Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
alastríona
The gates close behind us with a soft clang that sounds like a prison door.
Henry Gallagher's house isn't what I expected.
It's massive, three stories high. It probably cost more than most people see in a lifetime.
But it's not flashy. No gold lions or gaudy fountains.
Just old money trying to look respectable, like the violence that built it happened somewhere else entirely.
Freddie parks in front of steps, the engine ticks as it cools, and it’s the only sound in the sudden quiet.
"You ready for this?" he asks.
"No."
"Good. Means you're smart."
The front door opens before we reach it. A man steps out—mid-sixties, expensive suit, the kind of face that's seen too much and forgotten how to smile properly. He looks me up and down like I'm livestock at the market.
"Marcus Devlin," Freddie says quietly. "Henry's right hand. Don't let him intimidate you."
Too late for that. Marcus has the same energy as the men who used to visit Dad—dangerous, controlled; the type of men who'd put a bullet in your head and still make it to mass on Sunday.
"Miss Gallagher," Marcus says. His voice is smooth, practiced. "Your grandfather's been waiting."
Miss Gallagher. Not Grey, like I've been calling myself for eighteen years. Like my mother's name meant nothing.
"It's Grey," I say.
"Not anymore."
The words hit like a slap. Just like that, he's erasing the life I built, the name I chose. He’s making decisions about who I am before I've even stepped through the door.
Freddie's hand touches my elbow, steadying me. "Easy."
Marcus leads us through halls that smell like old leather. Portraits line the walls—hard-faced men with familiar eyes. My eyes, I realize with a jolt. Generations of Gallaghers staring down like they're judging whether I'm worthy of the name.
The sitting room is all dark wood and crystal decanters. A fire crackles in a fireplace big enough to roast a pig. And there, in a leather chair that might as well be a throne, sits the man who's been keeping my photo on his desk for eighteen years.
Henry Gallagher looks older than in the photos I found online. Frailer. But his eyes are as sharp as cut glass, and he’s taking in every detail as I stand in his doorway like a deer caught in headlights.
"Alastríona." His voice is rougher than I had imagined, worn down by decades of cigarettes and whiskey. "Christ, you look just like him."
Dad. He means Dad.
Something twists in my chest. Grief I thought I'd buried, anger I've been carrying for eighteen months. This man knew my father. Loved him. And I never even knew he existed.
"Mr. Gallagher," I say, because I don't know what else to call him. Grandfather feels too intimate for a stranger.
"Henry," he corrects. "Please. Sit."
I perch on the edge of a sofa that probably cost more than Murphy's entire inventory. Freddie settles beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off him. It’s a comfort I don't want to need but find myself grateful for anyway.
"Drink?" Henry asks.
"I'm fine."
"Nonsense. Marcus, pour the girl a whiskey. The good stuff."
Marcus moves to the sideboard without argument. Everything about this house runs on Henry's word, I realize. He’s King in his castle, surrounded by subjects who jump when he speaks.
"I'm sorry about Jer,” Henry says to Freddie as his face hardens. "Jer was a good man. Trace Harrington will pay for what he did."
Trace Harrington. The name hits Freddie like a physical blow. I see him flinch, and something dark flickers across his face.
"You knew him," I say. Not a question.
"Knew his wife," Freddie says quietly.
Henry shoots him a sharp look. "Ava."
"She's dead too."
"Good riddance," Marcus says, handing me a crystal glass filled with amber liquid. "Lying bitch got what she deserved."
"Marcus." Henry's voice carries a warning.
But the damage is done. I can see it in Freddie's face—pain, guilt, something that looks like self-hatred. Whatever Ava was to him, he loved her. And now she's gone, just another ghost haunting the spaces behind his eyes.
"Tell me about my father," I say, desperate to change the subject.
Henry's expression softens immediately. "Killian was..." He pauses, searching for words. "He was the best of us. Strong, principled, loved harder than any man I ever knew. Especially when it came to you."
"Then why didn't he tell me about you? About any of this?"
"Because he wanted you to have a choice. He wanted you to grow up normal, away from the business. He said if you never knew what you were missing, you'd never have to decide between family and conscience."
"He made that choice for me."
"Aye. And maybe he was wrong to, but everything he did was to protect you."
I take a sip of whiskey. It burns, but not enough. Nothing burns enough when you're learning your entire life has been built on lies.
