Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
alastríona
The morning of Henry's funeral is gray and miserable, which feels appropriate. Rain patters against the windows of the safe house where we've been staying since his death, a steady rhythm that matches the hollow ache in my chest.
I stand at the bedroom window, watching black cars arrive one by one. They're coming from all over Ireland, from London, and from places I've never heard of. Henry's people are coming to pay their respects to a man who commanded loyalty even in death.
"You should eat something," Freddie says from behind me.
"Not hungry."
"You haven't eaten since yesterday."
"I said I'm not hungry."
He doesn't push. He just moves to stand beside me at the window. Another car pulls through the gates, this one carrying people I don't recognize. More family, probably. More Gallaghers are coming to say goodbye to their patriarch.
"They'll be looking for me," I say quietly.
"Who?"
"All of them. They'll want to meet Henry's granddaughter, the girl he died protecting." My voice cracks on the last words. "They'll want to see if I was worth it."
"Tríona—"
"Was I, Freddie? Was I worth his life?"
"That's not how love works. Henry didn't die protecting you because you were worth it. He died protecting you because he loved you. Because that's what grandfathers do."
"How would I know? I never had one before."
The words hang between us, bitter and raw. I've been holding this inside for days now, this crushing weight of guilt and grief and the terrible knowledge that a good man is dead because of me.
"I don't belong here," I whisper.
"What?"
"Look at them." I gesture toward the arriving cars. "Look at all these people who knew him for years, who loved him, who were part of his life. I knew him for months. Barely that."
"You were his blood."
"Blood doesn't make family. Not real family. These people have history with him, memories, years of shared experiences. I have what? A few conversations? Some stolen moments between one crisis and the next?"
Freddie's quiet for a long moment, processing my words. When he speaks, his voice is careful, measured.
"Is that really what you think? That you didn't matter to him?"
"I think I was a stranger he felt obligated to protect because his son was my father. I think he's dead because of duty, not love."
"You're wrong."
"Am I? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like Henry Gallagher died for an idea. For the concept of a granddaughter rather than the reality of who I actually am."
The sound of more cars draws my attention back to the window. A sleek black Mercedes pulls up, and I watch as Denis gets out, followed by a woman with red hair I recognize as Holly. Behind them, another car disgorges Makenna and several men I don't know.
They all look like they belong here. Like they're part of something bigger than themselves, something I'll never truly understand.
"I should go," I say suddenly.
"Go where?"
"Back to Belfast. Back to my real life."
"This is your real life."
"No, it's not. This is Henry's life, and he's gone. Without him, I'm just an outsider who brought violence to their door."
Freddie turns to face me fully, and there's something fierce in his expression. Something that brooks no argument.
"Get dressed," he says.
"What?"
"You heard me. Get dressed. We're going downstairs, and you're going to let these people show you exactly how wrong you are."
"Freddie—"
"No. You don't get to decide you don't belong. You don't get to run away because grief is hard and guilt is easier than love. You're a Gallagher, whether you like it or not, and today we bury the man who was proud as hell to call you his granddaughter."
His words cut through my self-pity like a blade, sharp and necessary. I want to argue, want to insist that he doesn't understand, but there's truth in what he's saying. A truth I've been avoiding because it's easier to feel sorry for myself than to face the reality of what I've lost.
"I don't know how to do this," I admit.
"Do what?"
"Be part of a family. Be someone people love enough to die for. I spent my whole life with just Dad, and even he kept me at arm's length sometimes. Kept parts of himself hidden because he thought it would keep me safe."
"So learn. Let them teach you."
"What if I can't? What if I'm too broken, too used to being alone?"
"Then we'll figure it out together. But you don't get to decide that before you even try."
I nod, not trusting my voice. He's right, of course. I've been so focused on my guilt, so convinced that Henry's death is my fault, that I haven't allowed myself to grieve properly. Haven't allowed myself to accept the love that still surrounds me, even in loss.
