Page 17 of Sins of the Father

"I was afraid?—"

"Now you understand afraid." I step forward, adjusting my cuffs. "Names. Every Murphy contact you spoke with. Every document you copied."

Eamon grabs bolt cutters from a nearby table. Mitchell's eyes go wide.

"He needs his fingers to write," I say. Eamon drops the it with aclang.

Mitchell sings like a canary. Names, dates, documents—everything pours out of him while Eamon records it. I watch Orla from the corner of my eye. She is motionless, face neutral. No disgust, no fear. Either she's witnessed this before or she possesses exceptional control. Or she’s some sort of sociopath.

When Mitchell’s well of information runs dry, I nod to Eamon. "Get his shit together. Then take him to the boat."

"Please," Mitchell begs, "my wife?—"

"Will receive the best medical care," I reply. "Your children's education will be taken care of through college. But you'll never see any of them again."

His sobs follow me as I walk away. Punishment and mercy delivered together, just as my Father taught me.

Orla is waiting when I get back into the car. "Should I reschedule the vendor meeting?" she asks, as if we just left any normal business lunch.

"No." I slide into the backseat, watching for any cracks in her composure.Nothing. She is not afraid of me, nor is she upset by what she just saw. "We'll be at the office in thirty minutes."

The office gets veryquiet once the sun goes down, only a few staff stay late. I send my security detail to wait out in the hall and pour myself a Redbreast 21 in a crystal tumbler. I pull my tie loose and sink into my leather chair.

Mitchell joins a long list of traitors I've dealt with recently. There must be something in the water. Our family business demands loyalty. Those who betray us pay dearly, it has always been that way. It doesn’t matter who it is—a traitor is a traitor.

With each one I have to deal with, the life I once planned slips further away. My Harvard Business Review subscription collects dust beside my MBA thesis on sustainable import practices. I had big ideas, lofty dreams—I never imagined that my family would be the one thing stopping me.

A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. Orla walks in without waiting, a manila folder in hand.

"The quarterly figures you asked for." She stops, noticing the whiskey. "I can come back tomorrow."

"Stay." I motion to the chair across from me. "Want a drink?"

She pauses, then puts the folder down, and sits. "Yes, please."

I pour and pass her a glass. "Today a little outside of your office duties."

"I work for the Kavanaghs." She drinks without reaction to the strong liquor. "I am not a fool. I understand what that means."

"Do you?" I watch her closely. "Most people would run after seeing what you saw today."

"Most people lack perspective." Her gaze meets mine directly. "The world runs on hard choices."

An unexpected answer. I sit back as the whiskey warms my veins. "What do you know about me, Orla?"

"You graduated top of your class at Harvard. You worked at Wellington Partners before rejoining the family business. You speak four languages and built a reputation for both your intelligence and ruthlessness."

I tap the rim of my glass. "Research or office gossip?"

"Both." Her mouth curves slightly. "Plus, your diploma is hanging up behind your desk."

I turn toward the framed certificate, partially covered by filing cabinets. No one ever notices it.

"Why come back?" she asks. "You had your foot in with a legitimate business."

The question is not an easy one to answer. I drink again before I do.

"Family obligations trump personal desires."

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