Chapter 4 #2
Simple words, but they carry weight. Nobody's said that to me since Dad died—that I have choices, that what I want matters.
"Henry seems to think I don't have a choice."
"Henry's old and used to getting his way, but he can't make you stay if you don't want to."
"Can't he?"
Freddie's quiet for a moment, considering. "He could try. But it wouldn't work. You're not the type to be caged."
"How do you know what type I am?"
"Because I've been watching you for days. Because I saw how you handled those men in the alley. Because you'd rather fight the world alone than accept help from people you don't trust."
All true. But hearing it laid out like that makes me sound pathetic, stubborn for the sake of being stubborn.
"Maybe I should trust them."
"Maybe. But trust has to be earned, not demanded."
I pick up the photo of my parents and study their faces. They look so young, so hopeful. Like they believed their love could conquer anything.
"Do you think he was happy?" I ask. "My father?"
"What do you mean?"
"Living two lives. Family here, family with me. Keeping secrets from everyone he loved."
Freddie's quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is careful, measured.
"I think he did what he thought was right. Doesn't mean it was easy."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I've got."
Fair enough. We're all just making it up as we go along, aren't we? Trying to do right by the people we love while the world burns down around us.
Another knock. This time it's Marcus.
"Breakfast," he says. "Henry's waiting."
"We'll be right down," Freddie says.
But Marcus doesn't leave. He just stands there, watching me with those cold eyes.
"Something wrong?" I ask.
"Henry's been waiting eighteen years to meet you," he says. "Don't disappoint him."
The threat is subtle but unmistakable. Be grateful. Be compliant. Be the perfect granddaughter Henry's been dreaming of, or else.
"Wouldn't dream of it," I say sweetly.
Marcus leaves, but his warning hangs in the air like smoke.
"He doesn't like me," I observe.
"Marcus doesn't like anyone who might complicate Henry's plans."
"What plans?"
"The kind that involve using Killian's daughter to unite the family. The kind that turns you into a symbol instead of a person."
Great. From Belfast bar girl to Dublin symbol in one easy step. Just what I always wanted.
"Come on," Freddie says, standing. "Time to play happy families."
Breakfast is an awkward affair, with uncomfortable questions that sound like thinly veiled insults.
The food is excellent. The company is harder to swallow.
Henry tells stories about Dad; childhood pranks, teenage rebellion, the day he met my mother. Stories that make Dad sound like a real person instead of the saint I've been carrying around in my head.
"He was stubborn," Henry says, refilling my water glass. "Even as a boy. Once he made up his mind about something, God himself couldn't change it."
"Sounds familiar," Freddie murmurs.
I shoot him a look. He's barely touched his food and keeps checking his phone—probably thinking about his dead friend, about the war that's coming.
"Tell me about Trace Harrington," I say.
The temperature in the room drops ten degrees. Henry's face hardens, and Marcus sets down his fork with deliberate care.
"What do you want to know?" Henry asks.
"Why he's killing your people. What does he want?"
"He wants to destroy everything we've built. He thinks he can take over our territory, our business, our lives."
"And Ava? Where did she fit into all this?"
Freddie goes very still beside me. Dangerous territory, I realize. But I need to understand what I'm walking into.
"Ava was a mistake," Marcus says coldly. "A liability that should have been dealt with years ago."
"Marcus," Henry warns.
"She was playing both sides, feeding information to Harrington while pretending to be part of our world. Got people killed with her lies."
I glance at Freddie. His face is carved from stone, but I can see the pain underneath. Whatever Ava was to him, he loved her. And Marcus just called her a mistake.
"She's dead now," Henry says quietly. "No point dwelling on past mistakes."
But Freddie is dwelling. I can see it in the set of his shoulders, the way his hands have gone still on the table. He's thinking about a woman who lied to him, who got his friends killed, who died before he could get answers.
We're all haunted by ghosts, aren't we? All carrying around people who are gone but won't stay buried.
“Why me? Why is he coming after me? How does he even know about me?”
I watch as both Henry’s and Freddie’s eyes darken. “That’s something we’re looking into. No one should have known about you,” Henry says, his voice tight.
My stomach rolls as I realize just how much danger I’m in.
"I'm tired," I say, pushing back from the table. "It's been a long morning."
"Of course," Henry says. "Rest for today. This evening, we’ll have dinner, just the two of us, and tomorrow we'll start properly introducing you to the family."
More family. More strangers who'll look at me and see Killian instead of whoever I'm supposed to be.
I escape upstairs, Freddie following. He stops at my door; his hands shoved deep in his pockets.
"You did well down there," he says.
"I felt like I was performing in a play I've never read."
"That's exactly what it was."
We stand there for a moment, not speaking. The hallway is quiet, heavy with the weight of old secrets and older money.
"Freddie?"
"Yeah?"
"This Ava woman… Were you in love with her?"
His face closes off, shutters dropping over those dark eyes. "Why?"
"Because you look like someone who's been carved out from the inside. And I recognize the look."
He's quiet for so long I think he's not going to answer. When he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.
"I thought I was. Turns out I was in love with a lie."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. She made her choices. We all make our choices."
But some choices make us, don't they? Some choices hollow us out and leave us walking around like ghosts, going through the motions of living without remembering why it matters.
"Get some rest," he says. "Tomorrow's going to be complicated."
He walks away, disappearing down the hall. And I'm alone again, standing in a dead man's room, wearing a name that isn't mine, pretending to be grateful for a family that abandoned me.
I close the door and lean against it, overwhelmed. Too much has changed too fast. Last night, I was Alastríona Grey, Belfast bar girl with nothing to lose. This morning, I'm Alastríona Gallagher, Dublin princess with a target on her back.
Not sure which is worse.
The photo of my parents is still on the nightstand, still showing two people who believed love could conquer anything. They were wrong, of course. Love doesn't conquer anything. It just makes you vulnerable and gives your enemies something to aim at.
But looking at their faces, seeing how young and hopeful they were, I can almost understand why they tried.
I can almost understand why I'm here, in this room, surrounded by ghosts and promises I'm not sure I want to keep.
Almost.