Page 41 of The Thief
"Always."
"I don't know. You're untested, untrained, unprepared for what's coming. But you're also Killian's daughter, and that means something. Means you've got steel in your spine whether you know it or not."
"How can you be sure?"
"Because soft people don't survive eighteen months alone in Belfast. Because soft people don't knife attackers in dark alleys."
Fair points. I haven't been soft, have I? I’ve been fighting for survival since the day Dad died, building something from nothing with just stubbornness and spite. I wonder how he knows about what the hell happened in that alleyway.
"Tell me about this world," I say. "Henry keeps talking about the family business, but nobody's explained what that actually means."
Denis is quiet for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "We're not saints, Alastríona. We don't pretend to be. We do what needs to be done to protect what's ours."
"Which is what, exactly?"
"Everything." He gestures toward the house, the grounds, the city beyond the walls. "Dublin, parts of Belfast, connections across Europe and America. Legitimate businesses, less legitimate enterprises. All of it built on one principle—family first, everything else second."
"And if someone threatens the family?"
"Then they stop being a threat. Permanently."
Simple words, but they carry weight. Death sentences delivered with the same casual tone most people use to discuss the weather.
"That's what this is about, isn't it? Trace Harrington threatening the family."
"Among other things. Trace thinks he can move into our territory, take what we've built. He's wrong."
"And I'm caught in the middle."
"You're not caught, love. You're home. There's a difference."
Home. That word again. Everyone keeps using it like saying it enough times will make it true.
"How big is this family?"
Denis settles back in his chair, warming to the subject. "Bigger than you might think. I run operations here in Ireland. My eldest son, Danny, runs Great Britain. Malcolm, my younger boy, handles Spain and Portugal."
Impressive reach. More than I expected from what I thought was just a Dublin gang.
"My sister, Makenna, runs the East Coast of America, Henry's son-in-law, Liam, controls Chicago, and his son, Hayden, has Indianapolis."
Jesus. It's not a family business; it's an empire stretching across continents, touching millions of lives.
"All family?"
"Blood or marriage, yeah. We don't trust outsiders with real power—too easy for them to develop their own ambitions."
"And where do I fit in this empire?"
"Wherever you want. You're Killian's daughter; that makes you royalty whether you like it or not. You could run your own territory someday, if that's what you want."
My own territory. My own piece of an empire built on blood and bullets. The idea should terrify me, but instead it's oddly appealing. Power instead of helplessness. Control instead of being at the mercy of men like Sean Jennings.
"What if I don't want any of it?"
"Then you don't take it. Your choice. But you'll always be family, always be protected. That doesn't change."
"Marcus doesn't seem to think I belong."
