Chapter 6 #2
"Blood or marriage, yeah. We don't trust outsiders with real power—too easy for them to develop their own ambitions."
"And where do I fit in this empire?"
"Wherever you want. You're Killian's daughter; that makes you royalty whether you like it or not. You could run your own territory someday, if that's what you want."
My own territory. My own piece of an empire built on blood and bullets. The idea should terrify me, but instead it's oddly appealing. Power instead of helplessness. Control instead of being at the mercy of men like Sean Jennings.
"What if I don't want any of it?"
"Then you don't take it. Your choice. But you'll always be family, always be protected. That doesn't change."
"Marcus doesn't seem to think I belong."
"Marcus has been Henry's right hand for forty years. He's suspicious of anyone who might change the dynamics he's comfortable with."
"Will I? Change things?"
"Probably. Change isn't always bad, though. Sometimes families need fresh blood, new perspectives."
We sit in comfortable silence for a while, watching shadows move across Henry's perfect lawn. Denis has a calming presence, the kind of steady confidence that comes from knowing exactly who you are and where you belong.
Wish I had that certainty.
"Can I ask you something?" I say.
"Anything."
"Do you think Dad was right? Keeping me away from all this?"
Denis considers the question seriously, not rushing to easy answers.
"Killian loved you more than life itself. Everything he did was to give you choices he never had. Can't fault a man for wanting better for his daughter."
"That's not an answer."
"Isn't it? Killian gave you eighteen years of normal life. He let you be a kid instead of a soldier. Now you're old enough to decide for yourself what kind of life you want."
"And if I decide I don't want this life?"
"Then you don't want it. But you'll know what you're choosing, instead of having the choice made for you."
Fair point. At least now I know what I'm walking away from, if that's what I choose.
"Tell me about Trace Harrington."
Denis' expression hardens. "Dangerous man.
Smart, ruthless, patient. His father was part of the Boston Elite Syndicate.
It was five families that ruled Boston together, but the Harringtons got greedy and tried to expand.
His father's dead and Trace is on a warpath.
He thinks killing our people will make us weak, make us fold. "
"Will it?"
"Not bloody likely. But it'll cost us. Already has."
"How many have died?"
"Too many. Good people, loyal people. People who trusted us to keep them safe."
The weight of leadership in his voice; the burden of being responsible for other people's lives, other people's safety...
"I'm sorry."
"Not your fault. But it's why you're here, why Henry brought you home. We can't protect you from a distance."
"And if being here puts more people at risk?"
"Then we deal with that risk. Together. As a family."
Family. It always comes back to that with these people. Blood as bond, blood as protection, blood as the only thing that really matters in a world gone mad.
"Alastríona?"
Denis' voice is gentle, understanding. Like he knows exactly what's going through my head.
"Yeah?"
"You don't have to decide anything today. Take your time, get to know us. Figure out if this feels like home or just another kind of prison."
"And if it feels like prison?"
"Then we'll figure out how to open the doors."
A simple promise honestly given. It’s the first time since arriving that someone's acknowledged I might not want to stay.
It makes me like Denis more than I probably should.
* * *
Freddie arrives as the sun's setting, looking like he hasn't slept in days. There are shadows under his eyes and tension in his shoulders that speaks to violence planned or violence done. I hadn’t expected to see him again, but I’m happy he’s here, and that scares me.
"Long day?" I ask as I take a seat on the comfortable chair in Henry's library. It's the only place I've found that's private, where I don't feel as though I'm being watched.
"Long enough." Freddie settles into the chair across from mine. "How are you holding up?"
"Still breathing."
"That's something."
"Is it? Marcus seems to think I'm a liability waiting to happen."
"Marcus thinks everyone's a liability until they prove otherwise."
"And how do I prove otherwise?"
"By being yourself. By not letting them turn you into something you're not."
Easy for him to say. He knows who he is, where he belongs. He doesn't have to navigate the space between family loyalty and personal conscience.
"Denis told me about the empire," I say. "Countries, territories, legitimate businesses mixed with less legitimate ones."
"Big operation."
"Bigger than I expected. Makes Belfast look like a playground fight."
Freddie's quiet for a moment, studying my face like he's trying to read something there.
"Having second thoughts?"
"Having first thoughts. I haven't really processed any of this yet."
"Take your time. No rush."
But there is a rush, isn't there? A war's coming, people are dying, and every day I delay deciding where I stand is another day of uncertainty for everyone involved.
"Tell me about your friend," I say. "The one who died. Jer. You said he saved your life. You must be in pain."
Pain flickers across Freddie's face, quickly hidden but not quick enough.
"Jer was... He was the closest thing to a father I ever had. He pulled me off the streets when I was fourteen, taught me everything I know about surviving in this world."
"I'm sorry for your loss."
"He was a good man. Better than most in our line of work."
"What was your line of work?"
"Thief. Best in Ireland, according to Jer."
"And now?"
"Now I'm whatever I'm needed to be."
"Including my bodyguard?"
"If that's what it takes."
We're sitting closer than we should be; close enough that I can feel the heat of his breath on me. He’s close enough that I can smell his cologne, and notice the way his hands move when he talks.
It’s dangerous territory. Getting attached to a man like Freddie is a good way to end up hurt.
"You don't have to protect me," I say.
"Yeah, I do."
"Why?"
"Because someone should. Because you matter."
