Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
freddie
The warehouse smells like rust and old blood.
Not the best place for a meeting after a death, but it's where we always meet when things go sideways. Away from prying eyes, away from ears that don't belong. Just us and the ghosts of every job we've pulled and every score we've made under Jer's guidance.
Stephen's already here when I arrive, sitting on a crate with his head in his hands. Emmanuel's pacing like a caged animal, all nervous energy and barely contained violence. And Maverick...
Christ, Maverick looks like he wants to burn down half of Dublin.
He’s Jer's nephew. The closest thing the man had to a son. Twenty-eight years old and hard as nails, but right now he looks like a kid who's lost his father all over again.
"Freddie." Stephen looks up when I walk in. His eyes are red-rimmed, whether from grief or rage, I can't tell. Probably both.
"How bad?" I ask.
"Bad." Emmanuel stops pacing and fixes me with a stare. "Trace took him out clean. Professional hit. Bullet to the head from a rooftop three blocks away."
"Any witnesses see where that fucker went?"
"None who are talking."
Of course not. Trace Harrington is too smart to leave loose ends.
Maverick's been quiet, but now he looks up. When he speaks, his voice is flat, dead. Dangerous.
"I'm going to kill him."
Simple statement. Matter of fact. Like he's talking about the weather instead of declaring war on one of the most connected men in Boston.
"Mav—" Stephen starts.
"I'm going to find Trace Harrington and put a bullet through his fucking skull. Slowly. Make him beg first."
"That's not how this works," I say.
Maverick's on his feet in a heartbeat, getting in my face. "Don't tell me how this works. Don't tell me anything. You weren't even here when it happened. You were off playing nursemaid to some Belfast princess while my uncle died."
The accusation hits like a slap. He's right. I was with Alastríona when Jer needed me most. Playing chauffeur with Henry Gallagher's granddaughter while the closest thing to a father I ever had bled out in the street.
"I was doing my job," I say quietly.
"Your job?" Maverick laughs but there's no humor in it. "Your job was here. With us. With him."
"Enough." Stephen's voice cuts through the tension. "Fighting each other won't bring Jer back."
"Nothing will bring him back," Maverick says. "But we can make sure the bastard who killed him pays for it."
He's spiraling. Grief and rage are making him stupid, making him think with his fists instead of his head. Jer would've hated seeing him like this.
"What did Henry say?" Emmanuel asks.
"About what?"
"About his granddaughter. About how this changes things."
Good question. How does this change things? Alastríona's here now, under Henry's protection. Trace knows she exists, knows she's Killian's daughter. That makes her a target, but it also makes her valuable.
"He wants her kept safe. Protected."
"By who?" Maverick's voice is bitter. "You? The man who was like a son to Jer, but wasn't even here?"
The words cut deep because they're true. I should've been there, should've seen this coming, should've done something to prevent it.
"That's not fair," Stephen says.
"Isn't it? Freddie's off playing hero for some girl he's known for three days while Jer dies. Tell me how that's fair."
"Jer wasn't alone," Emmanuel says quietly. "I was there. Stephen was there. We all were."
"But not Freddie."
The accusation hangs in the air like smoke. They're all looking at me now, weighing whether I'm still one of them or if I've gone soft. If the job's compromised me somehow.
Maybe it has. Maybe watching Alastríona fight for her life in that alley, seeing her try to build something from nothing in Belfast, has reminded me what it feels like to care about someone other than myself.
Dangerous territory. In our world, caring about people gets them killed.
“Fuck no,” Stephen hisses. “We’re all reeling from Jer’s death, but we’re not doing this shit. You can be upset that he wasn’t here, but he’s not to blame for this.”
Emmanuel nods. “He’s right, Mav. Freddie’s not to blame for any of this and you damn well know it. He’s lost more than anyone because of this cunt.”
I watch as Maverick’s entire body deflates. He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he says low.
I shake my head. “I get it. I’m pissed too. We’re going to find this fucker and we’re going to kill him.”
"Tell us about Boston," Stephen says. "What did you find out about Ava and Trace?"
I sit on a crate, trying to organize my thoughts.
"Ava was married to Trace for two years. She was living a double life, going from Boston to Dublin and back; she had an apartment in both places, bank accounts in both places. She was playing both sides."
