4. Cillian
CILLIAN
" A re you still able to attend dinner on Sunday," I say. "There's going to be a business discussion, and I want you to take minutes."
She looks up, her face changing for a split second before returning to neutral.
"What time should I arrive?" she asks.
No anxiety about meeting the Kavanagh clan. Just practical logistics. Her reaction intrigues me.
"I'll pick you up at six," I reply. "Dress formal but understated. Bring your tablet."
***
On Sunday evening, I arrive at her apartment building at six. She walks out right away, as if she was already waiting. Dark green dress, black heels, hair in a neat bun - appropriate and bland enough to be forgettable. Exactly as instructed. I don’t need my brothers lusting after my assistant.
I drive, watching her from the corner of my eye. She looks out the window, taking in the passing streets. She has a small purse and her tablet with her.
"My father will ask about your background," I say as we enter the wealthy neighborhood. "He interrogates everyone new."
"I understand," she says.
The gates open automatically as we arrive.
Three acres of grass and landscaped gardens surround the colonial mansion my great-grandfather bought with rum-running money during The Prohibition.
Stone walls with security cameras circle the property.
Two men trim shrubs near the entrance, looking like gardeners but I know they’re carrying weapons under their overalls.
Orla takes in each detail, she’s making notes rather than being impressed. Most visitors gawk at the wealth displayed through the architecture. She is spotting the security measures. Another note in my mental file about my new assistant, she’s always looking for the exit.
I park in the circular driveway. "Ready?"
"Yes." She steps out of the car with grace.
The front door opens before we get to the top step. My mother waits in the entryway, wearing a deep blue dress.
"Cillian." She kisses my cheeks, then smiles at Orla. "And Orla."
"Hello mother," I say.
"Thank you for having me, Mrs. Kavanagh," Orla says.
My mother takes her hand. "Please, call me Niamh. Come in."
The foyer is overshadowed by a grand staircase, and walls covered with family portraits and Irish landscapes. Orla follows us to the dining room, where the distinct chaos of family conversation is already loud enough to lift the roof.
My father is at the head of the table, Eamon to his right. They stop talking as we enter the room.
"Ah, Cillian," my father says without standing. His eyes lock onto Orla with the stare that makes men talk. "Who is this?"
"My new assistant, Orla Kelly," I answer. "Mother invited her, and she'll be taking notes on our business discussions, so you fuckers can’t lie and say you didn’t say what you said."
My father's eyebrows raise slightly. Bringing an outsider to Sunday dinner breaks our rules.
"An assistant at family dinner?" Eamon says with a smirk. "She must be quite capable."
"She is," I reply. “and mother invited her, would you have said no?” No one says no to mother—especially not my father.
My mother guides Orla to sit beside me, across from Eamon. I can watch her as she faces my brother.
Servers bring the first course. My father has at her right away, I knew he would. He has a thing about hiring pretty ladies—he thinks assistants should be ugly or gay. One too many affairs that nearly had my mother lop his balls off, I’m surprised it is not company policy.
"Where are you from, Ms. Kelly?" he asks.
"South Boston," Orla answers, meeting his gaze.
"And your family?"
"I don’t have any family, my parents died during the pandemic."
My father nods without sympathy. "Where did you go to school?"
"Boston College. I studied business administration."
More questions, he is like a dog with a bone. Previous jobs. Where she lives. Connections to other Boston families. Orla answers each one directly. Her story matches everything she told me during her interview.
My mother steps in when my father pushes too hard. "Tiernan, the soup will get cold. Perhaps we can learn about Orla throughout dinner rather than conducting an interrogation on the first course."
He grunts but changes the subject. Orla takes a small breath - the only hint she feels relief.
Eamon is quiet during the questioning, but he watches Orla the whole time. He looks at her as he would a potential threat. I plan to ask him about this later, I can tell he doesn’t like her. Any other day a woman that pretty came to dinner he’d be eye-fucking her.
The main course arrives, and talk turns to business.
"The shipment from Dublin arrives Tuesday," my father says, cutting his steak. "Traditional handling."
I put down my fork. "We should consider alternatives. The harbor master mentioned increased inspections, it is a risky one."
My father waves this away. "We've used the same plan for twenty years."
"Which makes it predictable," I counter. "I've been looking at northern routes with better margins and fewer eyes."
Eamon snorts. "Ever the Harvard man, trying to reinvent the wheel. It’s not broke, don’t try fix it."
Orla takes notes on her tablet, recording our discussion. She writes without looking down, paying full attention to everyone at the table.
"Progress requires change," I say. "Our competitors are using technology and crypto while we rely on methods from the last century."
My father's knife hits his plate. "Those methods built this house, paid for your education, and kept us out of prison. Respect what works. I want no part of that funny-money stuff."
My mother joins in. "Cillian makes valid points about change, Tiernan. Perhaps it is time for a compromise? Keep traditional channels open while testing Cillian's alternatives with some smaller shipments?" Orla looks surprised that my mother is the smartest man at the table.
The same argument continues through dessert - tradition versus innovation, old ways versus new ways. Orla watches and takes notes, she never says a word.
After dinner ends, my father gets up. "Cillian, join me in my study. Eamon, check with Connor about the warehouse situation."
My mother turns to Orla. "Would you like to see the garden? The jasmine smells wonderful this time of evening."
"Thank you," Orla says. "May I use the restroom first?"
My mother points her down the hall while we go our separate ways. I walk toward my father's study but stop when I hear Eamon talking in the corridor by the bathroom.
"Have we met before?" His voice is harsh. "You look so fucking familiar."
I see Eamon blocking Orla's path back to the dining room. She stays calm, but changes her stance.
"I worked at Flanagan's Pub during college," she says. "You and your friends came in often."
Eamon narrows his eyes. "Which friends?"
"I didn't know their names. The group that came in on Thursday nights. You always paid their tab with cash."
Her specific answer makes him pause. I step forward.
"Father's waiting, Eamon."
He looks at me, then back at Orla. "Right. Flanagan's." He walks away, still suspicious.
Orla turns to me. "Should I find your mother?"
"In a moment," I say. "How was your first Kavanagh interrogation?"
A small smile appears. "Not so bad."
"You handled it well," I admit. "Most people panic under my father's questioning."
"I have no reason to panic," she replies.
I watch her, adding another note to my mental file about Orla Kelly. She meets my eyes without backing down. I get the sense she's measuring me as much as I'm measuring her.
"I really should join your mother," she says.
I nod and watch her walk away, wondering what I've brought into our inner circle.