Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
alastríona
Freddie's been different since he killed Jason.
He won't admit it, would probably deny it if I asked directly, but I can see the weight of it settling on his shoulders like a heavy coat he can't take off. Jason was his friend, his brother, someone he'd trusted for years. And Freddie put a bullet in his head without hesitation.
That kind of betrayal leaves marks, even on men like Freddie who've made peace with violence. Maybe especially on men like him.
He's sitting across from me now in Henry's study, cleaning his gun with methodical precision.
The same gun he used to kill Jason, though he's cleaned it a dozen times since then.
His hands are steady, his face calm, but I know him well enough to see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens when he thinks no one's watching.
"You don't have to pretend it doesn't affect you," I say quietly.
"What doesn't affect me?"
"Killing someone you cared about."
His hands still for just a moment before resuming their work. "Jason made his choice. I made mine."
"That doesn't make it easier."
"Easier has nothing to do with it. He betrayed us, got good men killed. He had to die."
"I know. But you can still grieve the friend he used to be."
Freddie looks up at me then, something vulnerable flickering in his dark eyes before he locks it away again.
"Grief's a luxury I can't afford right now."
"Maybe. But holding it all inside isn't healthy either."
"I'll deal with it when Trace is dead."
When, not if. Like it's already decided, already done. Maybe in his mind it is.
The atmosphere in the house has been tense for days.
Everyone's on edge, waiting for the next move, the final confrontation that we all know is coming.
You can feel it in the air like electricity before a storm, that sense of inevitability, of forces gathering for something that will change everything.
Henry's been making calls all morning, coordinating with his people, ensuring our defenses are as strong as they can be. Denis has been checking security protocols every few hours. Even the guards outside seem more alert, more focused.
We're all waiting for the end. And we can feel it coming.
My phone buzzes with a text from Vittoria: Thinking of you. Stay safe.
I should call her back, should maintain the connection to my old life in Belfast. But that world feels so far away now, like it belonged to someone else.
The girl who pulled pints at Murphy's, who lived above a pub and thought that was enough; she's gone.
In her place is someone harder, more complicated; someone who belongs to this dangerous family and the man who'd kill for her.
Freddie's phone rings, cutting through my thoughts. Maverick's name is on the screen.
"Yeah?" Freddie answers.
I can't hear what Maverick's saying, but I watch Freddie's face change, see him straighten up with sudden attention.
"You're sure?" Freddie asks. "When?"
More conversation I can't follow, but Freddie's already moving, standing up and checking his weapons.
"We'll be there in twenty minutes," he says, hanging up.
"What's happened?"
"We found him. Trace. One of his accounts just pinged with a rental agreement. Property in Maynooth, paid for with cash but the paperwork trail leads back to one of his shell companies."
My blood runs cold. "He's close."
"Has been for days, probably. But now we know where."
Henry appears in the doorway like he's been listening. "Details?"
"Isolated farmhouse, twenty acres, perfect for what he's planning. Maverick's coordinating with Denis and the others. We move in two hours."
"Good." Henry's voice is hard, final. "End this."
Freddie's already strapping on his shoulder holster, checking his spare magazines. The transformation from the man who cleans guns obsessively to the professional killer is immediate and complete.
"I'm coming with you," I say.
"No."
"Freddie—"
"No." His voice is flat, non-negotiable. "You stay here, where it's safe."
"What if it's a trap? What if he's not really there?"
"Then we deal with that. But you're not walking into potential gunfire."
Henry moves into the room fully. "I'll stay here with Alastríona. Make sure she's protected."
"You should go with them," I protest. "This is your fight too."
"My fight is keeping you safe. That's what Killian would have wanted."
The mention of my father makes my chest tight. Everything we're doing, everything we're risking, it all comes back to him. To choices he made, loyalties he maintained, a life he tried to keep separate from the violence.
"How long will you be gone?" I ask Freddie.
"As long as it takes."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I have."
He comes to me and takes my face in his hands. His touch is gentle despite the weapons he's carrying, despite the violence he's planning.
"I need you safe," he says. "I need to know you're here, protected, waiting for me to come back."
"And if you don't come back?"
