Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
freddie
The church is packed.
It's been a very long time since I've seen so many dangerous men in one place trying to look respectable.
Black suits, polished shoes, hands clasped in front of them like they're praying instead of planning violence.
But that's what Jer would have wanted; dignity, respect, and the kind of send-off that honors what he built.
St. Audoen's Church in the Liberties, is where Jer was baptized almost sixty years ago. Where his mother brought him every Sunday until he was old enough to make his own choices about God and salvation. Seems fitting that we're saying goodbye to him here.
I'm in the front row with Maverick, Stephen, and Emmanuel.
The core of what Jer built, what he left behind.
Maverick's face is like stone, but I can see the muscle jumping in his jaw.
Stephen's staring straight ahead, his hands clenched so tight his knuckles are white.
Emmanuel keeps checking his watch like he's got somewhere else to be, but I know it's just nervous energy.
We're all dealing with this differently. All trying to hold it together for the people wanting to see us crumble, for the cops who are definitely watching from across the street, for the rival organizations who want to see if we'll fall apart without our leader.
Behind us, the church fills with the sound of footsteps and whispered conversations.
Lisa slides into the pew beside Maverick and takes his hand without a word.
Clodagh does the same with Emmanuel, and Jessica with Stephen.
The women understanding what we need without being asked.
Jess more so than the rest. She was Jer's niece. She's feeling this just as we are.
Denis is three rows back with his family, Callie looking elegant in black, their youngest kids trying to understand why everyone's so sad.
Chloe's there with Pyro, president of the Fury Vipers Dublin chapter.
Mary and Gareth flank their parents, while Fiadh and Tadgh, the youngest, sit quietly between their mother and father.
Nicola and Eric, Maverick and Callie's parents, sit with their son and daughter, heads bowed. Nicola's crying. She's now lost her sister and brother in the span of five years.
The Houlihan men fill the middle section of the church. Twenty-three of them—every man who worked for Jer directly. Drivers, enforcers, accountants, the infrastructure of a criminal organization are all here as mourners. They look lost without him, like children whose father has abandoned them.
Behind them, the Gallaghers. Henry sits with his family, looking every one of his seventy-odd years. Malcolm and Danny flank him. Malcolm wanted to sit with his brother and family. Not many people knew he was Jer's biological son. Only those closest to him did.
And scattered throughout the back half of the church are members of allied organizations. Fury Vipers, Devils Falcons, other crews that worked with Jer over the years. Men who might be enemies tomorrow but today are here to honor a legend.
The priest, Father McKenna, who's been blessing and burying criminals for forty years, steps to the pulpit. His voice echoes off stone walls that have heard centuries of prayers and confessions.
"We gather today to remember Jerry Houlihan..."
I stop listening to the words and focus instead on the weight of what we've lost. Jer wasn't just our boss; he was our anchor, our conscience, the man who kept us human in a world that rewards monsters.
He found me when I was fourteen, stealing people's wallets to survive.
He could have had me killed, could have ignored another street kid heading for prison or death.
Instead, he saw something worth saving. He taught me how to be professional, how to think beyond the next score, how to build something that lasts.
"Violence is a tool, son, not a solution. Use it when you have to, but never forget there's always a price."
His voice echoes in my memory, advice given over late-night conversations in backroom pubs. Lessons about loyalty, about family, about the difference between surviving and living.
The pain hits like a physical thing, settling in my chest and making it hard to breathe. Not tears—I haven't cried since my mother died—but something deeper. The knowledge that the world is smaller now, darker, and less forgiving without Jer's steady presence.
Maverick shifts beside me, and I know he's feeling it too. Jer was his uncle. The man who taught us that strength without honor is just brutality, that loyalty without wisdom is just stupidity.
Father McKenna's talking about resurrection now, about life after death, about hope in the face of loss. Pretty words for people who believe in them. But in our world, death is final. There's no coming back, no second chances, no divine intervention when bullets start flying.
There's just the work. The code. The family you build and the loyalty you earn.
A child cries somewhere in the back, quickly hushed by embarrassed parents. Normal people, probably, who wandered into the wrong church at the wrong time. They have no idea they're surrounded by enough firepower to level a city block, enough criminal expertise to orchestrate the perfect crime.
But today, we're just mourners. Just men saying goodbye to someone who mattered.
