Page 112 of The Thief
"Now I'm part of something. Part of a family, even if it's a dangerous one."
Henry reaches over and takes my uninjured hand in his. His skin is papery, marked with age spots, but his grip is still strong.
"Your father would be proud of you," he says. "The way you fought them, the way you're handling all this, it's exactly what he would have done."
"Is it? Because I feel like I'm falling apart."
"You're allowed to fall apart. Christ knows I did when we lost Killian."
This is the first time he's talked about Dad's death directly, without euphemisms or careful language. The first time I've seen real pain in his face instead of the controlled grief he usually shows.
"Tell me about him," I say. "About what he was like before Belfast, before me."
Henry's smile is sad, complicated. "Wild. Reckless. Always getting into fights he couldn't win and talking his way out of trouble he shouldn't have survived."
"Sounds familiar."
"You get that from him; the stubborn streak, the refusal to back down even when you should."
"Mam always said I was too much like him for my own good."
"Your mother never understood Killian. She never understood that his strength came from caring too much, not too little."
"She was scared of this world."
"She had reason to be. This life takes people, Alastríona. Takes them young, takes them sudden. I've buried two sons, too many men, and more friends than I can count."
The pain in his voice is raw, unguarded. "Two sons?"
"Seamus—Makenna and Denis' father. He died protecting Holly. Some fucking bitch set it up for Holly to be taken. He died protecting his granddaughter. He was a good man; a great leader, an even better father."
I've never heard of Seamus before. Another uncle I never knew existed, another piece of family history kept from me.
"And then Killian. My boys, both gone because of enemies our family created."
"That's not your fault."
"Isn't it? I built this empire, made the decisions that put targets on their backs. If I'd been content with less, if I'd stayed small and quiet..."
"Then someone else would have taken over, and they'd be dead anyway. At least this way, their deaths meant something."
Henry looks at me sharply. "You really believe that?"
"I have to. Otherwise, Dad died for nothing, and I can't accept that."
We sit in silence for a while, two people bonding over shared loss.
"He talked about you constantly," Henry says eventually. "Every phone call, every visit. Alastríona this, Alastríona that. How smart you were, how strong, how much you reminded him of his mother."
"Your wife?"
"Mary. She was fierce while she lived, wouldn't back down from anyone or anything."
"What was she like?"
"Beautiful. Stubborn. Had a temper that could strip paint and a heart big enough to hold the whole world. Sound familiar?"
I try to hide my smile. "Maybe."
