Page 165 of The Thief
"With the truth. Why the war? Why all this death and destruction?"
"You know why."
"No, I know what you told us. Revenge for Ava's death. But you killed Ava. So why really?"
Trace spits blood and glares at me with eyes that hold too much white. "You wouldn't understand."
"Try me."
"Power. Control. The knowledge that men like your precious Jerry and Henry think they can run the world while better men watch from the sidelines."
"Better men?"
"Smarter men. Men who understand that sentiment is weakness, that family is a liability."
"Men like you?"
"Exactly like me."
I study his face, seeing the madness there but also something else. Calculation. Even now, even beaten and bleeding, he's still playing games.
"Bullshit," I say. "This isn't about power. This is about a broken man who couldn't handle the fact that his wife chose someone else."
"My wife was a whore who?—"
Maverick's knife finds the soft flesh between Trace's fingers, sliding in slowly. Trace's scream echoes off the warehouse walls, raw and animalistic.
"Wrong answer," I say. "Try again."
Trace's breathing is ragged, sweat beading on his forehead. But his eyes are still defiant, still holding that manic gleam.
"You want the truth?" he gasps. "Fine. I hated Henry Gallagher from the moment I learned his name."
"Why?"
"Because he had everything I wanted. Respect, loyalty, a family that would die for him. Everything I should have had."
"Should have had how?"
Maverick twists the knife slightly. Trace arches against the restraints, another scream tearing from his throat.
"My father built an empire in Boston!" he shouts. "Five families working together, controlling everything that mattered. But your precious Irish friends couldn't leave well enough alone. They were taking over the US. It was only a matter of time before they started to take Boston too."
"We defended ourselves."
"You destroyed everything! Killed my father, scattered the families, turned Boston into a fucking war zone."
The knife moves to his other hand, finding the webbing between thumb and forefinger. This time, Trace tries to bite down on his scream, but it comes out anyway, broken and desperate.
"Your father was trying to expand into our territory," I say, watching blood drip onto the concrete. "What did you expect us to do?"
"Submit. Recognize superior strength when you saw it."
"Or fight back. Which is what we did."
"And look where it got you. Dead friends, dead family—a woman who'll never feel safe again."
I hit him again, this time with enough force to rock the chair. His nose breaks with an audible crack, blood streaming down his face.
