Page 58 of The Thief
Beside him sits a blonde woman with kind eyes and a British accent mixed with Spanish. "Raylee," she says, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. "Malcolm's wife. Lovely to finally meet you."
"And Danny," Henry continues, indicating another man who looks like a younger version of Denis. "He handles Great Britain for us."
Danny's wife, Melissa, is dark-haired and elegant. She smiles easily and looks comfortable and confident. I like that. "We've heard so much about you," she says softly.
They seem genuinely pleased to meet me, which is more than I can say for Marcus, who's been glowering from his end of the table like I've personally offended him just by existing.
The conversation flows around me, business talk disguised as family chatter, coded references to things I don't understand yet. But underneath it all, there's grief; a rawness that everyone's trying to hide but can't quite manage.
"Jer would have loved meeting you," Malcolm says suddenly, his voice careful. "He always said Killian talked about you constantly."
The table goes quiet. Jer, Freddie's mentor, the man who died because of this war with Trace Harrington. I can see the loss etched in every face, especially Malcolm's.
"You knew him well?" I ask.
"He was my biological father," Malcolm says simply.
The words hit like a physical blow. Jerry Houlihan wasn't just Freddie's mentor; he was Malcolm's father. Which means this family just lost one of their own, and I'm sitting here pretending to belong while they're grieving.
"I'm sorry," I say, meaning it. "Freddie told me he was a good man."
"The best." Malcolm's voice cracks slightly.
Raylee reaches for her husband's hand and squeezes it gently. It’s the kind of automatic comfort that comes from years of marriage, of knowing exactly when your partner needs steadying.
"He'd have been proud of the man you've become," Denis says quietly.
"Would he? Because I wasn't there when he needed me. None of us were."
The guilt in Malcolm's voice is unmistakable. It’s the same guilt I see in Freddie's eyes when he thinks nobody's watching. All these men blaming themselves for one bastard's actions.
"Trace Harrington killed Jer," Henry says firmly. "Not you, not any of us. That blood is on his hands alone."
"But if we'd been faster, smarter?—"
"Then maybe Trace would have found another way. You can't protect everyone from everything, son. Jer knew the risks."
The conversation moves on, but the weight of loss hangs over the table like smoke. These people aren't just colleagues or business partners; they're family in the truest sense. And they're hurting in ways I recognize all too well.
When the main course is finished, Henry pushes back from the table. "Gentlemen, shall we retire to my office? Business to discuss."
The women exchange knowing looks. Apparently, being dismissed so the men can talk business is normal in this world.
"Don't take it personally," Melissa says as the men file out. "They still think we're delicate flowers who can't handle hearing about violence."
"Even though Melissa can kill a man with her bare hands," Danny calls back from the doorway.
"You're the one who sleeps next to her," Raylee laughs. "Remember Georgina?"
Malcolm grins. "How could anyone forget?"
"She had it coming," Melissa says matter-of-factly.
I like these women already. They're not helpless princesses waiting to be rescued; they're partners, equals, women who've chosen this life with their eyes wide open.
"So," Melissa says, pouring herself another glass of wine. "What do you think of the Gallaghers’ little empire so far?"
"It's... overwhelming."
