5. Orla
ORLA
I t is just after four thirty when crisis strikes, interrupting my plans to snoop in the shipping files after hours.
"Westridge wants to pull their account," Cillian says, walking from his office. "They’re saying they have an exit clause. I need a solution now."
I set aside my real plans and put on my best assistant persona. Each problem creates a chance to gain his trust, giving me more access, and information.
"What happened?" I ask while pulling up their files.
"FDA flagged three shipments." He drops a folder on my desk. "They don’t think we can shield them from investigation, they want to pull the plug. Bunch of ninnies, afraid of a little heat."
I review the contract, and shipping manifests as Cillian moves around behind me. Westridge Pharmaceuticals makes up fifteen percent of our legitimate revenue—a major client whose departure would draw unwanted attention.
"I need twenty minutes with these," I say.
"You get ten," Cillian snaps.
Nine minutes pass before I knock on his door.
"Come in."
I enter with my printed response and place it on his desk. "The FDA flags target their Southeast Asian manufacturing. By routing shipments through our Singapore office instead of Boston, we can create a regulatory buffer."
Cillian reviews my work, going through each page. "This changes their classification."
"Yes. And creates documentation that meets FDA requirements without triggering a deeper investigation."
He looks at me with new interest. "How did you learn about these loopholes?"
"My previous firm managed pharmaceutical shipping. On a much smaller scale, but with similar challenges."
"Contact Singapore. I want confirmation they can handle this change."
This means working late—perfect. "On it."
By seven, we are finished restructuring Westridge, drafting new contracts, and keeping a firm grip on their business. I talk with their VP while Cillian speaks to their CEO. This crisis serves us both—for very different reasons.
"They signed a three-year deal" Cillian says, ending his call.
"Better than the one-year we had." I save every file onto my drive.
"You did well today." He pulls his tie loose, his face more relaxed than usual. "Most assistants would have watched me fix it."
"I believe in exceeding expectations," I reply.
Cillian glances at his watch. "It's late. I'll walk you down."
"I should file these first," I say, wanting time alone in the office.
"That can wait?—"
His phone interrupts. He checks the screen and raises a finger. "I need to answer this."
I turn to my computer, pretending to work while listening to his conversation.
"How many?" Cillian asks, his voice hardening. "No. Keep the docks secure until I send backup."
My fingers press random keys while my ears focus on his words.
"Tell Eamon to stay there. He can keep his temper in check until I get there." He pauses. "Two hours. Make sure those Dorchester bastards know the waterfront belongs to us."
After hanging up, I continue typing as if I heard nothing.
"Orla."
I look at him with a neutral face. "Yes?"
"We need to leave. Now."
I close my files and take my coat. Whatever happened at the docks, Cillian won't leave me alone in the office tonight—a problem and an opportunity to learn more.
"I have an urgent situation," he says as we head to the elevator. "I'll take you home."
"I drove today," I remind him.
"Right." He is distracted as we enter the elevator. "I'll walk you to your car."
The building is almost empty now. Our steps echo through the lobby where the night guard nods at Cillian.
The parking garage is vast and hollow, our footsteps bouncing off bare concrete walls. My car is parked in the far corner, just where I left it—but three men step out from behind a concrete column, walking straight toward us.
Cillian stops walking. His arm moves across my body as a shield.
"Stay behind me," he says quietly.
I watch the approaching men—two tall, one stocky and compact, all in dark jackets even though it’s hot as balls down here. I memorize their faces, builds, and gaits.
"Mr. Kavanagh," the shorter man says with fake warmth. "What a surprise."
"Duffy." Cillian keeps his voice casual while his stance changes. "You're nowhere near your pigsty."
"Just visiting." Duffy looks at me, then back to Cillian. "Pretty companion."
"This is my assistant." Cillian reaches toward his waist, showing the handle of a gun. "Why would Moran send his errand boy to y office?"
I play the scared assistant while noting every detail—including this name. Moran, apparently a rival.
"Bringing a personal message." Duffy grins, showing off a gold tooth. "Your brother took something that didn’t belong to him. Mr. Moran wants it back."
"Messages go through official channels," Cillian says. "Not parking and not in front of ladies."
"We wanted a personal touch?—"
"That was shit idea." Cillian's voice turns hard. "Tell Moran to call my office during business hours if he wants to talk to me."
I watch Duffy's men get antsy.
"Sure." Duffy steps backward. "But remember—we could send a fax. Or a courier, or something messier."
The threat lingers as they walk to a black SUV and drive away.
Cillian is alert until the vehicle leaves. Then he turns to check on me.
"Are you alright?" he asks.
I nod, acting afraid. "Who were they?"
"No one important." He walks me to my car, scanning every corner. "Business associates with poor manners."
"They knew you were leaving," I note while unlocking my door.
A muscle jumps in his jaw. "Coincidence, they were waiting."
We both recognize the lie. Someone told them Cillian would work late, they didn’t sit here all day.
"Drive straight home," he says. "Stay on main streets. I'll call you in fifteen minutes to make sure you arrived."
"You don't need to?—"
"I do." His tone cuts off any argument. "Answer your phone."
I sit in my car, mind racing. These men know Cillian's movements. They might know my address too—a risk I didn't consider. His enemies becoming my enemies—maybe I should make friends.
Driving away, I check my mirror. Cillian watches until I turn the corner, his phone to his ear, gun in his hand now.
I've seen both versions of Cillian Kavanagh today—capable businessman and dangerous criminal. Neither is what I imagined he would be.
My phone rings exactly fifteen minutes later.
"I made it home," I tell him from my apartment.
"Good. Lock up. I’ll see you tomorrow."
He cuts the call without waiting for a reply from me. I go to my window and search the street for black SUVs, strange faces, or any hint I was followed.