Page 19 of Sins of the Father

"My driver will take you." I fix my tie. "We'll review Connecticut tomorrow."

She nods and walks to the door, then turns. "Thank you for trusting me."

After she leaves my office, I stare at our empty glasses. Tonight I crossed a boundary, sharing thoughts I hide from everyone with her. Exposing my vulnerabilities to a woman I've known only a month.

CHAPTER 9

ORLA

"This way," Cillian says, guiding me through stacks of shipping containers four stories high. "I need to verify the McAllister shipment has arrived intact." He is antsy today, crankier than usual.

I trail beside him, my tablet in hand. I have the packing lists open, and ready. The container stacks are near the docks, remote enough that any noise vanishes. It's the deal place for both legitimate business and things you'd want to hide in plain sight.

"These quality checks matter," Cillian says as we pass workers who nod. "My father believes in hands-on management."

What he doesn't say—this facility is for more than furniture and electronics. I've seen the manifests with weight discrepancies. The couches are stuffed with other things. Weapons, most likely. My Dad's notes mentioned this particular stack repeatedly.

"Check these against the packing list," Cillian says, handing me a folder. "I need to speak with the night manager."

I nod, accepting the documents while scanning the area. Four security guards. Cameras at every corner. Two exits both withaccess control, security guards and cameras. I flip through papers, noting the real discrepancies while pretending to mark off the packing list.

A security guard approaches Cillian, whispering something. His casual stance vanishes, replaced by hyper-vigilance.

"Stay close," he murmurs, returning to my side. "We have some uninvited guests." This place gave me the creeps before I knew we were not alone. Now all I see is that maze from mouse-trap and imagine we have nowhere to run.

Three men emerge from behind a shipping container. Not workers—the way they stand I can tell they are not laborers. Two keep their hands near jacket pockets, I know they are armed. They don't even try hide their guns.

"Mr. Kavanagh," the tallest one says. "Wasn't aware you'd be visiting today."

"Malone." Cillian moves in front of me, his voice cold. "This is Kavanagh property. Your boss knows the boundaries."

"Boundaries are pretty flexible," another man says. "Mr. Donovan sends regards."

The Donovan crew has pushed into Kavanagh territory for months, according to Detective Doyle's. There is a war brewing—these men are not here to exchange pleasantries.

"Leave," Cillian says, "and I'll consider this a misunderstanding."

I sense the movement behind us. A fourth man his, eyes fixed on me. Cillian sees him but can't deal with both threats at once.

The tall one—Malone—laughs. "Nice assistant. Shame to risk her safety over boundaries and all."

Everything happens at once. Malone reaches into his jacket. Cillian rushes forward. Security guards come running from hidden corners of the yard.

The man behind us lunges for me, grabbing my arm. Instinct and training kick in.

I strike his solar plexus with my elbow, stamp his instep, and twist away. When he stumbles, I step aside and push him into a crate.

He rushes at me again. I duck, and sweep his leg. He falls hard.

I stay defensive but don't attack—a normal woman might know basic self defense, but not offensive moves. My cover matters most. I can protect myself—but I Orla would never attack a man.

Cillian moves with brutal force, nothing like the flawless executive from the office. He is a deadly weapon, one I should run away from while I still can.

In thirty seconds, it's over. The Donovan crew dead on the concrete floor. My attacker stares at me, blood dripping from his nose.

Cillian turns to me, his eyes wide. He looks from my stance to the man on the ground.

"You took him down." Not a question.

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