Page 1 of The Thief
CHAPTER ONE
freddie
The whiskey burns, but not enough. Nothing burns enough anymore.
I stare at the amber liquid in my glass, watching the dim pub lights flicker in the reflection of the liquid. Three months in London and I still can't outrun the ghosts. Three months of empty hotel rooms, nameless faces, and fights that leave my knuckles bloody but my mind still screaming.
The bartender, some kid with too many piercings and not enough sense, slides another drink across the scarred wood. I don't remember ordering it, but I down it anyway. The burn is familiar now, almost comforting in its predictable pain.
Ava.
Her name cuts through the haze like a blade. Even here, in this shithole pub, where no one knows Freddie Kinnock or the Thief or any of the other names I've worn like armor, she haunts me. Since we were kids, it's always been her. Two nights we had together—over the span of five years, we had two amazing nights that I thought meant everything. Turns out they meant nothing. At least not to her.
The worst part? I still don't know if any of it was real.
My phone buzzes against the bar. Another text from Stephen, probably. Or Maverick. They've been checking in since I disappeared from Dublin, making sure I haven't done anything permanently stupid. Good friends. Better than I deserve, considering I've been radio silent for weeks.
I ignore it.
The pub door swings open, letting in a gust of cold London air and three lads who look like they've never seen the wrong end of a fight. University types. Soft hands, softer jaws. They're loud, already drunk, and taking up space like they own it.
Normally, I'd ignore them. Normally, I'd finish my drink and disappear into the night like smoke. But tonight, with Ava's ghost whispering in my ear and the taste of betrayal still bitter on my tongue, I'm not feeling particularly normal.
"Oi, mate," one of them calls out, nudging his friend. "Look at this sad cunt nursing his drink alone."
I don't turn around. Don't need to. I can hear the sneer in his voice, smell the privilege radiating off him like expensive cologne. These boys have never had to fight for anything in their lives.
"Probably crying into his beer about some bird," another one laughs. "Pathetic."
The glass stops halfway to my lips. My hand is steady—it's always steady—but something cold and dangerous unfurls in my chest. The same feeling I get right before I slip into a mark's house, before I take what doesn't belong to me. Except tonight, what I'm taking is satisfaction.
I set the glass down with deliberate care and turn on my stool. All three of them are watching me now, feeding off each other's courage like the pack of hyenas they are. The loudest one, who’s blonde and wearing designer clothes his daddy's money probably paid for, steps closer.
"What are you looking at?" he sneers.
I don't answer. Instead, I study them like I would any other job. Blonde boy's stance is all show, weight on his back foot. His friend to the left keeps glancing at the door–he'll run first. The third one's trying to look tough, but his hands are shaking slightly. Nerves or cocaine. Either way, weakness.
"I asked you a question," Blondie says, getting in my space now. His breath smells like expensive whiskey and poor decisions.
"I heard you," I say quietly. My accent cuts through the London noise like a blade, pure Dublin, sharp as broken glass. "I'm just trying to decide if you're worth the effort."
His face flushes red. "The fuck did you just say to me?"
I smile. It's not a nice smile. Stephen taught me well over the years. Sometimes the most ominous thing you can do is let them see exactly what you are.
"I said," I repeat, slower this time, "I'm trying to decide if beating the shit out of you three will make me feel better about my fucked-up life."
The bartender's already reaching for something under the bar. Probably a cricket bat or a phone to call the cops. Doesn't matter. This won't take long.
Blondie swings first. It’s telegraphed, clumsy, the kind of punch you throw when you've never been in a real fight. I duck under it easily, step inside his guard, and drive my knee into his ribs. The air goes out of him in a whoosh, and he drops like a sack of shit.
His friends hesitate; that crucial moment where they realize this isn't going to go how they thought. I don't give them time to reconsider. The one on the left gets an elbow to the nose that sends blood spraying across the sticky floor. The third one actually tries to run, but I catch him by the collar and introduce his face to the bar.
Three university boys down in less than thirty seconds. Jer would laugh his ass off if he were with me now.
The thought of my boss, the closest thing to a father I've ever had, sends a familiar pang through my chest. I wonder what he's thinking about my little London vacation. He’s probably ready to drag me back by the ear and put me to work. Good. I need the distraction.
"Right, that's enough of that," the bartender says, cricket bat in hand. "Out. Now. Before I call the police."
