Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
alastríona
Marcus is everywhere.
I wake up to find him in the kitchen, reading a newspaper like he owns the place.
"Sleep well?" he asks, not looking up from his paper.
"Like the dead."
Poor choice of words in a house full of people who make their living from death. But Marcus just smiles, that cold expression that never reaches his eyes.
"Henry thought you might like to see the grounds today. Get familiar with your new home."
My new home. Like it's already decided, like I don't get a say in where I live or how long I stay.
"That's thoughtful of him."
"He's a thoughtful man. Generous to those who deserve it."
The implication hangs in the air like smoke. Be grateful. Be compliant. Earn your place in this family or find yourself back on the streets of Belfast.
I pour coffee from the pot he's already made. It’s black and strong enough to wake the dead. "What exactly do you do here, Marcus?"
"Whatever Henry needs."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you need."
We stare at each other across the kitchen table. Him with his practiced smile and cold eyes, me with my father's stubborn streak and eighteen years of surviving without family protection.
"I think I'll explore on my own," I say.
"I'll come with you. Make sure you don't get lost."
"I'm sure I can manage."
"Henry insists."
Henry insists. Like I'm a child who can't be trusted alone, or a prisoner who might try to escape. Maybe both.
I finish my coffee in silence while Marcus pretends to read his paper. Every few seconds, I catch him watching me over the top of the pages, studying me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve.
It makes my skin crawl.
* * *
The grounds are beautiful; I'll give Henry that. Rolling green lawns that probably cost more to maintain than most people make in a year, rose gardens that look like something from a magazine, tennis court, swimming pool—the kind of luxury I've only seen in movies.
All of it surrounded by walls topped with security cameras.
"Impressive, isn't it?" Marcus says, walking beside me like a shadow I can't shake.
"It's something."
"Your father used to love this garden. Spent hours here as a boy, climbing trees and getting into trouble."
Another story about Dad I never knew. Another piece of a life that was kept from me.
"What was he like? As a child?"
"Wild. Reckless. Always getting into fights, always defending the underdog. Henry used to say Killian had too much heart for this business."
"Too much heart?"
"Compassion can be a weakness in our world. It makes you hesitate when you should act, trust when you should suspect."
It’s like he's warning me that having too much heart is a family failing I need to watch out for.
"Maybe the world needs more compassion."
"Maybe. But compassion doesn't keep your family safe."
We walk in silence for a while, Marcus pointing out features of the grounds like he's giving a tour: the greenhouse where Henry grows orchids, the old stable that's been converted into a garage for his collection of vintage cars, the guest cottage where visiting family stays.
All very civilized. All very normal. Like violence is just a hobby practiced somewhere else.
"You don't trust me," Marcus says suddenly.
"Should I?"
"Probably not. Trust is earned, not given."
At least he's honest about it.
"Why don't you like me?" I ask.
"What makes you think I don't like you?"
"The way you look at me like I'm going to steal the silver. The way you follow me around like I'm a flight risk."
He stops walking and turns to face me. For the first time since I've met him, the practiced smile is gone.
"I've been with this family for forty years, I’ve watched them build something from nothing, witnessed them survive wars that should have destroyed them. You know what threatens families like ours?"
"What?"
"Outsiders who don't understand the rules. Who think they can change things, make them softer. Who bring weakness where we need strength."
"And that's what you think I am? A weakness?"
"I think you're eighteen years removed from this life. I think you have ideals about right and wrong that don't exist in our world. I think you could get people killed with your compassion."
Harsh words but probably fair ones. I don't understand their rules, their codes, their casual acceptance of violence as a solution to problems.
"Maybe that's not entirely a bad thing."
"Isn't it? Tell me, how many people died because your father tried to keep you separate from this life? How many wars could have been avoided if Killian had brought you home instead of playing house in Belfast?"
The questions hit like slaps. Is he right? Did Dad's decision to keep me away cause more harm than good? Are people dead because he chose my innocence over family unity?
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I? Your father's been dead eighteen months. In that time, we've lost a dozen good men to Trace Harrington's war. Might have been different if Killian had been here, focused on family business instead of divided between two lives."
"That's not my fault."
