Page 16 of Sins of the Father

The music changes, a slower more sensual rhythm. Cillian adjusts our position, pulling me closer. I notice the scent of his cologne, the warmth of his hand against mine.

"Why the emerald?" he asks, glancing at my necklace. “I haven’t seen you wear jewelry once.”

"It was my mother's."

"It matches your eyes," he says.

"It is a special occasion," I reply, uneasy about his attention to detail. “I wanted to look pretty. To fit in.”

We dance in silence for the rest of the song, I fight unwelcome awareness of him as a man rather than the murderer I believe he is. His hand at my waist is strong, firm. Our bodies move in a harmony.

"You're different tonight," he says.

"How so?"

"More relaxed. Less uptight."

"Is that a problem? Is this not supposed to be fun?"

"No," he says, voice dropping. "It's nice to see you relaxed."

His eyes hold mine, and for a moment, I forget why I'm here. Forget he's a Kavanagh. Forget my father's blood soaking his desk.

I pull away. "I need a moment." I say, and flee to the powder room.

I splash cold water on my wrists, avoiding my reflection. What am I doing? Detective Doyle is a guard in this very building. My father's murderers are working the room outside these doors. I danced with Cillian Kavanagh, and enjoyed it.

I touch the emerald pendant, I need to remind myself. This isn't real. None of it. I'm here for justice, not to trip over pretty words and strong hands.

When I return to the ballroom, Cillian is watching for me, he looks concerned. I put on Orla Kelly's sweet smile and make my way back to him.

"Everything alright?" he asks.

"Perfect," I lie.

As we move back into the crowd, I notice Detective Doyle is watching us. A silent reminder of the promises I made at my father's grave.

No matter how Cillian looks at me, no matter how I good his touches feel, I can't forget who he is and what his family did. Even if, for just one dance, I almost did.

CHAPTER 8

CILLIAN

Iwatch Mitchell cowering against the side of a shipping container. The warehouse echoes with his ragged breathing and water dripping from the leaking roof. Eamon stands in front of him, waiting for my instructions.

"You sold shipping manifests to the Murphy crew," I say. "Cost us a quarter million and put three of our men in the hospital."

Mitchell trembles, his eyes darting between me and my brother. "Mr. Kavanagh, I can explain?—"

Eamon strikes without warning, his fist connecting with Mitchell's jaw. Blood and teeth splatter across the concrete floor.

"Eamon." My voice stays flat. "He needs his teeth to talk."

My brother backs away, his knuckles stained red. He glances toward the car where Orla waits, she can see everything. I never planned to bring her, but the call came during our Connecticut expansion meeting. There wasn’t time to drop her off. Now she is witnessing how we handle betrayal.

Mitchell spits blood. "They paid me fifty grand. My wife needs surgery—insurance wouldn't cover?—"

"You should have come to me," I cut him off. "We take care of our own."

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