Chapter 23 #2
"Wait. Before you hang up... I know I don't have the right to ask for anything. I know I burned every bridge between us years ago. But if there's ever a chance, if you ever think you might want to try..."
"Try what?"
"Being family again. Father and son, whatever that looks like now. I'm not asking for forgiveness, not asking you to pretend the past didn't happen. Just... if there's ever a possibility of something better than this silence."
The request hits harder than it should. Part of me wants to hang up, to keep the wall I've built between us intact.
But another part, a part I thought had died years ago, remembers what it was like to have a father who taught me how to fight, how to survive, how to take what I needed from an uncaring world.
Before the drinking. Before the anger. Before everything went to hell.
"Maybe," I say finally. "After this is over, after Trace is dead... maybe."
"That's more than I deserve. Thank you, son."
"Don't thank me yet. And Da?"
"Yeah?"
"Be careful in there. If Trace contacted you once, he might try again. He might try to use you to get to me."
"Let him try. I've got nothing left to lose and fifteen years of prison fights to keep me sharp. Besides, any man tries to hurt my boy, even if my boy wants nothing to do with me, that man's got a problem."
The protective instinct in his voice is something I remember from childhood. Before everything went wrong, before Mam died and Dad lost himself in bottles and violence, he was fierce about protecting what was his.
"Just be smart about it."
"Always am these days. Prison teaches you patience if nothing else."
The line goes dead, leaving me alone in Henry's corridor with memories I don't want and emotions I can't process. Fifteen years of anger and resentment, suddenly complicated by the possibility of redemption.
"Everything okay?" Tríona's voice comes from behind me, concerned and gentle.
I turn to find her watching me with those sharp blue eyes, seeing more than I want her to. She's got this way of reading people, of seeing past the masks we wear to the truth underneath.
"Family business."
"Your father?"
I nod, not trusting my voice. The conversation has stirred up things I'd buried, memories and feelings I thought were safely locked away.
She moves closer and slips her hand into mine. Her touch is warm, grounding, exactly what I need right now.
"What did he want?"
"To warn me. Trace paid him a visit, tried to get information."
Her face hardens. "Did he give him anything?"
"He says he didn't. But the fact that Trace found him at all..."
"Means he's been researching you. Looking for ways to hurt you through people you might care about."
"Exactly."
We walk back toward Henry's study, but Tríona stops me before we reach the door.
"What else did he want?"
The question I've been avoiding, even in my own mind.
"Forgiveness, maybe. A second chance."
"And?"
"And I don't know if I can give him that."
She's quiet for a moment, thinking. When she speaks, her voice is careful, non-judgmental.
"What did he do? I mean, I know he went to prison, but..."
"Armed robbery when I was fourteen. Left me to fend for myself on Dublin's streets. Then, when he had a chance to get out early, he killed a guard during a fight. Guaranteed he'd never see freedom again."
"That's a lot to forgive."
"It is. He abandoned me when I needed him most, chose violence over family. Again."
"But?"
"But he sounded different today. Older, sadder. Like maybe he actually understands what he lost."
Tríona nods slowly. "Holding onto hatred is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die."
"Easy to say. Harder to live."
"I know. Trust me, I know. After Mam left, after she walked out without saying goodbye, I carried that anger for months. Let it poison everything good in my life."
"What changed?"
"Time. And understanding that forgiveness isn't about them, it's about you. It's about choosing not to let their actions define your future."
I study her face, seeing wisdom there that comes from experience, from having made hard choices about family and loyalty.
"He abandoned me. Left me to fend for myself when I was fourteen years old."
"I know. And that's unforgivable in a lot of ways. But people change, Freddie. Prison changes people, sometimes for the better."
"And sometimes it just makes them better criminals."
"True. But maybe, when this is all over, when Trace is dead and we can breathe again... maybe you can think about whether you want to try. Not for him, but for yourself."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean maybe you're tired of carrying that anger. Maybe you want to see if there's something better on the other side of forgiveness."
The idea is terrifying and appealing in equal measure. Fifteen years of using my father's abandonment as motivation, as fuel for the anger that's driven me to become who I am. Without that anger, who would I be?
