2. Cillian
CILLIAN
I scan the security monitors, watching as the camera feeds cycle across my desk. The lineup of applicants bores me. None of them really understand what working for the Kavanagh empire truly means.
A woman walks through the lobby, catching my eye.
Auburn hair pulled back neatly, navy suit, modest jewelry. At first glance, she is nothing special—until I notice how she looks at each camera, even the guards disguised as reception staff. Not obvious—a quick glance here, a pause there. Most idiots would miss these details. She is not most people.
Her resume is on my desk. Orla Kelly. She has five years administrative experience.
A business degree from Boston College. A six-month gap attributed to family responsibility leave.
Her references check out perfectly. Too perfectly.
My gut says she’s too good to be true, and twenty-nine years as a Kavanagh taught me to trust my gut.
I grab my phone. "Patricia, hold the Kelly interview. I'll join you."
"Mr. Kavanagh, I've already?—"
"Ten minutes." I hang up.
The next screen shows Patricia greeting Orla, escorting her toward the conference room. I take the private elevator to the third floor, arriving as they start talking.
Their voices drift through the closed door.
"—gap in your employment history?" Patricia asks.
"My aunt fell ill last year. She had no one else to care for her. After my parents died she cared for me, it was only right for me to do the same."
Her voice is confident, warm, with a hint of a South Boston accent. I push open the door.
Patricia startles, her annoyance disappearing as she spots me. "Mr. Kavanagh, I didn't expect?—"
"I'll take over from here," I say. "Thank you, Patricia."
She pauses, then nods. "Of course. Ms. Kelly, it was nice meeting you." She collects her papers and leaves, she knows better than to hang about.
Orla is motionless throughout the exchange. No fidgeting, no false smiles. Just those alert green eyes missing nothing. She stands up, extending her hand to me.
"Cillian Kavanagh. A pleasure, Ms. Kelly."
Her handshake is firm. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Kavanagh. I was expecting HR, not the boos."
I sit across from her rather than at the head of the table. Position matters. Across from her disarms her, giving me full view of her reactions.
"So, you want the executive assistant position."
"Yes. Your company has an excellent reputation in international trade. I think I have what it takes to work with the best."
Rehearsed. I smile coldly. "Tell me about the six months caring for your aunt."
She meets my eyes. "My aunt Margaret caught pneumonia last winter, then suffered a stroke. With no other family available, I took leave from my position."
"And where is Aunt Margaret now?"
A brief pause. "She passed away three months ago."
I nod once. "I'm sorry for your loss."
"Thank you."
"Your resume lists experience with finances and administration. Explain."
She details systems she has managed, and how her experience overlaps. Everything sounds reasonable, but her answers feel too practiced. Maybe she’s just nervous—or well prepared.
"Why Kavanagh Imports specifically?"
"Your company connects international markets I find fascinating. The role demands discretion and organization—my strengths. And the salary matches my needs."
Fair enough. I change direction.
"Your previous employer said you left abruptly."
A test—I spoke to no one. Her face stays neutral.
"I gave two weeks' notice despite my aunt's condition. I'm surprised at that reference, but I knew they were angry I left."
Clever.
"What would you do if you found financial irregularities in documents you processed?"
She answers without hesitation. "I'd document the issue, verify my findings, then report directly to my supervisor without causing alarm."
"Even if your supervisor might be involved?"
Her gaze meets mine. "If I suspected that, I'd follow the company ethics policy for proper reporting channels and go over their heads."
Smart answer. Safe answer. My phone vibrates. I check it and stand.
"Excuse me. This needs my attention."
I move to the window, turning away as I answer. "Kavanagh."
"We've got trouble at Pier 14. The Belfast shipment—customs flagged three containers. O'Malley isn't here to smooth it over."
I feel my mask slipping. My voice drops low.
"Who changed the manifest?"
"Donovan, but?—"
"Find him. Keep him there. Tell customs we'll send corrected documentation. I'll handle this myself."
"If Donovan tries to leave?"
"He won't." It needs no elaboration. "Not if he values his health insurance."
I end the call and turn to find Orla watching me. She is composed, but more alert now. She saw the change—businessman to something darker. Most people show some badly hidden fear. She doesn't.
I sit down again. "Where were we? Right. Ethics policies."
"Is everything okay?" she asks.
"A minor shipping issue. Common in this business." I watch her. "International trade brings many... regulatory challenges. We will issue the corrected documents, and it’ll be fixed."
"I imagine it has many challenges."
This woman has secrets—dangerous in my world. But keeping potential threats close works better than leaving them where I can’t see them. Someone has sent her here—I will find out who.
"This position demands complete discretion, Ms. Kelly. We handle sensitive matters for important clients. You'll see and hear things that stay within these walls."
"I understand confidentiality, Mr. Kavanagh. I am happy to sign an NDA."
"I doubt that." My smile shows teeth. "But you'll learn. The pay exceeds industry standard by twenty percent. In exchange, I expect availability beyond office hours and absolute loyalty."
"That sounds fair."
I stand to end our meeting. "Patricia will arrange your paperwork. You can start on Monday."
"Thank you for the opportunity."
"Don't thank me yet, Ms. Kelly." I extend my hand. "This is not a job for the weak."
Her hand touches mine, surprisingly warm. "I am not weak, Mr. Kavanagh."
Our eyes lock, a current passes between us. I release her hand and step back.
"Monday, eight o'clock. Don't be late."
As she leaves, I plan a deeper background check before Monday. Orla Kelly fits the role too perfectly, and perfect makes me suspicious. I want to know what game she’s playing—and why she chose the Kavanagh’s.
If she threatens my family, she'll learn why our name strikes fear through Boston.