The words hit harder than they should. Nobody's said I matter in eighteen months. Nobody's cared whether I live or die since Dad was buried.
"I can take care of myself."
"I know. I saw you with those men in Belfast, remember? But taking care of yourself and having someone watch your back aren't the same thing."
True. I’ve been fighting alone so long, I'd forgotten what it felt like to have someone in my corner.
"What happens now?" I ask.
"Now we figure out how to keep you safe while we deal with Trace."
"Deal with how?"
His face goes hard, dangerous. "However we have to."
It’s a death sentence, delivered with the same casual tone Denis used earlier. In their world, threats get eliminated. Permanently.
"And after? When Trace is dead and the war's over?"
"Then you decide what kind of life you want. Stay here, go back to Belfast, go somewhere else entirely. Your choice."
"Is it? Or will Henry expect me to take over some piece of his empire?"
"Henry expects a lot of things. Doesn't mean you have to give them to him."
We're quiet for a while, the weight of unspoken possibilities hanging between us. Outside, Dublin settles into the evening, unaware that empires are being planned and wars are being fought in houses like this one.
"Can I ask you something?" I say.
"Shoot."
"Ava—what did she do to you?"
Freddie goes very still. It’s a dangerous question, I realize. But I need to know what I'm dealing with; what ghosts are haunting the man who's supposed to protect me.
"I thought I was in love with her, but she was married to Trace."
I swallow hard at his words. She was married to the man who's killing everyone. He said he thought he was in love with her. "But you weren't?"
"Turns out you can't love someone you don't really know."
"And you didn't know her?"
"Not at all. Everything I thought I knew was a lie."
The pain in his voice… carefully controlled but unmistakable. Whatever Ava was to him, her betrayal cut deep.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. She made her choices. We all make our choices."
"Do we? Or do circumstances make them for us?"
"Bit of both, probably."
He's looking at me with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken. Like he's seeing something he wants, something worth fighting for.
It’s a dangerous look. The kind that makes smart women do stupid things.
"Freddie."
"Yeah?"
"What are we doing here?"
"What do you mean?"
"This. Us. Sitting here talking like we're friends instead of strangers thrown together by circumstances."
"Maybe we're figuring out if we could be more than strangers."
The honesty in his voice catches me off guard. No games, no pretense. Just truth simply stated.
"And what if we could be?"
"Then we deal with whatever comes next."
He reaches for my hand, his fingers intertwining with mine. His touch is warm, solid, real in a way nothing else has been since I walked through Henry's gates.
"Alastríona."
My name sounds different in his voice. Softer, more intimate. Like a prayer or a promise.
"This is complicated," I say.
"The best things usually are."
He's closer now, close enough that I can feel his breath on my face. Close enough to see the want in his eyes, the careful control that's keeping him from taking what he clearly wants.
"I don't trust easily," I warn.
"Neither do I."
"I've been hurt before."
"So have I."
"I might not stay."
"I know."
"I might leave tomorrow and never look back."
"I know that too."
But he's still moving closer, still looking at me like I'm worth the risk. Like whatever this is between us might be worth exploring, even if it ends badly.
When he kisses me, it's gentle at first. Careful, like he's giving me time to change my mind. But when I don't pull away, and when I kiss him back, it deepens into something hungry, desperate.
Like we're both drowning and this is the only thing that makes sense.
His hands cup my face, his thumbs tracing my cheekbones. I can taste whiskey on his lips, feel the controlled strength in his touch. This is a man who could break me without trying, but he's holding me like I'm made of glass.
It makes me want to trust him. Makes me want to believe this could be real, could be worth the risk.
But trust is a luxury I can't afford. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
I pull back, breaking the kiss. I put distance between us before I do something stupid like fall for a man whose job is protecting me.
"I can't," I say.
"Can't what?"
"This. Whatever this is. I can't trust it."
Pain flickers in his eyes, quickly hidden. "Because of the job?"
"Because of everything. My father lied to me my entire life. My mother walked away without a word. Everyone I've ever trusted has either died or disappeared."
"I'm not them."
"Aren't you? You're here because Henry pays you to be here. When the job's done, when I'm safe, what happens then?"
"I don't know."
"Neither do I. And that's the problem."
We sit in silence, the weight of what just happened and what didn't happen pressing down between us.
"I should go," Freddie says finally.
"Yeah. You should."
But neither of us moves. We sit there, looking at each other, both wanting something we can't have. Both knowing this is as close as we can get without destroying whatever fragile thing we've built.
Finally, he stands, straightens his jacket, and runs a hand through his hair.
"For what it's worth," he says, "I'd choose you. Job or no job, money or no money. I'd choose you."
The words hit like a punch to the chest. Honest, painful, everything I want to hear and everything I can't afford to believe.
"Don't," I say.
"Don't what?"
"Don't make promises you can't keep."
"Who says I can't keep them?"
"Experience. History. The fact that everyone who's ever made me promises has broken them."
He nods, understanding. "Fair enough. But the offer stands, when you're ready to believe it."
Then he's gone, leaving me alone in Henry's library with the taste of whiskey on my lips and the echo of promises I'm too scared to trust.
I sit surrounded by books worth more than most people's lives, wondering if I'm strong enough to risk my heart on a man whose world is built on violence and secrets.
I wonder if any of us are strong enough for what's coming.