Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
alastríona
I shouldn't be listening to this conversation, but I can't bring myself to leave.
The men are gathered in Henry's study, spreading lies like poisoned bait, and I'm curled up in the chair by the window, pretending to read while absorbing every word. They think I'm not paying attention, think I'm lost in whatever book I picked up from Henry's shelves.
They're wrong.
"Right," Freddie says, checking his notes. "We give Mike the story about moving Alastríona to the Cork safe house. Timeline of three days, minimal security." From what I've heard, Mike is Denis' right hand man.
"And Patterson gets the Belfast relocation," Stephen adds. "Complete with fake IRA connections." Patterson is one of the Houlihan men. He's been part of the security detail that Maverick and Freddie has put on me that has joined the Gallaghers’ men.
"What about the others?" Stephen questions, his arms crossed over his chest. He's pissed—hell, they all are.
Denis consults his list. "Murphy—the Dublin Murphy, not Belfast—gets told we're moving her to London. Temporary extraction until the heat dies down."
Each name they mention feels like a weight on my chest. These are men I've met, men who've been nothing but respectful and professional in my presence. The idea that one of them has been selling us out to Trace makes my stomach turn.
"Jason?" Maverick asks, and I see how the room changes when he says the name.
Every man in here goes still, shoulders straightening, jaws tightening, something defensive flickering in their eyes. Jason's not just one of the Houlihan men; he's one of the closest to Freddie, Stephen, Maverick, and Emmanuel.
I barely remember Jason. When he drove us to the hospital after Trace stabbed me, I was half-conscious, bleeding out, and focused entirely on staying alive.
He could have been anyone behind that wheel; just a voice telling Freddie we'd make it in time, hands steady on the steering wheel while my world went dark.
"Jason gets the Spain story," Freddie says finally, but his voice is careful. Controlled. "Private jet, new identity, completely off the grid."
"You really think it could be him?" Emmanuel asks quietly.
"I hope not." The pain in Freddie's voice is unmistakable. "But we can't let sentiment cloud our judgment."
I watch their faces as they discuss Jason's potential betrayal. These hard men, killers all of them, look like they're discussing the death of a favorite brother. Which, I suppose, they are.
The way they talk about him tells me everything I need to know. Jason matters to them. He’s earned their trust, their respect, and their love over years of service and friendship.
If it's him, if he's the one who's been feeding information to our enemies, it'll destroy something in all of them.
"Timeline?" Stephen asks.
"We brief them this afternoon. Separately, carefully. Make sure each story feels organic, not rehearsed."
"And then?"
"Then we wait. See which version of events Trace responds to."
Henry moves to the window and stares out at his gardens, where armed guards patrol between the roses. "What if none of them are the mole? What if we're looking in the wrong direction entirely?"
"Then we expand the search. But someone with access to our operations has been talking. Someone close."
"Too close," Denis mutters.
A phone rings, cutting through the tension. Henry's mobile, the secure line only family uses. He checks the display, frowning.
"Unknown number," he says.
"Could be anyone—"
"No." Henry's voice is flat, certain. "It's him."
He answers on speaker, placing the phone in the center of his desk so we can all hear.
"Henry Gallagher."
"Hello, Henry." The voice is smooth as silk.
Trace Harrington, calling like this is a social visit instead of a declaration of war.
"I hope I'm not interrupting anything important.
" My back straightens at his voice. The memories of what he did to me hit me like a freight train. I can't help but tremble as he speaks.
"Just planning your funeral. What do you want?"
Trace's laugh is cold, empty. "Straight to business. I appreciate that in a man."
"I appreciate bullets in my enemies. Saves time on conversation."
"Funny. But you won't be laughing much longer. Neither will your precious granddaughter."
My blood turns to ice. He's talking about me like I'm already dead, like it's just a matter of time before he gets his hands on me.
Freddie's beside me before I realize he's moved, hauling me against his chest.
"Big words from a man hiding in the shadows," Henry says.
"Hiding? No, Henry. Planning. There's a difference."
