Page 14 of Sins of the Father

"I need you to attend that shitshow with me," Cillian says from his office doorway. "Several major clients will be there."

I pick up the invitation, noting the $5,000-per-plate price tag. "You want me to take notes or be your date?"

He steps into my office area. "I need you as my date."

I choke on air, I was not expecting that, I was joking. "Your date?"

"My regular plus-one canceled, and arriving alone would cause hysteria and mother’s setting me up with daughters. I’d like to avoid that."

A room full of Kavanagh business contacts means access to information I could never get otherwise. Yet it also means hours hoping no one blows my cover by accident.

"Is that appropriate?" I ask, playing my part as the cautious employee.

"It's business," he says with a wave. "The gala starts at eight. I'll send a car for you at seven-thirty."

He turns to leave, then pauses. "Wear the right clothes for the occasion. The company will cover any expenses if needed."

After he exits, I text Doyle.

I am going to that gala this weekend. Should I be worried?

His reply comes fast.

I'll be there. Working security detail. You’ll be okay.

I stare at my phone, a flicker of concern crossing my mind. Doyle mentioned taking private security gigs at high-society events months ago—a way to access rooms filled with Boston's elite without raising suspicions. Poor cop trying to earn extra money. The perfect cover for getting close to the Kavanagh network.

When I lookat myself in the bathroom mirror, a stranger looks right back at me. The midnight blue dress is elegant enough to blend in, but not flashy enough to catch unwanted attention. It hugs my body, but doesn’t show skin, understated but I still feel sexy in it.

I open my jewelry box, and take out the only piece in it that matters to me—my mother's emerald pendant on a delicate silver chain. She left it behind when she abandoned us. Wearingit feels risky tonight, it is too connected to my real identity, but I need the reminder of why I'm doing this.

I practiced dancing yesterday, preparing for any rogue socialite who asks me to dance. I went over every detail about my fake life story, so I won’t trip up. I have a mental list of names, people who might be there tonight—people who I think may have been connected to my father’s murder.

The buzzer sounds. There is a town car waiting for me outside, like Cinderellas carriage, only it won’t turn into a pumpkin.

The Fairmont'sballroom is overflowing with the who’s who of wealth and power, every well-to-do family in the city has someone here tonight. Crystal chandeliers, white-clothed tables, floral arrangements taller than most children. Boston's elite mingle in tuxedos and couture gowns that I couldn’t ever afford even on my new salary.

Cillian looks very different from the man I see daily at the office. His tuxedo fits like the sewed it onto his body, hugging his broad shoulders and trim waist. He draws eyes from every corner of the room. Men, and women turn to look as we pause just inside the doors.

"Ready?" he asks, offering his arm.

I place my hand in the crook of his elbow, nothing but solid muscle beneath fine fabric. "I’m ready."

We join the crowd. Cillian guides us through the trophy wives, and politicians, introducing me as "Orla Kelly, my new executive assistant."

"James Richardson, Boston Harbor Development," Cillian says, introducing me to a silver-haired man with a politician's smile.

"Pleasure," Richardson says, holding my hand longer than necessary. "So you’re the one keeping his office running smoothly?"

"I try my best," I reply with a smile.

"She's essential," Cillian adds.

Richardson talks about waterfront properties. I listen carefully, noting their coded references to "special access points" and "flexibility"—it is likely they’re discussing smuggling.

While they talk, I scan the room for faces I might know. Anyone that could blow my cover. Near the service entrance I see Detective Doyle in a private security uniform, watching the crowd. Our eyes meet briefly before I look away, my heart racing. His presence changes everything, even a hint that I might know a cop will set Cillian off. Seeing him here makes the danger real. One mistake from either of us could unravel everything, and put me in real danger. No one will look for a missing person that doesn’t exist.

More introductions, small talk and fake smiling. Judge Martin Palmer, who mysteriously never presides over cases involving Kavanagh interests. City Councilwoman Helen Zhao, who chairs the port authority portfolio. A customs official whose children attend an elite private school on a civil servant's salary.

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