13. Orla
ORLA
T he exclusive Darby Club brims with noise as Cillian guides me inside, it has been two weeks since we went to New York. Things haven’t been the same at work, or between us since we had sex.
Generations of Boston's Irish elite have celebrated here, though I doubt many of those gatherings involved quite as many criminals as tonight's event will. They don’t usually all come out of the shadowy underworld at once.
"Ready to meet the extended family?" Cillian asks, his palm pressed against my back.
I nod, adopting Orla Kelly's pleasant smile while Orla Nolan is making a note of all the faces. "Of course."
Tiernan Kavanagh commands attention near the bar, accepting congratulations on his sixtieth birthday with the confidence of a man who owns everyone in the room. Niamh circulates between guests, the perfect hostess draped in emerald silk.
"Come meet my uncle Patr," Cillian says.
I spend the next hour being introduced to Kavanagh family, associates, and enemies, each handshake another piece of the puzzle I am trying to build.
Pat Kavanagh imports through Canada. Kevin Murphy handles union negotiations with strategy and baseball bats.
Sean Flannery runs distribution across New England.
I note the connections, territories, way they all interlock and need one another.
"Your girl asks smart questions," an older man—Tommy Doyle—tells Cillian after I inquire about his ‘waste management’ business. A paper-thin cover for money laundering, based on his vague answers.
"She manages my schedule, my accounts, and apparently me," Cillian replies with a rare public display of affection, his arm around my waist.
My smile stays fake as guilt cuts inside me. Every bit of information I get inside this room pushes the Kavanaghs closer to prison. Puts him in a cage he will never escape.
A traditional band assembles in the corner—fiddle, tin whistle, bodhrán, accordion. The music plays, and memories rush back. Dad teaching me to dance in our kitchen, explaining how his parents brought these songs from Cork.
"You know this one." Niamh materializes beside me.
"The Star of the County Down," I reply without thinking. "My grandmother loved traditional music."
She watches me. "Did she teach you to dance as well?"
"A little." The band changes it up, a faster reel, and couples fill the small dance floor.
"Cillian never learned properly," Niamh says. "His father considered it to be frivolous."
Across the room, Eamon watches me, whiskey in hand. He hasn't approached me all evening, not even to say hello, but his eyes follow me. He senses there's more to me than my cover story, he doesn’t like me.
"Mrs. Kavanagh," a club manager interrupts, "the cake is ready whenever you are."
"Thank you, Michael. We'll gather the hoards now."
The birthday toast follows Irish tradition. Tiernan stands as his sons flank him, the family on full display. Glasses raised. Irish whiskey burns down my throat as Tiernan speaks about legacy, loyalty, and the future.
"To the Kavanaghs," the crowd choruses.
I drink with them, playing my part while guilt eats me alive. Three city councilmen. A judge. Two police captains. The corruption runs deeper than even Doyle suspected, I still feel deeply uncomfortable at how comfortable I am around the bottom feeders of humanity.
The dancing continues after cake. Cillian surprises me by holding out his hand to me.
"Your mother said you can’t dance," I say as he leads me to the floor.
"She said, I never learned properly. Not that I couldn't manage to fling a lass around the floor." He guides me into his arms as the band plays a waltz. "Besides, I have excellent motivation to try now."
We float across the floor, and I allow myself to enjoy the moment. The past fades away. My purpose here forgotten in the haze of being so close to him. The need for revenge blurs at the edges. There's just music and Cillian's hot body pressed too close to mine.
"You dance better than your mother gives you credit for," I say.
"Any man can dance with the right woman," he replies. He thinks I am right , he has no idea the traitor he is holding in his arms is here to end him.
When the song ends, Cillian checks his watch. "I need to speak with my father for a moment. Wait here?"
I nod, watching him move through the crowd to find Tiernan, who is sitting down now, accepting birthday wishes from a parade of murderers and madmen.
Each one speaks close to his ear, private conversations whispered right here at this public celebration.
Crime never stops, it just there lurking right beneath the shiny surface.
"He trusts you."
I jump, and turn to find Eamon at my elbow, his posture casual but eyes glare daggers at me.
"I worked hard to earn his trust," I reply.
"That's not what I mean." He drinks. "Cillian doesn't bring women to family functions. Ever. Not once in my life has he had a plus-one to anything public."
I hold his gaze. "I appreciate the invitation even more then."
"I bet you do." Eamon moves closer. "You know a lot about Irish music for someone with your background."
"My grandmother?—"
"Yeah, I heard that line." He cuts me off. "Here's the thing about my brother. He sees the best in people. I see what they hide. The ugly bits they think are concealed."
Before I can respond, Cillian returns, noting the confrontation. "Everything okay?"
"Just getting to know Orla better," Eamon says, walking away. “She can dance with your two left feet, that’s a talent.” He mocks his brother and then he’s gone.
Cillian frowns. "What did he say to you?"
"Nothing important." I touch his arm. "He asked about my dancing and taste in music. It's warm in here. Mind if we get some air?"
The balcony has a priceless view of Boston Harbor, boats and buildings reflected on dark water. A cold breeze carries the salt scent of the ocean. I shiver despite the fact I was sweating moments ago.
"I apologize if Eamon offended you," Cillian says. "He is protective, but his manners need work."
"It's fine. Family are like that."
"Yes." He pauses, gazing at the harbor. “Family, a blessing and a curse.”
“at least you have family.” I inject my own loss into this moment. I wish I had a sibling with no manners to look after me now.
"I want to build something that lasts.” Cillian says looking off into the dark, “Something my children could inherit without..." He stops. "Without the legacy my father will leave us."
Children. Future. Words that make my blood boil for revenge—the things he robbed me of. I will destroy this man's dreams. Put his family in prison, tear them apart and leave him with no legacy at all. It's justice—but standing here, it feels cruel.
"What about you?" he asks. "Where do you see yourself in five years?"
Five years. Will he be in prison? Will I live in witness protection? Am I even going to live that long?
"I haven't thought that far ahead," I admit.
"I have." Cillian turns to me. "You've become special to me, Orla." It’s an odd thing to say, he has been distant since New York, treated me like I am an outsider again. Now he’s calling me special, dancing with me—showing me off to his family. Dragging me deep into his world.
He leans in, and I meet his kiss. I don’t even hesitate. His hand wraps around my throat, and aphrodisiac and a threat all laced in seduction. When we part breathless, I see something dangerous in his eyes—not the cold, deadly Kavanagh businessman, but a man falling in love.
It is truth bomb that could blow both our lives apart. I care for him too, beyond the vengeance. This kiss was two betrayals—his coming betrayal by me, and my betrayal of my father's memory by feeling this way for him.
"We should go back inside," I whisper, needing to escape these tangled emotions.
Cillian nods, taking my hand as we rejoin to the celebrations inside. The music plays, but now it echoes a funeral march to my ears. The guests are all jolly from too many drinks, and the room is hot with body heat and the reality of this entire night is suffocating me.
How do I reconcile this? The Kavanaghs ordered my father's death. I came here for justice. For him. Now with each day, each touch, justice and vengeance blur into nothing compared to the pull he has on me.
The ruby choker Niamh loaned me for tonight throttles me, a sign that she has accepted me. As family—as Cillian’s woman.
A family I'm going to destroy.