Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
freddie
I'm an idiot.
That's the only thought running through my head as I drive aimlessly around Dublin at half past midnight. A complete fucking idiot who pushed too hard, too fast, and probably just destroyed the best thing that's happened to me in years.
The look in her eyes when she pulled away—scared, vulnerable, like I'd cornered a wild animal. Christ, what was I thinking? Taking her upstairs, pushing for something she clearly wasn't ready for.
Selfish bastard.
I pull into my flat's car park and sit in the dark for a moment, trying to get my head on straight.
I can't afford to be distracted right now, not with everything that's happening.
But all I can think about is the way she felt in my arms, the way she kissed me back before reality crashed down around us.
The way she asked me not to go.
My phone buzzes. Stephen.
"Bit late for a social call," I answer.
"Need to talk. My place. Now."
The line goes dead before I can argue. Stephen's not one for dramatics, which means something's happened. Something important enough to drag me across Dublin at this hour.
I start the car and head toward Stephen's house, which is located on the outskirts of Dublin.
He wanted as much privacy for him and Jessica as he could get.
The house is locked up tighter than Fort Knox.
Not that I can blame him. The shit Jess went through was fucked up.
Thankfully, her father is dead now and can't hurt her again.
For Stephen to call me at this time of night means that whatever he's learned about Sullivan or Trace, it can't be good news.
* * *
Stephen's pacing outside when I get to his house. Never a good sign.
"That bad?" I ask, settling into the chair in the sitting room.
"Depends how you define bad. Tell me about tonight first. How'd it go with the girl?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you look like a man who's just fucked up something important."
Perceptive bastard. He always could read me too well.
"Nothing to tell."
"Right," he says as he moves to the kitchen, returning moments later with two glasses of whiskey. "That's why you're sitting in my living room at one in the morning looking like someone shot your dog," he says as he hands me a glass.
I take a long swallow of whiskey, letting it burn away some of the self-recrimination. "I pushed too hard. Scared her off."
"By doing what?"
"By wanting something she's not ready to give."
Stephen nods, understanding. "And now you're beating yourself up about it."
"Shouldn't I be? She trusted me enough to let me close, and I fucked it up by being too eager."
"Did you force her into anything?"
"No."
"Did you ignore her when she said no?"
"No."
"Then you didn't fuck anything up. You just moved faster than she was comfortable with. Happens in relationships."
"We don't have a relationship."
"Don't you?" Stephen leans back in his chair and studies my face. "Because from where I'm sitting, you look like a man who's falling hard for someone who matters to him."
"Doesn't matter how I feel if she doesn't trust me."
"Trust takes time. Especially for someone who's been hurt before."
"And if we don't have time? If Trace makes his move before she's ready to let me in?"
"Then you protect her anyway. Because that's what good men do for the people they care about."
Simple logic, but it helps. Reminds me that this isn't about what I want; it's about keeping her safe until she can decide what she wants.
"Tell me why you called me," I say as I slide my glass onto the table.
"Just trying to process what Sullivan told us. Tell me, do you think he's legitimate?"
"Far as I can tell. His details about Trace's operation match what we already know. Plus, Lorenzo vouches for him."
"And his wife's assault?"
"Hospital records check out. Sarah Sullivan, beaten badly enough to require reconstructive surgery. Filed a police report that mysteriously disappeared two days later."
Stephen nods grimly. "Bastard covered his tracks."
We sit in silence for a moment, both thinking about what Sullivan revealed during our three-hour meeting. Trace Harrington isn't just planning random attacks; he has specific targets and specific timelines. And Alastríona's name is at the top of his list.
"Run through it again," Stephen says. "Everything he told us about the schedule."
I pull out my phone, check the notes I took. "Trace has been in Dublin for three weeks. Three safe houses: one in Ballsbridge, one in Rathmines, one near the docks. He's got twelve men with him, all ex-military."
"Weapons?"
"Enough to start a small war. Automatic rifles, explosives, armor-piercing rounds. Sullivan says Trace has been planning this for months."
"And the target?"
"Henry's house. Tomorrow night, during a family dinner. Not only are Danny and Malcolm in town, but Makenna and Holly are already on their way. He'll be targeting the lot of them."
The words taste like ash in my mouth. Tomorrow night, when Alastríona will be sitting at Henry's table surrounded by people she's just learning to trust.