"What's your point, Trace?"
"My point is that one more person is going to die very soon. Someone close to you, someone you care about. And it'll be your fault, just like everything else."
"I didn't start this war."
"Didn't you? You took my wife from me, turned her against everything she believed in, everything we built together."
Henry's face hardens. "Ava made her own choices."
"Did she? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like your people seduced her, corrupted her, and then convinced her to betray her own husband."
"Your wife was playing both sides. She was a liar and a manipulator who got exactly what she deserved." My grandfather's words are cruel, but they do exactly as intended; they hit their mark.
Silence stretches for a long moment. When Trace speaks again, his voice is different. Rougher, less controlled.
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I? Ava was never coming back to Freddie. She planned to leave you permanently. She was coming back to Ireland because that's where she belonged, with her real family."
"That's not—"
"She was using Freddie, just like she used everyone else.
Gathering intelligence, playing games, feeding information to whoever paid her best. She used you as a way to escape her shitty life.
But she realized how fucked up you were.
She had already found someone new, someone she had sunk her claws into.
She wasn't coming back to Dublin, Trace; she was moving to Kerry. Her new man was down there."
"Shut up."
"Does the truth hurt? Your beloved wife was a whore, Trace. A professional liar who'd sell out anyone for the right price."
"I said shut up!" Now Trace sounds unhinged, the careful control completely gone. "You don't understand anything about her, about us. She loved me!"
"She loved your money. Your connections. Your usefulness. That was all that Ava wanted."
"She was coming home! She told me—"
He stops abruptly, realizing he's said something he shouldn't have. But it's too late. We all heard it.
She was coming home. She told me.
"Told you what?" Henry presses.
"Nothing. Forget I said anything."
"Told you she was coming back to Boston? That whatever she had here was temporary?"
Silence.
"That's it, isn't it? She confessed everything before you killed her. She told you it was all business, that she never loved any of them."
"She—" Trace's voice breaks. "She said she was ready to come home, said she'd learned everything she needed to know about your operations. She said the Irish connection was finished."
The words hit the room like physical blows.
Ava wasn't planning to stay in Dublin. She wasn't planning to leave Trace for Freddie.
She was going back to report everything she'd learned.
None of this makes any sense. I don't understand Ava.
I've tried—God, I've tried to wrap my head around what she's done, but none of this makes a bit of sense.
It seems no one knows what the hell she was doing.
"And you killed her anyway," Henry says quietly.
"I protected her! Protected us! She was pregnant, vulnerable. I couldn't let her go back into that world."
"So you put a bullet in her chest."
"It was quick. Painless. Better than what your people would have done when they found out she'd been using them."
The casual way he describes murdering his pregnant wife makes me sick. This man is completely broken, completely insane.
"You're a monster," I find myself saying.
"Ah, the granddaughter speaks. Hello, Alastríona. It's a shame I didn't get a chance to play with you longer. I have so many plans."
Freddie's hand tightens on my shoulder, but I don't back down.
"You'll never get the chance to do so again."
"Won't I? Because I think you're wrong about that. I think very soon, you and I are going to have a long conversation about respect. About consequences. I'm going to have my fun with you."
"The only conversation we'll have is when I watch you die."
Trace laughs again, but there's madness in it now.
"Spirited. I like that. It'll make breaking you so much more satisfying.
I was so close to doing it last month. So damn close.
But your lapdog had to interrupt us. Next time, he won't be so lucky.
I'm going to break you, Alastríona, and I'm going to enjoy every second of it. "
"Try it," Freddie says, voice deadly quiet. "Please fucking try it."
"Oh, I will. Sooner than you think. You see, I know things. Things about your security, your plans, your precious safe houses. Someone very close to you has been extremely helpful."
"Who?"
"Someone who understands that loyalty is a luxury this family can't afford anymore. Someone who's seen the writing on the wall."
He's talking about the mole. Taunting us with knowledge we can't access.
"Does that someone know you're completely insane?" I ask.