"Maybe," I say.
"That's all anyone can ask for."
We're about to enter Henry's study, when my phone rings again. Stephen's number this time.
"Yeah?"
"We've got him." Stephen's voice is tight, controlled, carrying the kind of anger that comes from betrayal. "The mole. We know who it is."
My stomach drops. After hours of waiting, of theorizing, of hoping we were wrong about having a traitor in our ranks, the moment of truth has arrived.
"Who?"
"Jason."
The name hits like a physical blow. Jason, who drove us to the hospital when Tríona was bleeding out. Jason, who's been part of Jer's crew for years. Jason, who I'd have trusted with my life.
Jason, who taught me half of what I know about cars and getaway routes. Who's sat at our table, drunk our whiskey, and listened to our plans while calculating how much they were worth to our enemies.
"You're sure?"
"Positive. Trace just hit the safe house in Spain. The one we told Jason about. He's got men moving on the location we described, using details only Jason knew."
Christ, it's really him. Our brother, our friend, the man we'd have died for. He's been selling us out for months.
"How do you know it was the Spain story?"
"Because the team Trace sent knew about the specific security measures we mentioned to Jason. They knew about the hidden entrance, the escape routes, even the fucking alarm codes we made up."
Each detail feels like another knife to the chest. Jason didn't just betray us; he was thorough about it. Professional.
"Where is he now?"
"Don't know. He disappeared about an hour ago, right around the time Trace's people started moving. But Freddie... there's more."
"What?"
"He's not just feeding Trace information. He's been actively sabotaging our operations. The warehouse raid that went wrong last month? The ambush that nearly killed Emmanuel? Jason fed them our plans."
Rage builds in my chest, cold and focused. How many good men have died because of Jason's betrayal? How many operations have failed? How many lives have been lost because someone we trusted was working for the enemy?
"Jer's dead because of him."
Dead because Jason decided money was more important than brotherhood.
"How long has this been going on?"
"Best we can figure, since October. Right around the time those payments started showing up in our traitor's account."
"Three months of systematic betrayal."
"Three months of getting our people killed while pretending to give a damn about any of us."
The weight of it hits me all at once. Every conversation we've had with Jason since October, every operation he's been part of, every moment of trust—all of it contaminated by his betrayal.
"Find him," I say.
"Already looking. Maverick's got teams checking his usual haunts while Emmanuel's watching his flat. But Freddie... when we catch him..."
"When we catch him, he's mine."
"Understood. But you should know, Henry wants to question him first; find out how much damage he's done, what other operations might be compromised."
"Fine. Henry can ask his questions. But after that, Jason belongs to me."
"Fair enough. What do you want us to do if we find him?"
"Take him alive if possible. But if he resists, if he tries to run or fight..."
"We put him down."
"No. You bring him to me. Alive or dead, I want to see his face when he realizes it's over."
I hang up and turn to face Tríona. She can see it in my face, the fury and betrayal and hurt.
"It's Jason, isn't it?"
"Yeah."
"I'm sorry."
"He's been playing us for months. Getting good men killed, selling out operations, betraying everything Jer taught us."
"What are you going to do?"
"Find him. Make him pay."
"And then?"
"Then I'm going to kill him. Slowly."
She nods, understanding. In our world, betrayal has only one punishment. Jason signed his death warrant the moment he took Trace's money.
"Just... when you find him, when you're deciding how he dies... remember what you promised me."
"What?"
"That you'd let me pull you back if you go too far."
I look at her, seeing the concern in her eyes. She's not asking me to spare Jason—she knows that's impossible. She's asking me not to lose myself in the revenge.
"I remember."
"Good. Because I need you to come back to me whole, not broken by hatred."
"I will."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
But even as I say it, I can feel something dark unfurling in my chest. Jason's betrayal cuts deeper than Marcus' ever could. Marcus was Henry's man, so I always kept my distance. But Jason was family. Chosen family. The kind that's supposed to matter more than blood.
And he threw it all away for money.
When I find him, when I get my hands on him, I'm going to make sure he understands exactly what that betrayal cost. Every life lost, every operation blown, every moment of trust he violated.
He's going to pay for all of it.
In blood.