"Sullivan's role?"
"He's supposed to disable the security system at exactly nine-thirty, creating a fifteen-minute window for Trace and his men to get inside."
"And instead?"
"Instead, he gives us the window. We get inside first, set up an ambush. End this before it starts."
Stephen drains his glass and sets it down with deliberate care. "What about the mole?"
The question I've been dreading. Sullivan was certain someone in Henry's inner circle has been feeding information to Trace. Someone with access to family schedules, security protocols, and personal details about our operations.
"He couldn't give us a name," I say. "But he described the information Trace has been receiving. Detailed stuff about Killian's life in Belfast, about Alastríona's daily routine, about our security measures."
"Someone close to Henry."
"Has to be. The level of detail, the access required… it's someone Henry trusts completely."
"Marcus?"
The name hangs between us like a loaded gun. Marcus Devlin, Henry's right-hand man for forty years. The man who's been questioning Alastríona's place in the family since the day I brought her home.
"Makes sense," I admit reluctantly. "He's got access to everything. He's been acting strange since Alastríona arrived. And he clearly resents her presence."
"Forty years of loyalty, though. Why betray Henry now?"
"Maybe he thinks Henry's been making mistakes. Maybe he believes Trace is the stronger horse. Or maybe Trace just offered him enough money to overcome forty years of loyalty."
Stephen goes to refill our glasses. When he returns, his face is filled with anger. "If it is Marcus, this is going to destroy Henry."
"Can't be helped. Better a destroyed Henry than a dead one."
"How do we handle it?"
"Carefully. We need proof before we make accusations. But we also need to move fast—if Marcus knows about tomorrow night's dinner, he'll tip Trace off."
"Sullivan didn't mention Marcus specifically?"
"No. Just said someone high up in the organization has been Trace's source. Could be Marcus, could be someone else entirely. Not to mention, it could be someone within our organization. Someone who knows way too fucking much about everything."
"But you think it's him."
"I think he's been trying to undermine Alastríona since she arrived. I think he sees her as a threat to the status quo he's comfortable with. And I think he's exactly the type to convince himself that betraying Henry is actually protecting him."
Stephen nods slowly. "We need to tell Henry. Tonight."
"Agreed. But how do we do it without tipping off Marcus?"
"We don't. We tell Henry privately and let him decide how to handle his oldest friend."
The weight of what we're planning settles over me. In a few hours, we're going to accuse Henry's most trusted advisor of treason. We're going to shatter a forty-year relationship based on suspicion and circumstantial evidence.
But the alternative is letting Trace walk into that house tomorrow night and murder everyone inside.
"There's something else," I say. "Something Sullivan mentioned about Trace's obsession with Alastríona."
"What about it?"
"He's not just targeting her because she's Henry's granddaughter. He's developed a personal fixation; keeps photos of her, talks about her constantly. Sullivan thinks Trace sees her as some kind of prize."
Stephen's face hardens. "Sick bastard."
"Gets worse. Apparently, Trace has been planning to take her alive and use her to break Henry's spirit before killing them both."
"Over my dead body."
"That might be exactly what happens if we're not careful."
We sit in silence, both thinking about tomorrow night. About the violence that's coming, about the people we might lose. About a blue-eyed girl who never asked to be the center of this war.
I finish my drink, feeling the whiskey burn away some of the self-recrimination. "I need to go back."
"To Henry's?"
"To Alastríona. Make sure she's safe; make sure she understands what's coming tomorrow."
"And make sure she forgives you for being an impatient bastard?"
"That too."
Stephen walks me to the door. "For what it's worth, I think you're doing the right thing. The girl's good for you. First time I've seen you care about something other than revenge since Ava died."
"Dangerous territory."
"Best things usually are."
He claps me on the shoulder. "Bring her to my house tomorrow morning. Jessica's been wanting to meet her, and it'll be safer than Henry's if things go sideways."
"Thanks."
"Just remember, if this war has taught us anything, it's that life's too short to waste on what-ifs. You want her? Fight for her."
* * *
The gates to Henry's estate are closed, security patrol making their rounds with military precision. I park across the street, watch the house for signs of unusual activity. Everything looks normal, peaceful. Like a war isn't being planned within those walls.