20. Cillian
CILLIAN
I find Orla at her apartment in Dorchester. Three hours since security walked her from Kavanagh offices. My fury pulses fresh with each heartbeat.
Her lock yields to my pick in seconds. Dad made sure I mastered this skill regardless of my Harvard degree.
She sits at a small table, whiskey tumbler in hand. Papers cover the surface—crime scene photos, bloodstained accounting documents in evidence bags, investigation notes. She keeps her eyes on her work when I enter.
"How did you find me?" she asks, drinking.
The room lacks personality—plain bed, desk, table. No photos. No mementos. This place serves as headquarters, not home. Nothing connects to the woman who shared my bed.
"Phone tracker. Simple surveillance." I shut the door. "Expected anything less?"
Her eyes meet mine without shock. Gone is Orla Kelly, my assistant who moaned beneath me in New York. Here sits Orla Nolan, a woman who invaded my world with cold calculation.
"What do you want, Cillian?"
"Truth. Everything."
She points to the empty chair. I stay on my feet.
"Thomas Nolan was your father." I keep my voice flat. "Our company accountant who died seven years ago. You fabricated your way into my business, my life."
"Yes." No reaction crosses her face.
"Doyle called me. Told me about the wire you planned to wear."
She laughs without humor. "Yet you came without backup. Curious decision."
I move closer, placing my palms on the table, leaning toward her. "I want to hear it from you. Every detail. Now."
She holds my gaze, then pushes a photo toward me. A crime scene. A man slumped over a desk, blood pooled beneath him, spreadsheets soaked red.
"Thomas Nolan. My father." Her voice cracks. "I found him like this when I came home from debate team. I was seventeen."
The photo shows what the police report couldn't convey. The brutality. The intimacy of the kill.
"Your father began investigating discrepancies in our shipping accounts," I say. "He found evidence of money laundering."
"He trusted the wrong person with what he discovered." Orla drains her glass. "He thought he was doing the right thing."
"And you? What was your endgame? Turn evidence over to Doyle? Take down my family?"
"Justice." She pours another drink with unsteady hands. "At first I wanted revenge. Blood for blood. But I needed proof—evidence that would stick in court."
"Why not go to the police with what you had?"
"The same police who closed his case after three weeks? Who reported it as a robbery gone wrong despite nothing being stolen?" Her calm facade cracks. "I needed evidence that couldn't be buried or bought off."
I circle the table, approaching her with predatory focus. "So you lied your way into my company. Into my bed."
She stands, refusing to be cornered. "Yes."
"Was any of it real?"
Pain flashes across her face. "I didn't plan New York."
"That's not an answer."
"What answer would satisfy you?" she asks. "That I compromised my mission every time you touched me? That I hated myself after copying your files? That I've spent months torn between my promise to my dead father and my feelings for you?"
I advance until she backs against the wall. "And what feelings would those be, Orla? Or is that even your real name?"
"Orla is my real name. Everything else was fabricated."
"Everything?"
Her chin lifts in defiance. "Not everything."
My palm strikes the wall beside her head. She doesn't flinch.
"Tell me about the meeting with Doyle today."
Her eyes never leave mine. "He wanted information on the Russian shipping arrangement. Proof of smuggling. He offered immunity."
"And you gave him what he wanted."
"No." She swallows. "I didn't."
My laugh lacks humor. "Expecting me to believe that?"
"I discovered something yesterday. The money trail leads to James Sullivan, not your father." Her voice steadies. "Sullivan ordered my father's death when his embezzlement was discovered. Your brother pulled the trigger, but Sullivan gave the order."
The name hits me hard. Dad's right-hand man for fifteen years. His most trusted lieutenant.
"You have proof?"
"In those files. Account numbers, dates, signatures. Sullivan was stealing for years. My father found out."
I remain close, crowding her against the wall. Her scent—familiar yet different now that I know the truth—clouds my judgment.
"Seven years of planning for revenge. You built an entire identity."
"Yes."
"You wormed your way into my family."
"Yes."
"Into my confidence."
She doesn't look away. "Yes."
"Into my bed."
A flush spreads across her cheeks. "That wasn't planned."
"But you didn't stop it."
"No. I didn't." Her breathing quickens. "I told myself it was tactical. Getting closer to you meant access to information."
"And was it? Tactical?"
Her eyes darken. "No."
I shouldn't want her. Not now, knowing who she is, what she planned. Yet desire cuts through my anger, inseparable from betrayal.
"You've destroyed any chance of trust between us," I tell her, my face inches from hers.
"I know." Her voice drops to a whisper.
"I should turn you over to my father."
"But you won't." She says it with certainty.
