Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
alastríona
My phone buzzes while I'm sitting with Jessica, Lisa, and Clodagh. We're all pretending to focus on the card game while the men plan God knows what in Stephen's office.
Murphy's name flashing on my phone screen makes my heart skip. He never calls. We haven't spoken since I left Belfast. For him to ring now, after everything that's happened… it has my stomach rolling.
"Murphy?"
"Alastríona." His voice is wrong. Weak, strained, like he's speaking through pain. "Christ, love, I'm sorry."
My blood runs cold. "Sorry for what? What's happened?"
"They came for you. Came to the pub asking questions."
"Who came? What questions?"
"Americans. Professional types. Said they were looking for Killian's daughter."
I'm on my feet now, moving away from the girls so they can't hear. But my hands are shaking, and I think they notice anyway. Especially Lisa, who's watching me like a hawk.
"What did you tell them?"
"Nothing—at first. I told them you'd never been to the pub, that I didn't know what they were talking about."
"And?"
His laugh is bitter, broken. "They didn't believe me. Started getting creative with their persuasion methods."
Oh God. Oh Christ, what have they done to him?
"Murphy, are you hurt?"
"Hurt." He makes a sound that might be laughter or might be sobbing. "That's one word for it. They took their time, love. Made sure I understood how serious they were."
"Where are you? I'll send help—"
"No point. Pub's gone. They burned it down after they finished with me. Everything I worked for, thirty years of my life, just... gone."
The words hit like physical blows. Murphy's pub, the place that was home to me since my dad died. Gone. Destroyed because of me.
"I held out as long as I could," he continues, voice getting weaker. "But they had tools, love. Professional tools. And they knew how to use them."
"What did you tell them?"
Silence stretches long enough that I think he might have hung up. When he speaks again, his voice is barely a whisper.
"Everything. I told them everything."
My legs give out. I sink into the nearest chair; phone pressed to my ear like a lifeline.
"About you and your da. About the Dubliner who came for you, took you away. About how you fought those lads in the alley before you left. How the Jennings' want you for what you did."
Every word is another nail in my coffin. Trace now knows details about my life, about Freddie, about how I ended up with the Gallaghers. He knew some from Marcus but now he'll know everything.
"I'm sorry," Murphy says again. "I'm so fucking sorry, love. I tried to be strong, tried to protect you, but they... Christ, the things they did..."
"It's not your fault." The words come out strangled. "You did your best."
"Did I? Because it doesn't feel like my best. It feels like I failed you when you needed me most."
"You gave me a home when no one else would. You kept me safe for eighteen months. That's not failing."
"Safe." He laughs again, that broken sound. "Right. Look how that turned out."
I can hear something in the background now. Sirens, maybe. Or just the sound of Belfast waking up to find another business destroyed by violence.
"Where are you now?" I ask.
"Hospital. The ambulance brought me in after the neighbors called about the fire. Doctors keep asking questions I can't answer."
"Are you going to be okay?"
His silence is answer enough.
"Murphy?"
"I'm missing fingers, love. Toes too. They were very thorough."
The casual way he says it makes my stomach turn. This man, who gave me shelter, who treated me like family, was tortured because of choices I made.
"And there's internal damage. Things that don't heal properly when you're my age."
"You'll recover. You're tough—"
"No, love. I won't." His voice is gentle, final. "I can feel it in my bones. This is goodbye."
"Don't say that," my voice is barely a whisper. My throat swells and tears well in my eyes. God, I can't lose him.
"Has to be said. Has to be faced."
Tears are streaming down my face now. Jessica's moved closer, putting a comforting hand on my shoulder, but I can barely feel it.
"What can I do?" I ask desperately. "There must be something—"
"Nothing to do. Damage is done, words are said. Just... be careful, love. These men, they're not like the Belfast boys you're used to. They're professionals, and they're coming for you."
"I know. We're ready for them."
"Are you? Because they knew things, Alastríona. Things about your da that I never told anyone. Someone close to you has been talking."
The words hit like ice water. Murphy's confirming what we already suspected; there's a mole close to us. Another one.
"I wish I'd been stronger," he continues. "Wish I'd been braver, that I could have protected you better."
"You did protect me. For eighteen months, you kept me safe and whole and sane. That's more than anyone else did."
"Your da would have been ashamed of me."
