21. Orla
ORLA
I wake alone in my apartment, the taste of Cillian still on my lips. My body aches from last night—not pain, but memory. Seven years hunting the Kavanagh’s, and now I've let their heir claim me against my own wall.
The evidence files lie scattered across my table where Cillian left them. Dad's blood-stained accounting papers mock me in morning light. I promised him justice. Instead, I found complications.
My phone shows no messages. No calls from Doyle. No word from Cillian about his investigation into Sullivan.
I make coffee with shaking hands, replaying every moment from last night. His mouth on mine. His hands pinning me. His voice saying "You're mine" like a brand burned into my skin.
At ten thirty, my phone rings. Unknown number.
"Yes?"
"Doyle here. Burner phone. Development you need to know."
I grip the phone tighter. "What kind of development?"
"Cillian Kavanagh requested access to old case files this morning. Official channels. Your father's murder investigation."
My pulse jumps. "He's really investigating?"
"Looks that way. Also pulled financial records dating back five years. He's digging into Vincent Collins."
Relief floods through me. He believed what I showed him.
"Any contact from their side?" I ask.
"None. We're maintaining distance like agreed." Doyle pauses. "But Orla—be careful. This could be theater. Designed to make you trust him."
"I know." Though part of me hopes it isn't.
"Call if anything changes."
The line goes dead.
I pace my small apartment, energy crackling under my skin. Cillian investigating Collins means he took my evidence seriously. But Doyle's warning echoes—this could all be manipulation.
At noon, footsteps echo in the hallway outside my door. I grab my gun, move to the peephole.
Cillian stands there, but he looks different. Exhausted. Disheveled. His usually perfect suit wrinkled, hair messed, knuckles scraped raw.
I open the door, keeping the gun visible.
"Jesus, what happened to you?"
He enters without invitation, shrugging off his jacket. "I found Collins."
My heart stops. "Where?"
"Hiding in a warehouse near the docks. Under Donovan protection." Cillian drops into my chair, wincing. "Had an interesting conversation."
I notice blood on his shirt collar. "You fought him?"
"Him and three of Donovan's men." Cillian flexes his damaged knuckles. "Collins talked before he died."
The words hit me like ice water. "He's dead?"
"Very." Cillian meets my eyes. "Eamon killed him an hour ago. Family justice."
I stagger backward, gun forgotten. "Eamon? But he?—"
"Killed your father on Collins' orders. Yes." Cillian stands, moving toward me. "Collins confessed everything before he died. The embezzlement. Manipulating Eamon. Framing your father as a threat to our entire organization."
My legs give out. I sink onto my couch, mind reeling.
"Eamon knows the truth now," Cillian continues. "About what Collins made him do. About your father's innocence."
"And?" My voice sounds distant.
"He volunteered to face whatever punishment you deemed appropriate."
I laugh, sharp and bitter. "Punishment? Like what—say he's sorry?"
"Or die by your hand."
The words hang between us. Cillian's face shows no emotion, but his eyes burn with intensity.
"You'd let me kill your brother?"
"Justice requires payment." He sits beside me, careful not to touch. "Your father died because of Collins' manipulation and Eamon's action. Collins paid with his life. Eamon awaits your decision."
I stare at my hands. Seven years planning revenge. Now the moment arrives, and I feel empty.
"Where is he?"
"Safe house. Guarded but not hidden." Cillian pauses. "He wants to meet you. To explain. To face whatever comes."
My phone buzzes. Text message from unknown number: Your boyfriend found Collins. But Collins wasn't working alone. Watch your back.
I show Cillian the message. His face hardens.
"Donovan," he says. "Collins was feeding them information about our operations."
"For how long?"
"Years. Maybe since your father's death." Cillian stands, pacing. "They know you have evidence. They know I'm protecting you."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning we're both targets now."
A chill runs down my spine. "What do you want to do?"
"End this. Tonight." His eyes meet mine. "Collins is dead. Eamon faces justice. But the Donovans still threaten everything we've built."
"We?"
He stops pacing. "You're part of this now, Orla. Like it or not."
My gun sits forgotten on the table. The evidence files mock me with their promises of simple justice. Nothing about this feels simple anymore.
"And after? When the Donovans are handled?"
"After, you decide what happens with Eamon." Cillian moves closer. "And what happens with us."
The weight of choice settles on my shoulders. Revenge. Justice. Love. All tangled together in ways I never anticipated.
"Where's the safe house?" I ask.
"Twenty minutes north. Isolated." He watches my face. "You want to see him?"
"Yes." I stand, grabbing my jacket. "But I'm keeping my gun."
"I'd expect nothing less."
As we leave my apartment together, I realize I'm walking deeper into Kavanagh territory with each step. No longer hunting them from outside.
Now I'm part of their world, whether I chose it or not.
The question is: what kind of justice will I demand?