My hand moves to her throat, not squeezing, just resting there—a reminder of power dynamics between us. "Why am I here, Orla? Why come alone instead of bringing security?"
"The same reason I didn't give Doyle what he wanted." Her pulse races beneath my fingertips. "There's something between us that makes no sense."
My mouth crashes onto hers with punishing force. I consume her gasp, teeth clashing, anger transmuting to brutal need. She matches my fury, biting my lower lip hard enough to draw blood.
I pin her wrists above her head with one hand, my other ripping her blouse open. Buttons scatter across the floor. She fights against my grip, not to escape but to touch me. I hold her harder, leaving marks.
"You're mine," I growl against her mouth. "Even in your lies."
"Prove it," she challenges, eyes wild.
I tear her bra away, exposing her breasts. My mouth closes over one nipple, biting hard enough to make her cry out. Her body arches toward me instead of away. I suck the pain away, my tongue circling the hardened peak while she writhes against me.
"You want this?" I demand, releasing her wrists to grip her ass, lifting her against the wall.
"Yes," she pants, fumbling with my belt. "Like this. With truth between us."
Her skirt tears under my hands. I rip her underwear away, exposing her completely. My fingers find her already wet, ready despite—or because of—our anger.
"Look at me," I command. "I want Orla Nolan, not your fake persona."
Her eyes meet mine, defiant yet vulnerable. "Then take her."
I push two fingers inside her roughly. She cries out, head falling back against the wall. "Cillian!"
"My real name on your real lips," I say, working her with punishing strokes. "No more lies."
She claws at my shirt, ripping it open. Her nails rake down my chest, leaving red trails. Pain and pleasure blur as I lift her higher, her legs wrapping around my waist.
I free myself from my pants, position at her entrance. "Last chance to stop this."
"Fuck me," she demands, her voice raw. "Make me feel you."
I drive into her with a single brutal thrust. We both cry out as I fill her completely. Her heat grips me like a vise, wet and tight and perfect. I pull back and slam in again, establishing a merciless rhythm.
"This is us," I growl into her ear. "Stripped bare. No masks. No pretense."
"Yes," she gasps, meeting each thrust. "Harder."
I comply, pounding into her against the wall, each stroke punctuated by her cries. Her nails dig into my shoulders, pain fueling my desire. I bite her neck, marking her as mine despite everything.
"You're mine," I repeat. "Say it."
"I'm yours," she admits, voice breaking. "God help me."
I reach between us, my thumb finding her sensitive spot. She tightens around me instantly, trembling on the edge.
"Come for me," I command. "Orla Nolan, come for me now."
She shatters, screaming my name as her body convulses around me. The sound of my true name on her true lips pushes me over. I thrust once more and explode inside her, claiming her on the most primal level.
We slide down the wall together, still joined, sweat-slick and panting. Her head falls to my shoulder as reality slowly returns.
"What happens now?" she asks into the silence.
I stare at the ceiling, feeling her pulse still racing where we remain connected. "I investigate Sullivan. If you're right?—"
"I am."
"If you're right," I continue, "there will be consequences. Family justice."
"And me?"
I turn to face her, seeing her without masks for the first time. "I don't know."
The admission costs me. Kavanaghs always know next steps, always maintain control. But with Orla Nolan, I've lost my strategic footing.
"Your father wouldn't have killed mine," she says. "Not over accounts. Sullivan acted alone."
"You sound certain."
"I've spent two years studying your family. Tiernan Kavanagh is many things, but he's not careless. Killing an accountant creates questions. Sullivan got my father out of the way before he could report the embezzlement."
I sit up, reaching for my discarded clothes. "I need those files."
"They're copies. Originals are with my attorney, set to release if anything happens to me."
A contingency plan. Smart.
"You sleep with a gun under your pillow?" I ask.
She doesn't deny it. "Wouldn't you, in my position?"
I finish dressing, then gather the evidence spread across her table. "I'll contact you tomorrow. Stay here. Don't leave."
"Am I a prisoner?"
"You're under my protection until I verify these accusations."
She wraps the sheet around herself, watching me with wary eyes. "And if they're true?"
"Then Sullivan pays for my father's betrayal and your father's murder."
"Family justice," she echoes my earlier words.
I pause at the door. "The man who took you from my office today—he reports directly to Sullivan."
Understanding dawns on her face. "I'm a loose end."
"Yes. So keep your gun close tonight."
I leave without looking back, her files tucked under my arm, the taste of her still on my lips. The ground beneath my feet feels unstable, family loyalty at war with new information.
Sullivan will be investigated. Quietly. Thoroughly. And if Orla's right, he'll face Kavanagh justice for betraying my father and murdering hers.