Page 10 of Sins of the Father

Cillian reviews my work, going through each page. "This changes their classification."

"Yes. And creates documentation that meets FDA requirements without triggering a deeper investigation."

He looks at me with new interest. "How did you learn about these loopholes?"

"My previous firm managed pharmaceutical shipping. On a much smaller scale, but with similar challenges."

"Contact Singapore. I want confirmation they can handle this change."

This means working late—perfect. "On it."

By seven,we are finished restructuring Westridge, drafting new contracts, and keeping a firm grip on their business. I talk with their VP while Cillian speaks to their CEO. This crisis serves us both—for very different reasons.

"They signed a three-year deal" Cillian says, ending his call.

"Better than the one-year we had." I save every file onto my drive.

"You did well today." He pulls his tie loose, his face more relaxed than usual. "Most assistants would have watched me fix it."

"I believe in exceeding expectations," I reply.

Cillian glances at his watch. "It's late. I'll walk you down."

"I should file these first," I say, wanting time alone in the office.

"That can wait?—"

His phone interrupts. He checks the screen and raises a finger. "I need to answer this."

I turn to my computer, pretending to work while listening to his conversation.

"How many?" Cillian asks, his voice hardening. "No. Keep the docks secure until I send backup."

My fingers press random keys while my ears focus on his words.

"Tell Eamon to stay there. He can keep his temper in check until I get there." He pauses. "Two hours. Make sure those Dorchester bastards know the waterfront belongs to us."

After hanging up, I continue typing as if I heard nothing.

"Orla."

I look at him with a neutral face. "Yes?"

"We need to leave. Now."

I close my files and take my coat. Whatever happened at the docks, Cillian won't leave me alone in the office tonight—a problem and an opportunity to learn more.

"I have an urgent situation," he says as we head to the elevator. "I'll take you home."

"I drove today," I remind him.

"Right." He is distracted as we enter the elevator. "I'll walk you to your car."

The building is almost empty now. Our steps echo through the lobby where the night guard nods at Cillian.

The parking garage is vast and hollow, our footsteps bouncing off bare concrete walls. My car is parked in the far corner, just where I left it—but three men step out from behind a concrete column, walking straight toward us.

Cillian stops walking. His arm moves across my body as a shield.

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