"No. Dad would have understood. He'd have been grateful that someone cared enough about me to try."
Murphy's quiet for a long moment. When he speaks again, his voice is fading.
"Take care of yourself, love. And tell that Dubliner of yours that if he lets anything happen to you, I'll haunt him from the grave."
"Murphy—"
"Goodbye, Alastríona. I love you like you were my own."
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone for a long moment, trying to process what just happened. Murphy, the man who gave me a home when I had nothing, is dying in a Belfast hospital because of me. His pub, his life's work, is ash because Trace Harrington wanted information.
"Alastríona?" Jessica's voice is gentle, concerned. "What's wrong?"
"I need Freddie."
She doesn't ask questions, just goes to get him. A minute later, he's beside me, pulling me into his arms while I fall apart completely.
"Tell me," he says quietly.
So I do. Everything Murphy told me, every detail about the torture and the fire and the information they extracted. Freddie's face gets harder with each word, until he looks like something carved from stone.
"We're leaving," he says when I finish. "Now."
"Where?"
"Home. You need to be somewhere safe while we process this."
He's already moving, gathering our things, making phone calls. Stephen appears, takes one look at my face, and starts organizing our departure without being asked.
The ride back to Henry's safe house is quiet. Freddie drives with one hand, the other holding mine; an anchor in a world that's suddenly spinning out of control.
"He's dying because of me," I say finally.
"He's dying because Trace Harrington is a psychopath who tortures innocent people."
"If I'd never left Belfast—"
"Then you'd be the one that'd be dead."
"And he'd still be alive."
"Maybe. Or maybe Trace would have found another way to hurt innocent people. That's what men like him do."
We pull into the safe house driveway. The security guards nod as we pass, more weapons visible than before. Everyone's on edge, expecting the next attack.
Inside, Henry's waiting with Denis and Malcolm. They take one look at my face and immediately want details.
"Later," Freddie says curtly. "She needs rest."
"Freddie, if there's been a development—"
"I said later."
The tone of his voice cuts through any arguments. Henry nods, steps aside, and lets us pass without further questions.
In our bedroom, Freddie helps me sit on the edge of the bed. I feel disconnected, floating, like this is happening to someone else.
"He was a good man," I say.
"Yes, he was."
"He didn't deserve what happened to him."
"No, he didn't."
"And it's my fault."
"No." Freddie's voice is firm, final. "It's Trace's fault. Only his."
But I can see something dark building behind his eyes. Something that looks like rage barely held in check.
"What are you thinking?" I ask.
"I'm thinking about all the ways I'm going to make Trace Harrington pay for what he's done."
"Freddie—"
"I'm thinking about slow deaths and creative torture. About making him beg for mercy before I put a bullet in his skull."
The violence in his voice should scare me. Instead, it's oddly comforting. This man, this dangerous killer, is planning terrible things in my defense.
"Promise me something," I say.
"Anything."
"If you go too far, if the revenge starts consuming you, promise you'll let me pull you back."
He's quiet for a long moment, considering. "What if I don't want to be pulled back?"
"Then I'll do it anyway. Because I need you here with me, not lost in some spiral of violence and hatred."
"And if Trace deserves everything I'm planning to do to him?"
"Maybe he does. But you don't deserve to become the kind of man who enjoys inflicting that kind of pain."
Freddie studies my face, seeing something there that makes his expression soften slightly.
"Okay," he says finally. "I promise. If I go too far, you pull me back."
"I promise."
He leans forward and kisses my forehead gently. "You're safe with me. Always. No matter what happens, no matter who we're fighting, you're safe."
"I know."
"Do you? Because sometimes I think you don't understand how much you mean to me. How far I'll go to protect you."
"How far?"
“To the ends of the earth. Through Hell itself. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do, no line I wouldn’t cross, to keep you safe.”
The words don’t just reach my ears; they burn their way into my chest. This isn’t a vow. It’s a truth he carries in every fiber of his being. I feel it in the way he looks at me, like I’m the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.
“Show me,” I whisper, my voice shaking.
“What?”
“Show me how much I mean to you.”
His eyes darken, not with lust, but with something deeper. Reverence. Possession without cruelty. Worship laced with grief.
“Alastríona—”
"I need to feel something other than grief and guilt. I need to remember what it's like to be loved instead of used."
He doesn’t answer with words.
He answers with his body.