Page 33 of The Thief
His face closes off, shutters dropping over those dark eyes. "Why?"
"Because you look like someone who's been carved out from the inside. And I recognize the look."
He's quiet for so long I think he's not going to answer. When he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.
"I thought I was. Turns out I was in love with a lie."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. She made her choices. We all make our choices."
But some choices make us, don't they? Some choices hollow us out and leave us walking around like ghosts, going through the motions of living without remembering why it matters.
"Get some rest," he says. "Tomorrow's going to be complicated."
He walks away, disappearing down the hall. And I'm alone again, standing in a dead man's room, wearing a name that isn't mine, pretending to be grateful for a family that abandoned me.
I close the door and lean against it, overwhelmed. Too much has changed too fast. Last night, I was Alastríona Grey, Belfast bar girl with nothing to lose. This morning, I'm Alastríona Gallagher, Dublin princess with a target on her back.
Not sure which is worse.
The photo of my parents is still on the nightstand, still showing two people who believed love could conquer anything. They were wrong, of course. Love doesn't conquer anything. It just makes you vulnerable and gives your enemies something to aim at.
But looking at their faces, seeing how young and hopeful they were, I can almost understand why they tried.
I can almost understand why I'm here, in this room, surrounded by ghosts and promises I'm not sure I want to keep.
Almost.
CHAPTER FIVE
freddie
The warehouse smells like rust and old blood.
Not the best place for a meeting after a death, but it's where we always meet when things go sideways. Away from prying eyes, away from ears that don't belong. Just us and the ghosts of every job we've pulled and every score we've made under Jer's guidance.
Stephen's already here when I arrive, sitting on a crate with his head in his hands. Emmanuel's pacing like a caged animal, all nervous energy and barely contained violence. And Maverick...
Christ, Maverick looks like he wants to burn down half of Dublin.
He’s Jer's nephew. The closest thing the man had to a son. Twenty-eight years old and hard as nails, but right now he looks like a kid who's lost his father all over again.
"Freddie." Stephen looks up when I walk in. His eyes are red-rimmed, whether from grief or rage, I can't tell. Probably both.
"How bad?" I ask.
"Bad." Emmanuel stops pacing and fixes me with a stare. "Trace took him out clean. Professional hit. Bullet to the head from a rooftop three blocks away."
"Any witnesses see where that fucker went?"
"None who are talking."
Of course not. Trace Harrington is too smart to leave loose ends.
Maverick's been quiet, but now he looks up. When he speaks, his voice is flat, dead. Dangerous.
"I'm going to kill him."
