12. Cillian
CILLIAN
T hree days since New York, and Orla has been acting unlike herself. She arrives earlier. Stays even later. But gets less done. Her phone vanishes when I walk in. She avoids my eye contact. She is up to something—something shady that I will not like.
I spot the signs. I always do.
From my desk, I watch her take a call, turning away so I can't see her lips move. I notice these changes against my will, proof I kept the distance between us for good reason. Despite what happened in New York, and how she felt wrapped around my cock. I can’t trust her.
No one in my family can afford to trust anyone.
I call Matthews.
"My office. Now."
He arrives and stands silently in front of mt desk. Years of military training shows in his posture.
"I need you to watch Orla Kelly," I say. "Discreetly. No contact. She takes lunch at twelve-forty. Start there."
"How much detail? What am I looking for?"
"Photos. Any meetings. Stay out of fucking sight, I want to know who she talks to, where she goes."
"Got it."
After he leaves, I look out over the harbor. The water is a dirty blue-gray. My fingers tap against wood—I rarely get this distracted.
The woman who proved her worth to me in New York. Who fits into my world. Who matched me in bed as if we'd been fucking for years.
Now a question mark.
Matthews texts at 12:43.
Secretary moving on foot.
I grab my jacket. "Push the one o'clock," I tell the receptionist who is at her desk during lunch.
Matthews waits in his car two blocks away from the office.
"Parker Street," he says as I shut the door. "Coffee shop at the corner. She goes there a lot, they know her name and order by heart."
Through the window of Parker Street Café, I see her. Green blazer, auburn hair tied back, sitting where she can see all exits.
A man walks up to her table. Gray hair, cheap suit, worn shoes. The way he stands there screams cop. My hackles go up right away.
"He’s law enforcement," Matthews says.
I nod.
The man sits down. No warmth passes between them she is not happy to see him, it looks like it is just business. But what business does she have with a cop?
I cross over the road to the pizza place next door where I can see their reflection.
Their talk looks like it is getting heated. He leans in and she pulls back. I catch what looks like "federal" and "timeline" on his lips.
Matthews goes inside orders a coffee he won’t drink, and gets close enough to listen. My phone vibrates in my pocket.
Mat:
Federal task force moving soon... taking too long... growing close to target.
Target. Me. My family. Our business.
Everything falls into place. Not a spy, or an enemy. Law enforcement. A professional betrayal wrapped in sex and sass.
The man hands her a folder. She touches it but doesn’t open it.
There is a look in her eyes I've never seen. She looks at him again and then at the folder under her hand. He checks his watch, stands, touches her shoulder. I want to rip his arm off at the shoulder—I don’t want anyone touching what is mine.
She feels like she is mine. He leaves, pulling his collar up against the cold wind.
Orla stays there, her cold coffee and sandwich on the table.
I beat her back to the car, without being seen.
"Tail him," I tell Matthews. "I want a name, address every fucking thing there is to know."
In my office, I review import documents while watching the clock. Orla walks in twenty minutes late from her lunch break—not at all like her. She sits at her desk and pretends to work, but I can feel her distraction from here.
Matthews sends a text:
Raymond Doyle. Detective, Organized Crime Division. 20 years BPD.
I search our databases. Many arrests. Many awards. Known for hunting down and dismantling Irish gangs for decades. He has a vendetta, a passion for hunting men like me. A man who it seems has been fixated on my family for two decades. What does he want? What does he know?
Orla knocks waiting to bring in a pile of paperwork for signatures. I wave her in, seeing her in a new light. She holds out the papers, a pen. Her fingers brush mine, and what once felt intimate now feels like a calculated seduction.
"All okay?" I ask, signing without reading.
"Of course." Her voice stays flat. She doesn’t know that I know.
"You look a little distracted."
"Just tired." A good lie from someone I just watched meeting with a cop.
As she takes back the papers, I notice the silver chain at her neck, tucked into her blouse.
"The Richardson shipment arrives Thursday," I say. "We should talk about it."
"I'll get the documents and manifest ready."
"Orla."
She stops at the door without turning to face me.
"Your work in New York impressed me. I value people I can trust."
Her shoulders rise. Just an little. Just enough.
"Thank you," she says, and walks out.
I weigh up my options. Confronting her I will loses our chance to control what information she passes on to the pigs.
It might spook her, and she’ll be gone for good.
A thought I shake off right away. Watching her gives me the power to plant false leads, to find out if I have one rat or an infestation.
This woman who I let into my office, into my plans, my fucking bed is trying to destroy me.
I text Eamon.
Security problem. Talk tonight.
I check with IT what files she has accessed this week. A pattern forms—shipping records, money transfers, client lists. Building blocks for RICO charges.
I need to plan my move against this threat with cold focus.
I shut the laptop and look at her desk. She is talking on the phone, glancing up to see if I am watching her.
I am. And she knows it.