"I will."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
He kisses me, hard and desperate, like he's trying to memorize the taste of me. I kiss him back with the same intensity, the same fear that this might be the last time.
"I love you," I whisper against his mouth.
"I love you too. More than anything."
Then he's gone, and I'm left standing in Henry's study with the echo of his footsteps and the weight of words that felt like goodbye.
Henry settles into his chair and pours himself a whiskey even though it's barely noon.
"He'll come back," he says.
"You can't know that."
"I know the kind of man he is. I know what you mean to him. He'll come back."
I hope he's right. But hope's a dangerous thing in our world, where good men die and bad men prosper, where love is a weakness enemies exploit.
"Tell me about your kids," I say, needing distraction from thoughts I can't control.
"What do you want to know?"
"Everything. What they were like."
Henry's smile is soft, reminiscent. "Killian was... special. Shouldn't say it, shouldn't have favorites among my children, but he was."
My heart soars. I love hearing this, love learning more about my dad, about the man he was. It's nice to know I wasn't the only one who loved him dearly. "Why?"
"Because he had heart in a world that rewards heartlessness. Because he could be ruthless when necessary but never lost his compassion. Because he loved completely, without reservation or condition."
"Like with me."
"Especially with you. From the moment you were born, you were his whole world. He used to carry pictures of you everywhere. He'd always carry them with him. You were always with him, Alastríona. He was the proudest father I ever knew."
The warmth in Henry's voice makes my chest tight. This is what I've been missing my whole life—family who remember my father with love instead of fear, who see his absence as loss instead of relief.
"He was a good man."
"The best. And you're just like him."
"I don't feel like it sometimes. I feel angry, vengeful. I want Trace to pay for what he's done."
"That's human. That's normal. Your father would have felt the same way."
We sit in comfortable silence for a while, grandfather and granddaughter finding connection in shared loss. Outside, Dublin continues its business, unaware that somewhere in Maynooth, a war is being planned.
"Can I tell you something?" Henry says eventually.
"Of course."
"You're my favorite too."
I laugh despite myself. "Henry, we've barely known each other two months."
"Doesn't matter. I love all my grandchildren, but you're special.
You're Killian's daughter, yes, but you're also yourself.
Strong, stubborn, brave enough to stand up to old men who think they know better.
You have been sheltered from this life yet you are brave and resilient.
You were made to be a part of this family, but you also are sweet and caring. You are my favorite."
"I don't feel special. I feel like I'm stumbling through all of this, making it up as I go along."
"That's what makes you special. Anyone can follow orders, can do what they're told. It takes real strength to think for yourself, to make your own choices."
"Even when those choices put people in danger?"
"Especially then. Easy choices don't require courage."
The alarm system suddenly blares through the house, a harsh electronic shriek that makes my blood freeze. Henry's on his feet immediately, moving faster than a man his age should be able to.
"Upstairs," he orders. "Now."
"What's happening?"
"Someone's breached the perimeter. Go. Hide."
But I don't move. I can't move. Because if someone's found us here, then this was all a trap. The farmhouse in Maynooth, the rental agreement, it was bait to draw our men away while Trace came for me.
"Alastríona, go!"
Henry's voice cuts through my paralysis. I run for the stairs, taking them two at a time, my heart hammering against my ribs. Behind me, I hear Henry on his radio, calling for backup, coordinating defenses.
But backup might not come in time. The best men are twenty miles away, walking into what might be an empty house while the real threat is here.
I reach my room, lock the door, and grab the knife Dad taught me to use. It feels inadequate against whatever's coming, but it's something. A way to fight back if fighting becomes necessary.
Outside, I can hear vehicles approaching. Multiple engines moving fast. Too many for a casual visit, too coordinated for coincidence.
They've found us.
And Freddie's not here to protect me.
The sound of breaking glass echoes through the house, followed by shouting and gunfire. Henry's men are engaging the enemy, trying to hold them off.
I press my back against the wall beside my window, knife ready, and wait. Wait for footsteps on the stairs, for doors to splinter, for the moment when hiding becomes fighting. There's a hurley stick right beside me. My fingers clench around the handle. I'm ready for whatever happens next.