"Insane?" His voice goes dangerously quiet. "I'm the sanest man in this war. I'm the only one who understands what's really at stake."
"Which is?"
"Everything. Power, territory, the future itself. Your grandfather's empire is crumbling, and I'm going to be there to pick up the pieces."
"Over my dead body," Henry says.
"That's the plan."
The line goes dead, leaving us staring at each other in heavy silence.
"Well," Denis says finally. "That was illuminating."
"He's completely unhinged," Stephen observes.
"And he's got someone inside our organization feeding him information," Maverick adds.
"But something he said..." Henry's thinking, processing. "About knowing our safe houses, our security arrangements. The way he phrased it."
"What about it?"
"He used present tense. 'I know things.' Not 'I've learned things' or 'I've been told things.' Like he has current, ongoing access to our operations."
Freddie straightens. "Real-time intelligence."
"Which means our mole isn't just passing along old information. He's actively monitoring our current activities."
The implications are chilling. Whoever's betraying us isn't just selling historical data, they're providing live updates on our movements, our plans, our security measures.
The door opens, admitting Makenna. She looks grim, carrying a folder that probably contains more bad news.
"Please tell me you've got something useful," Denis says.
"Depends on how you define useful." Makenna sets the folder on Henry's desk. "I've been researching our friend Trace. Medical records, psychological evaluations, hospital admissions."
"And?"
"He's been sectioned three times in the past five years. Involuntary psychiatric holds, all stemming from episodes of extreme paranoia and violent behavior."
"Sectioned for what?"
"First time was before he and Ava met. By the looks of things, it coincided with a woman his father was seeing dying. He became unhinged. After that, he was sectioned after his father's death. Complete breakdown, threats of suicide and homicide."
"And the third?"
"Right around the time he started this war with us. Ava's death."
Henry opens the folder and scans the documents inside. "Diagnosis?"
"Paranoid personality disorder with psychotic features. The kind of mental illness that makes someone extremely dangerous when triggered."
"Great. So we're dealing with a professionally trained psychopath with unlimited resources and a personal vendetta."
"Gets better. According to these records, he's been off his medication for over a year. Deliberately."
"Because?"
"Because he believes his doctors are part of a conspiracy against him. Same with his therapists, his lawyers, anyone in authority."
The room goes quiet as we process this information. We're not just fighting a war; we're fighting a madman who's completely disconnected from reality.
"This explains the escalation," Stephen says. "The increasing violence, the personal targeting."
"And it means he's completely unpredictable," I add. "You can't negotiate with someone who's living in a different reality."
"No," Henry agrees. "You can't negotiate. You can only eliminate."
Freddie's studying the documents, his face dark with thought. "There's something else. Something about the timing."
"What do you mean?"
"Trace's third psychiatric episode happened three months ago. Right when someone in our organization started receiving payments from his shell companies."
The connection hits everyone at the same time. Our mole didn't start betraying us randomly; they started when Trace was at his most unstable, most dangerous.
"Someone took advantage of his mental state," Maverick says.
"Or someone's mental state made them vulnerable to his manipulation."
"Either way, we've got a problem. A big one."
I listen to them discuss strategies and possibilities, but my mind keeps returning to the fear in Trace's voice when Henry attacked Ava's memory. The way he broke down and revealed information he clearly hadn't meant to share.
This man isn't just dangerous, he's completely broken. And somewhere in our organization, someone's decided that serving a madman is better than staying loyal to family.
The thought makes me sick. But it also makes me angry.
These people—Henry, Freddie, Denis, all of them—they've given me something I never had before. A place to belong, people who care whether I live or die, a future worth fighting for. Dad tried, but he'd be gone half the time, but right now, this is family and I've finally found my place.
And someone's trying to destroy it all for money.
When we find out who, when we identify the traitor in our midst, I want to be there. Want to see their face when they realize their betrayal has been discovered.
I want to watch them pay for putting Freddie, putting all of us, in danger.
Because family protects family. And I'm finally starting to understand what that really means.