8. Cillian
CILLIAN
I watch Mitchell cowering against the side of a shipping container. The warehouse echoes with his ragged breathing and water dripping from the leaking roof. Eamon stands in front of him, waiting for my instructions.
"You sold shipping manifests to the Murphy crew," I say. "Cost us a quarter million and put three of our men in the hospital."
Mitchell trembles, his eyes darting between me and my brother. "Mr. Kavanagh, I can explain?—"
Eamon strikes without warning, his fist connecting with Mitchell's jaw. Blood and teeth splatter across the concrete floor.
"Eamon." My voice stays flat. "He needs his teeth to talk."
My brother backs away, his knuckles stained red. He glances toward the car where Orla waits, she can see everything. I never planned to bring her, but the call came during our Connecticut expansion meeting. There wasn’t time to drop her off. Now she is witnessing how we handle betrayal.
Mitchell spits blood. "They paid me fifty grand. My wife needs surgery—insurance wouldn't cover?—"
"You should have come to me," I cut him off. "We take care of our own."
"I was afraid?—"
"Now you understand afraid." I step forward, adjusting my cuffs. "Names. Every Murphy contact you spoke with. Every document you copied."
Eamon grabs bolt cutters from a nearby table. Mitchell's eyes go wide.
"He needs his fingers to write," I say. Eamon drops the it with a clang .
Mitchell sings like a canary. Names, dates, documents—everything pours out of him while Eamon records it.
I watch Orla from the corner of my eye. She is motionless, face neutral.
No disgust, no fear. Either she's witnessed this before or she possesses exceptional control. Or she’s some sort of sociopath.
When Mitchell’s well of information runs dry, I nod to Eamon. "Get his shit together. Then take him to the boat."
"Please," Mitchell begs, "my wife?—"
"Will receive the best medical care," I reply. "Your children's education will be taken care of through college. But you'll never see any of them again."
His sobs follow me as I walk away. Punishment and mercy delivered together, just as my Father taught me.
Orla is waiting when I get back into the car. "Should I reschedule the vendor meeting?" she asks, as if we just left any normal business lunch.
"No." I slide into the backseat, watching for any cracks in her composure. Nothing . She is not afraid of me, nor is she upset by what she just saw. "We'll be at the office in thirty minutes."
The office gets very quiet once the sun goes down, only a few staff stay late. I send my security detail to wait out in the hall and pour myself a Redbreast 21 in a crystal tumbler. I pull my tie loose and sink into my leather chair.
Mitchell joins a long list of traitors I've dealt with recently. There must be something in the water. Our family business demands loyalty. Those who betray us pay dearly, it has always been that way. It doesn’t matter who it is—a traitor is a traitor.
With each one I have to deal with, the life I once planned slips further away. My Harvard Business Review subscription collects dust beside my MBA thesis on sustainable import practices. I had big ideas, lofty dreams—I never imagined that my family would be the one thing stopping me.
A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. Orla walks in without waiting, a manila folder in hand.
"The quarterly figures you asked for." She stops, noticing the whiskey. "I can come back tomorrow."
"Stay." I motion to the chair across from me. "Want a drink?"
She pauses, then puts the folder down, and sits. "Yes, please."
I pour and pass her a glass. "Today a little outside of your office duties."
"I work for the Kavanaghs." She drinks without reaction to the strong liquor. "I am not a fool. I understand what that means."
"Do you?" I watch her closely. "Most people would run after seeing what you saw today."
"Most people lack perspective." Her gaze meets mine directly. "The world runs on hard choices."
An unexpected answer. I sit back as the whiskey warms my veins. "What do you know about me, Orla?"
"You graduated top of your class at Harvard. You worked at Wellington Partners before rejoining the family business. You speak four languages and built a reputation for both your intelligence and ruthlessness."
I tap the rim of my glass. "Research or office gossip?"
"Both." Her mouth curves slightly. "Plus, your diploma is hanging up behind your desk."
I turn toward the framed certificate, partially covered by filing cabinets. No one ever notices it.
"Why come back?" she asks. "You had your foot in with a legitimate business."
The question is not an easy one to answer. I drink again before I do.
"Family obligations trump personal desires."
"That depends on your family.” She says. “What were your desires?"
I stand up and move to the windows. Boston sprawls before me, a city my family has shaped from the underworld for generations. Those sparkling lights in the night are our playground—we own this city.
"I wanted to build stuff, not destroy it.
Create jobs, not fear. My thesis outlined turning our shipping network into the most efficient east coast operation through both technology and partnerships.
" I look back at her. "My Father called it na?ve, fantasies, and said I should stop trying to fix things that are not broken. "
"Why not just do it anyway?"
Most people accept that I abandoned my education for family duty.
“who says I haven’t?” She smiles. "The Connecticut expansion. Our new digital tracking systems. Allowing for payment in crypto not just fiat." I return to my desk. "Small steps toward changing things, while keeping the surface undisturbed."
Orla nods. "A quiet resistance, not a revolution. Smart."
"Exactly."
She finishes her whiskey. "Your brother disagrees with you? He doesn’t strike me as a man with vision."
"Eamon believes in old ways. Protection through fear. He thinks my methods will make us look weak, and that we will lose control."
"But you still work as a team."
"We protect the family. That’s how it works."
Orla puts down her glass. "Thanks for explaining."
"Thanks for not running." I pour us each another finger of whiskey. "Not many people would stick around to ask questions."
"Still waters run deep, I know you are more than meets the eye."
Our conversation changes from business to books, travels, philosophies. Each exchange reveals parts of her I didn’t know. I find myself drawn to her mind, her ability to challenge me without confronting me. She’s whip smart, sexy as all hell, and doesn’t seem to know either.
Hours pass. The office is dark except for my desk lamp. We move from sitting across the desk to the comfortable chairs near the window. The gap between boss and employee shrinks with each question, each answer.
"Why don’t you have any personal photos in here?" she asks.
"Getting personal at work is dangerous."
"People need to know you’re human."
"Being human costs too much in my world."
"It must be lonely."
"I can handle it." I pause, taking in her features in the dim room. "Usually."
She looks up, and I lean in, pulled by a force I can't resist. Her eyes meet mine, then drop to my mouth. Electricity sparks in the space between us.
I move closer. Her eyes close. I shouldn’t be looking at her like this—I should not be so close. This is an HR violation, it is going against my gut on every level.
My phone rings. We pull apart as I grab it.
"Kavanagh," I answer.
"Security breach at the serv ice elevator," my head of security says. "The motion sensors activated, and cameras have been tampered with."
"I'll be right down." I end the call and stand. "Work calls."
Orla rises, composed despite what almost happened. "I should leave."
"My driver will take you." I fix my tie. "We'll review Connecticut tomorrow."
She nods and walks to the door, then turns. "Thank you for trusting me."
After she leaves my office, I stare at our empty glasses. Tonight I crossed a boundary, sharing thoughts I hide from everyone with her. Exposing my vulnerabilities to a woman I've known only a month.