Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
alastríona
Dinner at the Gallagher house is like something from a movie.
The dining room could seat twenty people comfortably, with crystal chandeliers that probably cost more than most people's cars and oil paintings of dead relatives watching from the walls.
Henry sits at the head of the table like a king holding court, while the rest of us arrange ourselves according to some invisible hierarchy I don't understand yet.
"Alastríona," Henry says, raising his wine glass. "I'd like you to meet more of the family."
More family. Like the dozen cousins I've already been introduced to via video calls weren't enough to process.
"Malcolm." Henry gestures to a man in his early thirties with dark brown eyes and an easy smile. "My grandson. He runs our operations in Spain."
Malcolm raises his glass in greeting. "Welcome home, cousin."
Beside him sits a blonde woman with kind eyes and a British accent mixed with Spanish. "Raylee," she says, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. "Malcolm's wife. Lovely to finally meet you."
"And Danny," Henry continues, indicating another man who looks like a younger version of Denis. "He handles Great Britain for us."
Danny's wife, Melissa, is dark-haired and elegant. She smiles easily and looks comfortable and confident. I like that. "We've heard so much about you," she says softly.
They seem genuinely pleased to meet me, which is more than I can say for Marcus, who's been glowering from his end of the table like I've personally offended him just by existing.
The conversation flows around me, business talk disguised as family chatter, coded references to things I don't understand yet. But underneath it all, there's grief; a rawness that everyone's trying to hide but can't quite manage.
"Jer would have loved meeting you," Malcolm says suddenly, his voice careful. "He always said Killian talked about you constantly."
The table goes quiet. Jer, Freddie's mentor, the man who died because of this war with Trace Harrington. I can see the loss etched in every face, especially Malcolm's.
"You knew him well?" I ask.
"He was my biological father," Malcolm says simply.
The words hit like a physical blow. Jerry Houlihan wasn't just Freddie's mentor; he was Malcolm's father. Which means this family just lost one of their own, and I'm sitting here pretending to belong while they're grieving.
"I'm sorry," I say, meaning it. "Freddie told me he was a good man."
"The best." Malcolm's voice cracks slightly.
Raylee reaches for her husband's hand and squeezes it gently. It’s the kind of automatic comfort that comes from years of marriage, of knowing exactly when your partner needs steadying.
"He'd have been proud of the man you've become," Denis says quietly.
"Would he? Because I wasn't there when he needed me. None of us were."
The guilt in Malcolm's voice is unmistakable. It’s the same guilt I see in Freddie's eyes when he thinks nobody's watching. All these men blaming themselves for one bastard's actions.
"Trace Harrington killed Jer," Henry says firmly. "Not you, not any of us. That blood is on his hands alone."
"But if we'd been faster, smarter—"
"Then maybe Trace would have found another way. You can't protect everyone from everything, son. Jer knew the risks."
The conversation moves on, but the weight of loss hangs over the table like smoke. These people aren't just colleagues or business partners; they're family in the truest sense. And they're hurting in ways I recognize all too well.
When the main course is finished, Henry pushes back from the table. "Gentlemen, shall we retire to my office? Business to discuss."
The women exchange knowing looks. Apparently, being dismissed so the men can talk business is normal in this world.
"Don't take it personally," Melissa says as the men file out. "They still think we're delicate flowers who can't handle hearing about violence."
"Even though Melissa can kill a man with her bare hands," Danny calls back from the doorway.
"You're the one who sleeps next to her," Raylee laughs. "Remember Georgina?"
Malcolm grins. "How could anyone forget?"
"She had it coming," Melissa says matter-of-factly.
I like these women already. They're not helpless princesses waiting to be rescued; they're partners, equals, women who've chosen this life with their eyes wide open.
"So," Melissa says, pouring herself another glass of wine. "What do you think of the Gallaghers’ little empire so far?"
"It's... overwhelming."
"That's putting it mildly," Raylee agrees. "I remember when Malcolm first brought me home to meet the family. Thought I'd walked into some kind of mafia movie."
"How long have you been married?"
"Six years next month. Best six years of my life, violence and all."
"You don't mind it? The danger, the uncertainty?"