The service moves through readings, prayers, hymns sung by voices that aren't used to church music. I recognize some of the songs from my childhood, back when my mother still believed in God and salvation. Before cancer took her, before my father decided alcohol was more important than his son.
Different life, different choices. But grief feels the same everywhere.
"Would anyone like to share a memory of Jerry?"
The invitation hangs in the air for a moment. Then Maverick stands and walks to the front of the church with steady steps. His voice carries when he speaks, clear and strong.
"Jer used to say that a man's true worth isn't measured by what he takes, but by what he gives. He gave us purpose, guidance, a place to belong when the world had written us off."
Pause. Maverick's looking directly at us, his chosen family, the men Jer shaped into something better than what we were.
"He taught us that loyalty isn't just about blind obedience; it's about choosing your family and standing by them no matter what. He taught us that honor matters, even in a dishonorable world."
Another pause. The church is completely silent now, even the crying baby quieted.
"Jer saved all our lives, in different ways. He saw potential where others saw problems. He built something that will outlast all of us."
Maverick's voice breaks slightly on the last words, the only crack in his composure. He returns to the pew without meeting anyone's eyes.
Stephen goes next, talking about Jer's wisdom, his patience, his ability to see three moves ahead in any situation. Emmanuel follows, sharing a story about the time Jer talked him out of a revenge killing that would have destroyed them all.
I should stand. I should say something about the man who saved me, who taught me everything that matters. But the words won't come. How do you summarize twenty years of guidance, protection, and love that never had to be spoken because it was demonstrated every day?
So I stay seated, and let others carry the burden of public grief while I hold my pain close and private.
The service continues, more prayers, more hymns, final blessings from a priest who's probably absolved more sins than any man should have to carry. Then it's over, and we're filing out into Dublin sunshine that feels too bright for the occasion.
The procession to the cemetery takes forty minutes, a convoy of expensive cars moving slowly through streets lined with people who stop to watch. Some of them probably know who Jer was, what he represented. Others just see a funeral and feel the automatic respect death commands.
At the graveside, under a grey sky that threatens rain, we gather for the final goodbye. The hole in the ground looks impossibly small for a man who filled so much space in our lives. The mahogany casket gleams in the filtered sunlight, brass handles polished to mirror brightness.
Father McKenna says more words about dust and resurrection while we stand in loose formation around the grave.
The Houlihan men on one side, the Gallaghers on the other, allied crews filling in the gaps.
A show of unity that sends a message to anyone watching: we're still here, still strong, and still dangerous.
But we're also diminished. Anyone with eyes can see it. We're missing our center, our guiding star, the man who held us all together through will and wisdom and sheer force of personality.
The casket descends into the earth with mechanical precision. Each of us throws a handful of dirt, the sound of soil hitting wood final and absolute. There’s no coming back from this. No last-minute reprieve or miracle salvation.
Jer's gone.
People begin to drift away, offering condolences and promises of support that may or may not be sincere. The Gallaghers gather around Henry, protective and alert. The Fury Vipers and Devils Falcons form their own groups, leather and denim standing out among the formal funeral attire.
I stay by the graveside longer than I should, watching the grounds crew finish their work. Someone has to witness this final indignity, the reduction of a great man to a rectangle of disturbed earth and a marble headstone.
The weight of everything settles on my shoulders; the loss, the responsibility, the knowledge that Jer's legacy now rests with men like me. Men he trained, shaped, and trusted to carry on what he built.
"Ready?" Stephen says from behind me, gentle but firm.
I turn to find my brothers waiting: Maverick, Emmanuel, Stephen. The core of what we are, what we'll become. United in grief, bound by loyalty, determined to honor the man who made us family.
"Yeah," I say. "I'm ready."
We walk back to the cars together, leaving Jer to his rest.
The work continues. The code endures. The family we've built will survive this loss because that's what Jer taught us; how to carry on when carrying on seems impossible.
But tonight, when the formal grieving is done and the public faces are put away, I'll pour a drink and remember the man who saved my life. I'll honor his memory by being worthy of the investment he made in me.
And tomorrow, I'll start the business of making sure his killers pay for what they've taken from us.
Trace Harrington wanted a war. He's going to get one.
But first, we bury our dead with the dignity they deserve.
The drive back to Henry's feels longer than it should. I need to see Alastríona, I need to be around something real and alive. Need to remind myself that not everything good in this world ends in violence.
Jer's dead. But I'm still breathing.
And as long as I'm breathing, I'll make sure his death means something.