Page 28 of The Thief
"Marcus Devlin," Freddie says quietly. "Henry's right hand. Don't let him intimidate you."
Too late for that. Marcus has the same energy as the men who used to visit Dad—dangerous, controlled; the type of men who'd put a bullet in your head and still make it to mass on Sunday.
"Miss Gallagher," Marcus says. His voice is smooth, practiced. "Your grandfather's been waiting."
Miss Gallagher. Not Grey, like I've been calling myself for eighteen years. Like my mother's name meant nothing.
"It's Grey," I say.
"Not anymore."
The words hit like a slap. Just like that, he's erasing the life I built, the name I chose. He’s making decisions about who I am before I've even stepped through the door.
Freddie's hand touches my elbow, steadying me. "Easy."
Marcus leads us through halls that smell like old leather. Portraits line the walls—hard-faced men with familiar eyes. My eyes, I realize with a jolt. Generations of Gallaghers staring down like they're judging whether I'm worthy of the name.
The sitting room is all dark wood and crystal decanters. A fire crackles in a fireplace big enough to roast a pig. And there, in a leather chair that might as well be a throne, sits the man who's been keeping my photo on his desk for eighteen years.
Henry Gallagher looks older than in the photos I found online. Frailer. But his eyes are as sharp as cut glass, and he’s taking in every detail as I stand in his doorway like a deer caught in headlights.
"Alastríona." His voice is rougher than I had imagined, worn down by decades of cigarettes and whiskey. "Christ, you look just like him."
Dad. He means Dad.
Something twists in my chest. Grief I thought I'd buried, anger I've been carrying for eighteen months. This man knew my father. Loved him. And I never even knew he existed.
"Mr. Gallagher," I say, because I don't know what else to call him. Grandfather feels too intimate for a stranger.
"Henry," he corrects. "Please. Sit."
I perch on the edge of a sofa that probably cost more than Murphy's entire inventory. Freddie settles beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off him. It’s a comfort I don't want to need but find myself grateful for anyway.
"Drink?" Henry asks.
"I'm fine."
"Nonsense. Marcus, pour the girl a whiskey. The good stuff."
Marcus moves to the sideboard without argument. Everything about this house runs on Henry's word, I realize. He’s King in his castle, surrounded by subjects who jump when he speaks.
"I'm sorry about Jer,” Henry says to Freddie as his face hardens. "Jer was a good man. Trace Harrington will pay for what he did."
Trace Harrington. The name hits Freddie like a physical blow. I see him flinch, and something dark flickers across his face.
"You knew him," I say. Not a question.
"Knew his wife," Freddie says quietly.
Henry shoots him a sharp look. "Ava."
"She's dead too."
"Good riddance," Marcus says, handing me a crystal glass filled with amber liquid. "Lying bitch got what she deserved."
"Marcus." Henry's voice carries a warning.
But the damage is done. I can see it in Freddie's face—pain, guilt, something that looks like self-hatred. Whatever Ava was to him, he loved her. And now she's gone, just another ghost haunting the spaces behind his eyes.