"We knew that already," Emmanuel says.
"Did you know she was pregnant when she died?"
That stops them cold. Three faces are staring at me like I've just announced the world's ending.
"Pregnant?" Stephen's voice is careful, controlled. "How pregnant?"
"Report said six weeks."
"Whose?" Maverick asks.
It’s the question I knew was coming. It had been over a year since I had seen Ava. No way could it have been mine.
"His," I say, anger and betrayal coating my words.
"But it could be yours."
"Not mine," I say adamantly. Ava changed a long fucking time ago.
Silence stretches between us. Four men trying to process what this means and how it changes things. Why the hell did Trace kill her knowing she was carrying his child?
"It changes nothing," I say finally. "She's dead. The baby's dead. Trace still needs to pay."
"Does it change nothing?" Maverick asks. “Trace being married to Ava and her having his baby has to have fucked with your head?"
"I can think fine."
"Can you? Because right now, you look like a man who's living as a ghost, who’s got nothing to fight for. And men like that make mistakes."
He's not wrong. I haven't been thinking clearly since I found out about Ava's double life. Between her betrayal and Jer's death and this growing thing I feel for Alastríona, my head's a mess.
But that doesn't mean I can't do my job.
"I'm fine," I say.
"Prove it."
"How?"
"By putting the family first. By remembering where your loyalties lie."
Another test. Another way of asking if I'm still one of them or if I've gone soft over a blue-eyed girl from Belfast.
"My loyalties haven't changed."
"Haven't they? Because from what I hear, you've been very cozy with Henry's granddaughter. Getting close to her. That sound like keeping professional distance to you?"
“I’m not distracted, and I’m not doing anything with her. She’s a job. That’s it.” Even though the words sound plausible, I know damn well that I’m lying.
Maverick nods. “None of us need distractions right now.”
"Lorenzo's got a lead," Stephen says, changing the subject.
"What kind of lead?" I ask.
"Someone close to Trace. Someone who might be willing to flip."
"Who?"
"Won't say yet. But Lorenzo thinks it's promising. Someone with access, someone who's been watching Trace operate."
Good news, finally. Lorenzo Mariano's got connections throughout Boston's underworld.
If anyone can find us an inside man, it's him.
His father is the head of the Mariano Famiglia.
The family is part of the Boston Elite Syndicate.
Trace killed Lorenzo's ma not that long ago—yet more deaths caused by the bastard.
He's got enemies queuing up to kill him.
"Timeline?" Emmanuel asks.
"Soon. Days, not weeks."
"Not soon enough," Maverick says. "Jer's dead now. Every day we wait is another day Trace thinks he's untouchable."
"Rushing gets people killed," I point out.
"So does waiting."
True enough. But there's a difference between moving fast and moving stupid. Jer taught me that, back when I was young and thought every job needed to be a smash-and-grab.
"We do this right," Stephen says. "The way Jer would've wanted. Clean, professional, no unnecessary risks."
"Jer would've wanted Trace dead by now," Maverick argues.
"Jer would've wanted us to survive long enough to enjoy the revenge."
Can't argue with that. Jer was always about the long game, about building something that lasted. He'd have hated the idea of us throwing our lives away on a suicide mission, no matter how satisfying it might be.
"What about the girl?" Emmanuel asks. "Henry's granddaughter. Is she being protected?"
"She is," I confirm.
"By you?"
"Doubt it. He has his own men to guard her. But if he needs me, I'll be there."
Maverick snorts. "You can’t see it, can you, Freddie? You’re invested in this girl already. Henry’s got enough men to watch her. Why would he need you? What's she to us?"
Good question. What is Alastríona to us? To me? She's Henry's blood, which makes her valuable. She's Killian's daughter, which makes her a symbol. She's a beautiful woman with sharp edges and blue eyes, which makes her dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with the job.
"She's family," I say finally.
"She's a stranger; a Belfast bar girl who's been living outside the life for eighteen years. What does she know about loyalty? About sacrifice? About doing what needs to be done?"
"She knows more than you think."
"Does she? Or are you seeing what you want to see?"
