Sins of the Father (The Kavanagh Crime Family #1)

1. Orla

ORLA

The cemetery is empty around me, rows of markers standing as silent witness. A chilly wind pierces through my coat, but I shake it off. March in Boston is bitterly cold, it is only fitting for what I come to do here each year.

"I will get justice," I whisper, touching the stone. "I promise, Dad."

My knees sink to damp earth as I arrange the flowers. Dad loved simple things - white lilies, black coffee, numbers that balanced on a page. His accounting mind was all about order. Never knowing that same numbers, and need for order would get him killed.

The memory washes over me in the silence of the graveyard.

I call out as I enter our house, tossing my backpack by the door. School debate team ran late. My Dad's car is in the driveway, but he doesn’t answer. There’s an eerie quiet.

"Dad? I'm home."

Nothing.

I walk down the hall to his office, and push open the half-closed door.

"Dad, did you want to order ? —"

The words stop coming out. He is at his desk, slumped forward. Papers scattered across the floor. Blood spreading across white spreadsheets, blooming outward from where he ? —

Red everywhere.

I am frozen. His eyes stare at nothing, while blood pools beneath his chair.

I scream.

A twig snaps behind me, pulling me back to reality. I don't turn around. Only one other person comes here on this day.

"Detective Doyle," I say.

"You're punctual, Orla. Every year, nine AM sharp." His footsteps crunch on the gravel as he gets closer.

I get up, brushing dirt from my black pants. "Any news?"

Fergus Doyle stands in front of me exactly as he did last March, and the March before that. Salt-and-pepper hair cut short, stubble on his jaw, rumpled suit worn too many times. His hazel eyes tired.

"The official investigation remains closed." He stands me, looking down at the grave. "Kavanagh's people were very careful."

"And unofficially?" I ask.

"I’ll keep digging. But nothing has come up yet." He pauses. "But there’s an opportunity, to get a bit closer."

I turn to him now, waiting to know what that means.

"Kavanagh Import & Export is hiring a new executive assistant. For the heir apparent, Cillian Kavanagh." Doyle watches me. "Thought you might want to know."

My heart races. "You did, did you?"

"Just passing on information. What you do with it..." He shrugs, but I know what he is getting at. We've talked about this option before, theoretically. There was never a way in before.

"How many applicants?" I ask.

"Three he has shortlisted. They’ll have an interview tomorrow at ten. It’s with their HR manager - Patricia Mills. You'd need some serious credentials."

"Which I have." Two years of planning paid off. "Orla Kelly exists, on paper."

Doyle nods, then gazes back at my father's grave. "Thomas wouldn't want this for you. Let it go, live your life. Safe. Not poking the bear."

"Thomas didn't want to die with his face in accounting files, while swimming in his blood." My voice turns cold. "But here we are."

Doyle sighs but stays quiet. He's voiced his concerns many times, my need for revenge is something no one could understand. He reaches into his pocket and hands me a business card.

"That’s the address and contact information. I already had the application submitted under your... alternate name."

I take the card, tucking it into my coat pocket.

"Be careful, Orla. These people—" He trails off.

"I know exactly who these people are." I turn away from the grave. "I'll let you know."

***

My apartment is almost bare, only what I need. A bed, a desk, a locked metal box under the floorboard with my father's bloodstained business papers. Bare walls, no photos. Nothing to distract me from my purpose, or give away who I am.

I spread documents across the small table.

Birth certificate, driver's license, diploma, employment records - all for Orla Kelly, fabricated with care.

Next to them, a resume designed to catch Cillian Kavanagh's attention.

Business administration degree from Boston College.

Four years administrative experience at firms the Kavanaghs won't investigate too deeply.

I rehearse my backstory in the mirror. Born in South Boston to working-class Irish parents.

My ‘father’ a construction worker, my ‘mother’ a nurse.

Both dead – to Covid during the pandemic.

A good Catholic school education. No siblings.

I lived with an estranged aunt during college and have no other living relatives.

I practice aloud, my voice steady, but different. A hint more South Boston in my vowels. A warmer tone. Orla Kelly must appear perfect, but forgettable, and seem like she is no threat at all.

In my bathroom mirror looking back at me is a woman with auburn hair pulled back tight, green eyes that glisten with the hunger for revenge. I'll style it softer tomorrow. Wear less makeup. Look normal, unremarkable.

My phone buzzes.

A text from Doyle.

Background check initiated by Kavanagh security. Basic level only. Your story will hold up.

Good. I have been waiting too long for this to get flagged by a simple background check.

I open my laptop, reviewing the Kavanagh Import & Export corporate structure. Legitimate business on paper - shipping, customs brokerage, international trade. Behind that facade—weapons, drugs, money laundering. And somewhere in their records, is the reason my father died.

He found something in their accounts. Something worth killing for.

I change into running clothes and put my papers back into their hidden box. Physical preparation matters just as much as mental. Five miles to clear my head and wreck my body before I sleep.

Tomorrow, I finally become Orla Kelly.

I touch the small photo of my father tucked inside my wallet - the only personal item I keep with me always.

"Watch me," I whisper. "I'll make them pay. Every last fucking Kavanagh."