23. Cillian
CILLIAN
T he storm drain stinks like hell. Water soaks through my shoes as we wade toward the warehouse. Orla stays close behind me. Eamon follows, gun out.
My phone buzzes. Jackson
Ready when you are.
We reach the grate under the building. I give it a shove. Rusty metal squeaks but opens.
"Two minutes," I tell Jackson. "Then make noise at the front."
Orla grabs my arm, points up. Someone walks around above us. Back and forth, back and forth.
I wait for his footsteps to move away, then climb through.
The basement holds old junk and broken crap. Stairs go up to where they've got Sarah.
"Office area, back corner," Eamon says, looking at his phone.
We head up the stairs. Voices carry down—three guys, maybe four.
"—girl doesn't know shit."
"Boss wants us to keep trying."
"She's not talking because she can't. Wrong fucking girl."
They figured it out. Sarah's running out of time.
I call Jackson. "Go."
Gunshots explode outside. Jackson's boys hit the front door. The guys inside start yelling, running toward the noise.
We move fast. Two idiots sprint past us, leaving the office alone.
Sarah sits tied to a chair behind glass walls. One guy guards her, gun ready. Her face shows bruises and dried blood. But she's breathing.
"I take him," I tell Orla.
She nods.
I kick the door open. The guard spins around, raising his gun. I put two in his chest before he can shoot. He drops.
Sarah looks up. "Cillian?"
"We're getting you out." I cut the ropes. "Can you stand?"
"I think so." Her legs shake. "They kept asking about boats and routes. I told them I don't know anything."
"Good girl."
Eamon shows up. "More coming. Back door's blown."
Three guys with guns walk toward us. Jackson's distraction didn't work on everyone.
"Window," Orla says.
I boost Sarah up first, then Orla. As I climb out, bullets shatter the glass behind me. We hit the fire escape, Sarah stumbling.
"Got her," Eamon says, catching Sarah.
The metal stairs shake under us. Below, our cars wait with engines running.
"Move your asses," Jackson yells.
Sarah's legs give out. Eamon picks her up, carries her down while Orla and I watch for shooters.
Bullets hit the railings. The bastards made it to the window, firing down at us.
"Go," I push Orla toward the cars.
She reaches the first one as Eamon loads Sarah in back. I slide in next to them as Jackson floors it.
Tires scream. The warehouse gets smaller behind us. Orange flames show in the windows—Jackson's cleanup crew doing their job.
"Hospital?" Jackson asks.
"Safe house. Doc Moran can patch her up."
Sarah sits between me and Orla, shaking. Orla takes her hand.
"Thank you," Sarah whispers. "All of you."
Eamon turns around. "Sorry this happened. My fault."
"How's it your fault?" Sarah asks.
Orla looks at me. Sarah doesn't know about her dad, about Eamon, about any of it.
"Bad timing," Orla says. "We'll talk later."
Dr. Moran finishes examining Sarah in the safe house bedroom. Bruised ribs, split lip, exhaustion. Nothing permanent.
"She needs rest," he tells me quietly. "And probably counseling. Kidnapping leaves psychological marks."
I nod, walking him to the door.
When I return, Sarah sits on the couch with Orla beside her. They share the same stubborn chin, the same green eyes. Family resemblance that nearly got Sarah killed.
"I should call work," Sarah says. "Tell them I'm sick."
"Already handled," Orla replies. "I called your principal. Said you had a family emergency."
"What kind of emergency?"
Orla looks at me, then at Eamon who sits across the room. "The kind where your cousin infiltrated the Irish mob for seven years to find her father's killer."
Sarah blinks. "What?"
"It's complicated."
"Try me."
For the next hour, we explain everything. Thomas Nolan's murder. Orla's fake identity. The evidence against Collins. Eamon's manipulation and guilt. Sarah listens without interruption, face growing pale.
"Jesus, Orla," she says when we finish. "You could have been killed."
"Almost was. Several times."