Maybe I am. Maybe I'm projecting strength onto her because I need her to be strong. Because I need something good in this fucked-up world, something that isn't built on blood and bullets.
"Doesn't matter," Stephen says. "Henry wants her protected, so she gets protected. End of discussion."
But it's not the end, is it? This tension between the job and whatever I'm feeling for Alastríona—that's just getting started.
Family or the girl? The life or something that might be better?
I hope it doesn't come to that. I hope I'm strong enough to do the right thing if it does.
"Meeting's over," Stephen says. "We all know what we need to do. Let's do it."
* * *
I should go back to my flat. Should get some sleep, clear my head, and prepare for whatever's coming next. Instead, I find myself driving through Dublin's quiet streets toward Henry's house.
I’m just checking on her, I tell myself. Just making sure she's safe, that Henry's security is doing its job. Professional responsibility, nothing more.
Bullshit, and I know it.
I park across the street and settle in to watch. The house is quiet, most of the windows are dark. Security patrol makes their rounds every twenty minutes, with clockwork precision that speaks to military training.
Henry's not taking any chances. Good.
A light comes on in the blue room. Her room. I can see her shadow moving around behind the curtains, pacing back and forth like she can't settle.
I don't blame her. This is her first day with a family she's never met, learning truths about her father that change everything she thought she knew. It would be enough to keep anyone awake.
The shadow stops moving. For a moment, I think she's gone to bed. Then the curtains part slightly, and I catch a glimpse of her face. She's looking out at the street, maybe sensing she's being watched.
Smart girl—those survival instincts kept her alive in Belfast.
She disappears from the window, and I think that's the end of it. Time to go home, get some sleep, and pretend I'm not developing feelings for a woman who's supposed to be just another job.
Then music starts playing. Soft, barely audible from across the street. Classical, maybe. Something with strings and sadness. The kind of music people play when they're trying to make sense of their lives.
Her shadow appears again, but different now, it’s moving with rhythm, with purpose. She's dancing.
Dancing alone in a dead man's room to music that sounds like heartbreak.
I should leave, give her privacy and let her process whatever she's feeling without an audience. But I can't move. Can't look away from this private moment, this glimpse of who she is when she thinks nobody's watching.
She moves like water, like smoke. Graceful despite the grief she's carrying, beautiful despite the anger. Like she's dancing with ghosts, with memories of a father who taught her to survive but not how to live.
It makes me think of Ava, of the nights she'd put on music and dance around my flat while I watched from the kitchen. She moved differently than Alastríona—more aware of her audience, more performed. But the sadness was the same.
Women dancing with ghosts. Story of my fucking life.
The music stops. Alastríona's shadow goes still for a moment, then disappears from the window. The light goes out a few minutes later, leaving the room dark.
I sit there for another hour, watching the house sleep. Telling myself I'm doing my job, keeping her safe. Knowing I'm really here because I can't stay away.
Dangerous territory. Jer always warned me about jobs that get personal, about targets that become people instead of objectives. He said that's how good thieves become dead thieves.
But Jer's gone now. And I'm sitting in my car at two in the morning, watching a house where a blue-eyed girl dances alone with her father's ghost.
Maybe Maverick's right. Maybe I have gone soft.
Maybe that's not entirely a bad thing.
My phone buzzes with a text from Stephen.
Lorenzo's contact wants to meet. Tomorrow night. This could be our break.
Our break. Our chance to get inside Trace's operation, to find the weakness that'll let us put a bullet through his skull.
Justice for Jer. Justice for Ava, maybe. Justice for everyone who's died because Trace Harrington thinks he can take what doesn't belong to him.
I should be excited. Should be planning, strategizing, thinking about how to make the most of this opportunity.
Instead, I'm thinking about a woman dancing alone in the dark, trying to make sense of a life that's been turned upside down.
I’m thinking about how to keep her safe in a world that's about to explode into violence.
I’m thinking about the choices I'm going to have to make, and whether I'm strong enough to make the right ones.
The house stays quiet. Dublin sleeps around me, unaware that tomorrow might be the day everything changes.
I start the car and drive home, carrying the image of her dancing with me. Knowing I'll see it again every time I close my eyes.
Knowing I'm already too far gone to turn back now.