.
"Can I ask you something?" she says.
"Shoot."
"This family I'm going to meet—are they good people?"
Loaded question. Are any of us good people? We kill for money, steal for sport, and build empires on blood and fear. But we also protect what's ours, honor our debts, and keep our word when it matters.
"Define good."
"Will they hurt me?"
"No. Never."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because you're family, and family's everything to people like us."
"People like us?"
"People who don't have much else to believe in."
She considers this, nodding slowly. "My dad used to say that blood was thicker than water."
"Smart man."
"He was. Stubborn as hell too."
"Runs in the family, from what I hear." That gets me almost a smile. Progress.
"What's Henry like?" she asks.
"Hard to say. I've only met him a few times. Old school Irish mob. He built everything from nothing and commands respect wherever he goes. Loves his family fiercely."
"And what does he want with me?"
"To know you're safe. To know Killian's daughter is looked after."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
Lie. I’m not sure what Henry wants. He wants her with him because she’s Killian’s flesh and blood, making her Henry’s. But beyond that, I have no idea what the old man wants or what plans he has.
But she'll figure out soon enough what his plans are. There’s no point poisoning the well before she's even met the man.
We're coming up on Dublin now. The city lights are in the distance, sprawling across the horizon like fallen stars. Home. Or what passes for it.
Funny how a place can feel like home and a prison at the same time. Dublin's given me everything—purpose, family, a reason to get up in the morning. But it's also trapped me in cycles of violence I can't seem to break.
"It's beautiful," Alastríona says, looking at the lights.
"Yeah. It is."
"You grew up here?"
"Partly. Spent most of my childhood on the streets before Jer found me."
"Jer?"
"Jerry Houlihan. My boss. The man who saved my life."
"Saved it how?"
"Jer pulled me out of a life that would've killed me before I turned twenty. He gave me purpose, training, and a family of sorts."
"Sounds like a good man."
"The best."
My phone rings. Stephen's name is on the screen.
"Yeah?"
"Freddie." His voice is flat, emotionless. Wrong. Stephen’s usually good at hiding things. But I know him too well. Something’s wrong. Too fucking wrong. "Where are you?"
"About an hour from Henry’s. Why?"
Silence. Too long. Stephen's never one for dramatic pauses.
"Stephen? What's happened?"
"Jer's dead."
The words hit like a punch to the gut. I can't breathe for a moment, can't think. The phone feels heavy in my hand, like it's made of lead.
Jer. The man who pulled me off the streets, gave me purpose, and taught me everything I know about surviving in this world. The closest thing to a father I ever had.
Gone.
"How?"
"Trace Harrington. We had a meeting. Everyone, and I mean everyone important, was in attendance, and the fucking coward did his fucking shit again—took him out from a rooftop. Bullet to the head."
Trace. Ava's husband. The man who owned her heart while I was playing with borrowed time.
Everything connects. Everything clicks into place with sickening clarity. Ava's death wasn't random, it wasn't an accident. It was part of something bigger, something that's been building for months.
And now Jer's been caught in the crossfire.
"You there?" Stephen asks.
"Yeah."
The word comes out strangled. I have to clear my throat, try again.
"Yeah. I'm here."