"He talked about you constantly," Henry continues. "Carried pictures, bragged about your grades, your dancing, how smart you were. Proudest father I ever knew."
"But not proud enough to bring me home."
"This isn't home," Henry says gently. "Home is where you choose to make it. Killian chose to make his with you and your mother. This was just where he came to rest sometimes."
"What do you want from me?"
"I want you to be safe. To know where you come from. To understand that you're not alone in this world."
The words hit harder than they should. I've been alone for so long, I'd almost forgotten what it felt like to have people who cared whether I lived or died. Almost forgotten what it felt like to matter to anyone.
But this isn't real, is it? This warmth, this acceptance—it's not for me. It's for Killian's daughter. For what I represent, not who I am.
"Where's the photo?" I ask.
"What photo?"
"The one from when I was sixteen. Blue dress, flowers in my hair."
Henry's face crumples slightly. He rises to his feet and moves out of the room. He returns moments later carrying a frame. It’s the picture of me at my school's spring dance, grinning like I didn't have a care in the world.
Seeing it breaks something loose in my chest. All those years, all that time I thought nobody gave a damn about me, and this old man was carrying my picture around like a talisman.
"He sent it to me," Henry says quietly. "Said you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Said you got that from your mother, but the stubborn streak was all Gallagher."
I have to look away. I can't handle the love in his voice, the genuine warmth. It's too much, too fast. I'm not ready for family, for belonging, for any of this.
"You'll meet Denis soon," Henry says. "My grandson. Your cousin. He's been excited to meet you since he found out about you. Hell, the entire family is eager to meet you, but as Denis is closest, we thought it best that he’d be the only one to meet you just yet. We don’t want to overwhelm you."
Another cousin I never knew existed. Another piece of a puzzle I'm not sure I want to solve.
"How many are there? Cousins, I mean."
"Dozens. There are Gallaghers scattered across Dublin, Chicago, and New York. All family. All blood."
Blood. It always comes back to blood with people like this. Like sharing DNA makes you automatically trustworthy, automatically safe.
But I've met enough monsters to know blood doesn't mean anything.
"I'd like to see my room," I say. "If that's alright."
"Of course. Marcus will show you up. We've prepared the blue room. It was your father's when he was your age."
Dad's room. Christ. This stay is going to be like living in a museum dedicated to a man I'm starting to realize I never really knew.
Marcus leads me upstairs, Freddie trailing behind like a bodyguard. The blue room is exactly what you'd expect—tasteful, expensive, sterile. Like a hotel suite decorated by someone who's never had to live in it.
"Bathroom's through there," Marcus says, pointing to a door. "Breakfast's in thirty minutes. Henry likes punctuality."
"What if I'm not hungry?"
His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "You'll be hungry."
He leaves, closing the door behind him with a soft click. And suddenly I'm alone in a dead man's room, surrounded by ghosts I never knew I had.
The walls are covered with photos. Dad as a teenager, grinning with boys who must be his brothers, his cousins.
Dad in a suit, shaking hands with important-looking men.
Dad holding a baby—me, I realize with a start.
It must have been one of the few times he brought me here when I was too young to remember.
There's a photo on the nightstand that stops me cold. Dad and a woman I recognize from old pictures—my mother, before she became the bitter stranger who walked out on me. They're dancing at what looks like a wedding, both of them young and beautiful and completely in love.
Before Belfast. Before me. Before everything went to hell.
I sink onto the bed, overwhelmed. Too much information, too many emotions I don't know how to process. My entire life has been a lie, and now I'm supposed to just smile and play happy families with people who never bothered to find me until it was convenient.
A soft knock interrupts my spiral. "Come in."
Freddie appears in the doorway, looking uncertain. Like he's not sure if he's welcome.
"You alright?"
"Peachy."
He steps into the room and closes the door behind him. "That's the second time you've lied to me today."
"Who's counting?"
"I am."
He sits on the edge of the bed, careful to keep distance between us. Close enough to talk, far enough away that I don't feel cornered.
"This is hard," he says. "Finding out everything you believed was wrong. Having strangers tell you who you're supposed to be."
"Is that what this is? Strangers telling me who I'm supposed to be?"
"Partly. But also family trying to figure out where you fit."
"And if I don't want to fit?"
"Then you don't fit. Your choice."