Twenty minutes later, I'm dressed in black and following Freddie downstairs. The safe house is full of people now, voices murmuring in the kind of hushed tones reserved for death and sorrow. Some I recognize, others are strangers, but they all look up when I enter the room.
The conversations fade to silence. They're studying me.
Everyone is here—all of Henry's grandchildren, along with Edwina, his daughter.
They're all taking measure of the girl the man they loved died protecting.
I can feel their judgment, their curiosity, their assessment of whether I was worth the price Henry paid.
"Alastríona." Denis appears at my elbow, solid and reassuring. "How are you holding up?"
"I'm fine."
"Liar." His tone is gentle, understanding. "Come on. There are people who want to meet you."
He guides me toward a group gathered near the fireplace. I recognize Holly immediately. She's got the kind of beauty that's hard to forget. Red hair like autumn leaves, green eyes that miss nothing, and the same underlying strength that seems to run in the Gallagher bloodline.
"Holly," Denis says, "I'd like you to properly meet your cousin, Alastríona."
Holly's smile is immediate and genuine, cutting through my nervousness like sunshine through clouds.
"I'm so glad to finally talk to you properly," she says, taking my hands in hers. "I've been wanting to, but with everything that's been happening..."
"I know. It's been chaos."
"That's one word for it." Her expression grows serious. "I'm sorry about Granddad. I know you two were just getting to know each other."
The simple acknowledgment of my loss, of the relationship I barely had time to build, breaks something loose in my chest. These people understand. They know what it means to love someone and lose them too soon.
"He was proud of you," Holly continues. "He talked about you constantly after you arrived. How smart you were, how strong. How much you reminded him of our grandmother."
"Did he really?"
"Oh yes. He was absolutely besotted. Da was actually getting a bit jealous of how much attention you were getting."
Denis snorts. "I was not jealous."
"You absolutely were. Remember when Granddad cancelled that meeting with the Liverpool contacts because Alastríona had questions about family history? You sulked for a week."
"I didn't sulk. I was concerned about business priorities."
"You sulked."
Despite everything, I find myself almost smiling. This teasing, this casual affection between father and daughter, feels so normal. So wonderfully, beautifully normal.
"He really cancelled a business meeting for me?" I ask.
"Two meetings," Denis corrects. "He said blood was more important than money, and he'd waited too long to know his granddaughter to waste time on anything else."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Henry had prioritized me. Had chosen me over business, over the empire he'd spent decades building. How had I convinced myself that I didn't matter to him?
"I feel like I killed him," I blurt out.
The confession hangs in the air between us, raw and ugly. Holly's face softens with understanding, while Denis' expression grows fierce.
"No," Denis says firmly. "Trace Harrington killed him. Trace and his obsession with revenge for imagined slights."
"But if I hadn't been here—"
"Then Grandda would have spent the rest of his life regretting never knowing you. He told me once that meeting you was the best thing that had happened to him in years. That you reminded him why family matters more than anything else in this world."
"I barely knew him."
"So? You think love has a timer? You think it takes years to matter to someone?" Denis shakes his head. "Love isn't about time, Alastríona. It's about connection. And you connected with him from the moment you walked through his door."
"How can you be sure?"
"Because I saw it. We all did. The way his face lit up when you laughed, the way he'd change the subject whenever someone brought up business around you because he wanted to keep you separate from that world. The way he worried about you every second you were out of his sight."
Holly nods in agreement. "He loved you completely, unconditionally, from the very beginning. That's who he was. That's who we are as a family."
"But I don't feel like family. I feel like an outsider who brought death to your door."
"Can I tell you something?" Holly asks quietly.
"Of course."
"I felt the same way when my grandfather died. Seamus, my granda, Da's da."
I look between them, confused. "I thought Henry was your grandfather."
"Henry was my great-grandfather. Seamus was his son, Da's dad. He died protecting me, and I miss him so much.."
The pain in her voice is immediate and familiar. The same guilt I'm carrying, the same weight of survival when someone you love didn't.