"Isn't it? You're here now because Trace is targeting Henry's family. Because he knows killing Killian's daughter would break the old man's heart. Your very existence makes this family vulnerable."
The words cut deeper than they should. Because there's truth in them, logic I can't argue with. Maybe I am a weakness they can't afford.
Maybe everyone would be safer if I went back to Belfast.
"Then why did Henry bring me here?"
"Because he's a sentimental old man who loves his dead son. Because he sees Killian in your face and thinks that's enough."
"And you don't?"
"I think you're a pretty girl who's lived a soft life. I think when the bullets start flying, you'll break. And when you break, you'll take good men down with you."
We stare at each other in Henry's perfect garden, surrounded by wealth built on blood. Two people who understand each other perfectly and like each other not at all.
"Guess we'll find out," I say finally.
"Yes," Marcus agrees. "We will."
* * *
I'm sitting by Henry's pool, trying to process Marcus' words, when a new voice cuts through my brooding.
"You must be Alastríona."
I turn to see a man approaching, mid-forties with salt-and-pepper hair and laugh lines around his eyes. He's tall, well-dressed but not flashy, with the kind of easy confidence that comes from being comfortable in your own skin.
"Denis," he says, extending his hand. "Your cousin."
His grip is firm, warm. His smile reaches his eyes, unlike Marcus' practiced expressions. For the first time since arriving, I feel like someone's actually happy to see me.
"Hi, Denis," I say, wary of the man in front of me.
He settles into the chair beside mine. "Mind if I join you? It's beautiful out here."
"Course not."
He's got Dad's eyes, I realize, the same blue, same intelligence, and same hint of mischief lurking underneath. It makes my chest tight with unexpected emotion.
"You look like him," Denis says, reading my thoughts. "Killian. Same stubborn jaw, same way of holding yourself like you're ready to fight the world."
"Is that a bad thing?"
"Best thing about him. Well, that and his loyalty. Killian would have died for any of us, and we'd have done the same for him."
Would have. Past tense. Because Dad's gone and I'm here, trying to figure out where I fit in a family I never knew existed.
"Marcus thinks I'm going to get people killed."
Denis' expression darkens slightly. "Marcus thinks a lot of things. Most of them wrong."
"Is this one wrong?"
"You want an honest answer?"
"Always."
"I don't know. You're untested, untrained, unprepared for what's coming. But you're also Killian's daughter, and that means something. Means you've got steel in your spine whether you know it or not."
"How can you be sure?"
"Because soft people don't survive eighteen months alone in Belfast. Because soft people don't knife attackers in dark alleys."
Fair points. I haven't been soft, have I? I’ve been fighting for survival since the day Dad died, building something from nothing with just stubbornness and spite. I wonder how he knows about what the hell happened in that alleyway.
"Tell me about this world," I say. "Henry keeps talking about the family business, but nobody's explained what that actually means."
Denis is quiet for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "We're not saints, Alastríona. We don't pretend to be. We do what needs to be done to protect what's ours."
"Which is what, exactly?"
"Everything." He gestures toward the house, the grounds, the city beyond the walls. "Dublin, parts of Belfast, connections across Europe and America. Legitimate businesses, less legitimate enterprises. All of it built on one principle—family first, everything else second."
"And if someone threatens the family?"
"Then they stop being a threat. Permanently."
Simple words, but they carry weight. Death sentences delivered with the same casual tone most people use to discuss the weather.
"That's what this is about, isn't it? Trace Harrington threatening the family."
"Among other things. Trace thinks he can move into our territory, take what we've built. He's wrong."
"And I'm caught in the middle."
"You're not caught, love. You're home. There's a difference."
Home. That word again. Everyone keeps using it like saying it enough times will make it true.
"How big is this family?"
Denis settles back in his chair, warming to the subject. "Bigger than you might think. I run operations here in Ireland. My eldest son, Danny, runs Great Britain. Malcolm, my younger boy, handles Spain and Portugal."
Impressive reach. More than I expected from what I thought was just a Dublin gang.
"My sister, Makenna, runs the East Coast of America, Henry's son-in-law, Liam, controls Chicago, and his son, Hayden, has Indianapolis."
Jesus. It's not a family business; it's an empire stretching across continents, touching millions of lives.
"All family?"