Page 47 of The Thief
"Experience. History. The fact that everyone who's ever made me promises has broken them."
He nods, understanding. "Fair enough. But the offer stands, when you're ready to believe it."
Then he's gone, leaving me alone in Henry's library with the taste of whiskey on my lips and the echo of promises I'm too scared to trust.
I sit surrounded by books worth more than most people's lives, wondering if I'm strong enough to risk my heart on a man whose world is built on violence and secrets.
I wonder if any of us are strong enough for what's coming.
CHAPTER SEVEN
freddie
The church is packed.
It's been a very long time since I've seen so many dangerous men in one place trying to look respectable. Black suits, polished shoes, hands clasped in front of them like they're praying instead of planning violence. But that's what Jer would have wanted; dignity, respect, and the kind of send-off that honors what he built.
St. Audoen's Church in the Liberties, is where Jer was baptized almost sixty years ago. Where his mother brought him every Sunday until he was old enough to make his own choices about God and salvation. Seems fitting that we're saying goodbye to him here.
I'm in the front row with Maverick, Stephen, and Emmanuel. The core of what Jer built, what he left behind. Maverick's face is like stone, but I can see the muscle jumping in his jaw. Stephen's staring straight ahead, his hands clenched so tight his knuckles are white. Emmanuel keeps checking his watch like he's got somewhere else to be, but I know it's just nervous energy.
We're all dealing with this differently. All trying to hold it together for the people wanting to see us crumble, for the cops who are definitely watching from across the street, for the rival organizations who want to see if we'll fall apart without our leader.
Behind us, the church fills with the sound of footsteps and whispered conversations. Lisa slides into the pew beside Maverick and takes his hand without a word. Clodagh does the same with Emmanuel, and Jessica with Stephen. The women understanding what we need without being asked. Jess more so than the rest. She was Jer's niece. She's feeling this just as we are.
Denis is three rows back with his family, Callie looking elegant in black, their youngest kids trying to understand why everyone's so sad. Chloe's there with Pyro, president of the Fury Vipers Dublin chapter. Mary and Gareth flank their parents, while Fiadh and Tadgh, the youngest, sit quietly between their mother and father.
Nicola and Eric, Maverick and Callie's parents, sit with their son and daughter, heads bowed. Nicola's crying. She's now lost her sister and brother in the span of five years.
The Houlihan men fill the middle section of the church. Twenty-three of them—every man who worked for Jer directly. Drivers, enforcers, accountants, the infrastructure of a criminal organization are all here as mourners. They look lost without him, like children whose father has abandoned them.
Behind them, the Gallaghers. Henry sits with his family, looking every one of his seventy-odd years. Malcolm and Danny flank him. Malcolm wanted to sit with his brother and family. Not many people knew he was Jer's biological son. Only those closest to him did.
And scattered throughout the back half of the church are members of allied organizations. Fury Vipers, Devils Falcons, other crews that worked with Jer over the years. Men who might be enemies tomorrow but today are here to honor a legend.
The priest, Father McKenna, who's been blessing and burying criminals for forty years, steps to the pulpit. His voice echoes off stone walls that have heard centuries of prayers and confessions.
"We gather today to remember Jerry Houlihan..."
I stop listening to the words and focus instead on the weight of what we've lost. Jer wasn't just our boss; he was our anchor, our conscience, the man who kept us human in a world that rewards monsters.
He found me when I was fourteen, stealing people's wallets to survive. He could have had me killed, could have ignored another street kid heading for prison or death. Instead, he saw something worth saving. He taught me how to be professional, how to think beyond the next score, how to build something that lasts.
"Violence is a tool, son, not a solution. Use it when you have to, but never forget there's always a price."
His voice echoes in my memory, advice given over late-night conversations in backroom pubs. Lessons about loyalty, about family, about the difference between surviving and living.
The pain hits like a physical thing, settling in my chest and making it hard to breathe. Not tears—I haven't cried since my mother died—but something deeper. The knowledge that the world is smaller now, darker, and less forgiving without Jer's steady presence.
Maverick shifts beside me, and I know he's feeling it too. Jer was his uncle. The man who taught us that strength without honor is just brutality, that loyalty without wisdom is just stupidity.
Father McKenna's talking about resurrection now, about life after death, about hope in the face of loss. Pretty words for people who believe in them. But in our world, death is final. There's no coming back, no second chances, no divine intervention when bullets start flying.
There's just the work. The code. The family you build and the loyalty you earn.
A child cries somewhere in the back, quickly hushed by embarrassed parents. Normal people, probably, who wandered into the wrong church at the wrong time. They have no idea they're surrounded by enough firepower to level a city block, enough criminal expertise to orchestrate the perfect crime.
But today, we're just mourners. Just men saying goodbye to someone who mattered.