"What happened?"
Holly glances at Denis, and I can see the pain in both of their eyes.
"My husband had a woman who was jealous. She hated me and worked with some awful people who kidnapped me. They shot Grandda, Finn, and Jade. It was awful. We thought we'd lose Finn too."
"I'm sorry."
"The point is, I spent months blaming myself, convinced I was the reason a good man was dead. Everyone kept telling me it wasn't my fault, but I couldn't hear them. I couldn't see past my own guilt."
"What changed?"
"Time. And acceptance that love makes people do things that seem crazy to everyone else. Grandda didn't die because he had to protect me. He died because he chose to protect me. Because loving someone means putting their safety above your own life."
"That's exactly what Henry did," Denis adds. "He chose to stand between you and Trace, knowing the risk. Not because he was obligated to, but because he loved you."
"How do you know?"
"Because I would have done the same thing. Because any of us would have. Because that's what family means."
The weight of their words settles over me, heavy and warm. I've been so focused on my guilt that I haven't allowed myself to see the truth. Henry didn't die protecting a stranger. He died protecting his granddaughter. Someone he loved, someone who mattered to him more than his own safety.
"I miss him," I whisper.
"So do we," Holly says, pulling me into a hug. "But he's not really gone, you know. He's in all of us. In the way we take care of each other, in the way we fight for family, in the way we love without reservation."
"I don't know how to do that."
"You'll learn. We'll teach you."
"What if I'm not good at it? What if I can't be the kind of person he thought I was?"
"Then you'll figure it out as you go. We all do."
Denis places a gentle hand on my shoulder. "You belong here, Alastríona. Not because of blood or obligation, but because Granddad chose you. Because you chose us. Because family isn't about being perfect—it's about showing up, even when it's hard."
"Especially when it's hard," Holly adds. "Like today."
I look around the room at all these people who've come to honor Henry's memory. They're not here out of duty or fear. They're here out of love. Love for a man who built something bigger than himself, something that will outlast his death.
Something I'm part of now, whether I understand it or not.
"Okay," I say quietly.
"Okay what?" Freddie asks, appearing beside me with a cup of tea I didn't realize I needed.
"Okay, I'll try. I'll try to be the granddaughter he believed I could be."
"You already are," Denis says. "You just need to believe it yourself."
The next few hours pass in a blur of introductions and shared memories. I meet so many people who knew Henry. Each conversation, each story about Henry, helps me understand the man I lost and the family I've gained.
By the time we leave for the church, I feel different. Steadier. Like I'm walking into my own life instead of stumbling through someone else's.
The funeral is beautiful and terrible in equal measure.
The church is packed with hundreds of people, all of them there to honor a man who commanded respect across two continents.
The service is formal but personal, full of readings that speak to Henry's love of family and his commitment to protecting what mattered most.
I sit in the front row between Freddie and Denis, Holly on Denis' other side. The family section, where I belong now whether I feel ready or not.
When they lower Henry into the ground, I finally let myself cry. Not just for him, but for all the time we'll never have. For the grandfather I barely got to know and the relationships that were cut short by violence and hatred.
But also for the love that remains. For the family that's wrapped around me like armor, protecting me from my own guilt and grief. For the man standing beside me who's promised to help me navigate this new world I've inherited.
As we walk away from the graveside, Holly falls into step beside me.
"You did good today," she says quietly.
"I cried through the entire service."
"Exactly. You showed up. You grieved. You let yourself be part of something bigger than your own pain."
"Is that enough?"
"It's everything." She links her arm through mine, the gesture casual but meaningful. "Welcome to the family, cousin. Really welcome this time."
For the first time since Henry's death, I think I might actually believe her.
I am a Gallagher. I do belong here. And maybe, with time and patience and the love of people like Holly and Denis and Freddie, I'll figure out how to carry that legacy forward.
How to honor the man who died believing I was worth saving.
How to be the granddaughter he knew I could become.