"Not at all. Malcolm would never let anything happen to me or our kids."
Melissa nods. "It's not the life you plan for, but it's the life you get. And these men, our men, they'd die before they’d let anything happen to us."
"That's what scares me," I admit.
"The dying part?"
"The caring part. Getting attached to people who live dangerous lives."
Both women go quiet, understanding passing between them. They've both faced this fear, this choice between safety and love.
"Can I tell you something?" Melissa says. "The caring part isn't optional. It just happens, whether you want it to or not. The question is whether you're brave enough to see where it leads."
"And if it leads to heartbreak?"
"Then at least you'll have loved someone worth breaking your heart over."
Simple words, but they carry weight. These women have chosen love over safety, partnership over protection. They've looked at the violence and the danger and decided it was worth the risk.
Don't know if I'm that brave yet.
"Tell us about Belfast," Raylee says, changing the subject. "What was your life like before all this?"
I tell them about Murphy's, about pulling pints and dodging wandering hands. About the flat above the pub and the regulars who treated me like family. About Vittoria, my only real friend, who's probably married to some stranger by now.
It sounds small when I describe it. Limited. Like I was hiding instead of living.
"Do you miss it?" Melissa asks.
"Parts of it. The simplicity, I suppose. Knowing what each day would bring."
"And the loneliness?"
Direct question. The kind that cuts straight to the heart of things.
"Yeah. I miss that too, sometimes. It’s easier to be lonely than to risk caring about people who might disappear."
"Like your father did."
"Like everyone does eventually."
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, three women who understand loss in different ways.
Melissa lost her sister to drugs. Her mam wasn’t really a mam and her father was in prison when she needed him the most. Raylee grew up with both of her parents, but everything she knew about them was a lie.
Her dad’s dead, her mam long gone. We've all learned that loving people means risking heartbreak.
"This thing with Freddie. Is it real?" Raylee asks.
Heat creeps up my neck. "What thing?"
"Oh please," Melissa laughs. "Denis says the man looks at you like you hung the bloody moon. And you get this look on your face whenever someone mentions his name."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Right. And I'm the Queen of England."
They're both grinning at me now, the kind of knowing smiles women share when they recognize the signs of attraction.
"It's complicated," I say finally.
"Best ones usually are," Raylee agrees.
"He's good people," Melissa adds. "Freddie, I mean. He’s been through hell and come out the other side still caring about others. That's rare in our world."
"How do you know?"
"Because Danny trusts him. Because Jer trained him. Because he's got that look in his eyes; the look of a man who's trying to be better than he thinks he deserves to be."
The door opens before I can respond, and Marcus walks in carrying a decanter of whiskey like he owns the place.
"Ladies," he says, setting the crystal bottle on the sideboard. "Enjoying your evening?"
The temperature in the room drops ten degrees. Both Melissa and Raylee go tense, like predators scenting danger.
"Marcus," Melissa says coolly. "We were just getting to know Alastríona."
"Ah yes. Our little princess from Belfast." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Learning about the family business, are we?"
"Learning about family," I correct.
"Same thing, really. Can't separate the two in our world."
He pours himself a drink, taking his time about it. Making us wait, asserting some kind of dominance I don't understand.
"Your father understood that," he continues. "He understood that family loyalty comes before everything else. Pity he forgot that lesson toward the end."
The words hit like a slap. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing, dear. I’m just observing that Killian seemed to develop divided loyalties in his final years, putting his American family before his Irish one."
"He loved both families."
"Did he? Because from where I sat, it looked like he chose you and your mother over his duty to Henry. That choice cost us all dealy."
I'm on my feet before I realize I'm moving. "Don't you dare blame me for my father's death."
"Did I blame you? I simply pointed out that choices have consequences. Your father chose to keep you separate from this life, and people died because of that choice."
"Marcus," Melissa's voice carries a warning. "That's enough."
"Is it? Because I think our new family member should understand exactly what her presence here has cost. She should understand that her very existence has been a weapon used against us."
The room spins slightly. Is he right? Have people died because of me? Because Dad chose to protect my innocence over family unity?
"Get out," Melissa says, standing beside me. "Get out before I call Danny in here to remove you."