Sarah turns to Eamon. "You killed Uncle Thomas?"
"Yes." Eamon meets her eyes. "I believed lies about him being a traitor. I was wrong."
"And now?"
"Now I try to make it right. Starting with saving you."
Sarah considers this, then looks at me. "And you? What's your role in this?"
"I fell for your cousin despite everything she did to my family."
"Fell for her?"
I reach for Orla's hand. "More than fell. She's mine now."
Orla's fingers tighten around mine. "It's complicated," she repeats.
"Complicated doesn't begin to cover this," Sarah says, but she's smiling slightly. "So what happens now?"
"Now we finish what started seven years ago," I reply. "Collins still needs to pay for your uncle's death."
"Collins is the one who ordered the murder?"
"And stole two million from my father while doing it."
Sarah shakes her head. "This is insane."
"Welcome to our world," Orla says.
That night, after Sarah falls asleep in the guest room, Orla and I sit by the fireplace. The events of the day settle between us like dust.
"She handled it well," I say.
"Better than I expected." Orla stares into the flames. "She's stronger than she looks."
"Runs in the family."
Orla turns to me. "Thank you. For saving her. For protecting someone who means nothing to you."
"She means something to you. That makes her important to me."
"Even after everything? The lies, the deception?"
I pull her closer on the couch. "Especially after everything."
Her lips find mine, soft and grateful. The kiss deepens as weeks of tension and fear release into need. I taste salt—tears she didn't know she was crying.
"Orla," I whisper against her mouth.
She responds by straddling my lap, her body pressing against mine with desperate hunger. Her hands work at my shirt buttons while I grip her hips, holding her close.
"Here?" she asks, glancing toward the hallway where Sarah sleeps.
"Quietly," I reply, capturing her mouth again.
She rocks against me, friction building through our clothes. My hands slide under her shirt, finding warm skin marked with bruises from our earlier confrontations. Each mark tells a story—our story, written in violence and desire.
I lift her shirt over her head, exposing breasts that fit perfectly in my palms. My mouth follows my hands, tasting her skin while she arches above me.
"Cillian," she breathes, fingers tangling in my hair.
I work her jeans open, sliding my hand inside to find her wet and ready. She gasps as I stroke her, her body trembling on my lap.
"I need you," she whispers urgently.
I free myself from my pants, positioning her above me. She sinks down slowly, taking me inch by inch until we're joined completely. Her heat surrounds me, perfect and tight.
We move together with careful restraint, mindful of our sleeping guest but unable to deny our need. She rides me with slow, deliberate motions while I thrust up to meet her. Each movement builds pressure between us.
"Mine," I growl against her throat.
"Yours," she confirms, voice breaking with pleasure.
I feel her body tightening around me, close to release. My thumb finds her center, circling with precise pressure. She bites my shoulder to muffle her cry as she comes, body convulsing in my arms.
The sight and feel of her climax pushes me over. I thrust up hard, spilling inside her with a groan I bury against her neck.
We stay connected afterward, breathing hard against each other. The fire crackles beside us while the safe house settles into quiet.
"What are we doing?" she asks softly.
"Living," I reply. "Finally living instead of just surviving."
She rests her forehead against mine. "Tomorrow brings Collins."
"Tomorrow brings justice."
"And after?"
I cup her face in my hands. "After, we figure out what comes next. Together."
She nods, then climbs off my lap to gather her clothes. I watch her dress, memorizing every curve revealed in firelight.
"Sarah will be safe here while we handle Collins," I say.
"I know." Orla sits beside me again, fully clothed but still warm from our joining. "Your father was right. This ends tomorrow."
"One way or another."
We sit together until the fire burns low, planning for tomorrow while treasuring tonight. Whatever Collins brings, whatever justice demands, we'll face it united.
The Nolan case will close. Sarah will go home to her teaching job. Orla and I will find our path forward.
But first, Vincent Collins pays for seven years of lies.