Page 28 of Sins of the Father

The man hands her a folder. She touches it but doesn’t open it. There is a look in her eyes I've never seen. She looks at him again and then at the folder under her hand. He checks his watch, stands, touches her shoulder. I want to rip his arm off at the shoulder—I don’t want anyone touching what is mine. She feelslike she is mine. He leaves, pulling his collar up against the cold wind. Orla stays there, her cold coffee and sandwich on the table.

I beat her back to the car, without being seen.

"Tail him," I tell Matthews. "I want a name, address every fucking thing there is to know."

In my office,I review import documents while watching the clock. Orla walks in twenty minutes late from her lunch break—not at all like her. She sits at her desk and pretends to work, but I can feel her distraction from here.

Matthews sends a text:

Raymond Doyle. Detective, Organized Crime Division. 20 years BPD.

I search our databases. Many arrests. Many awards. Known for hunting down and dismantling Irish gangs for decades. He has a vendetta, a passion for hunting men like me. A man who it seems has been fixated on my family for two decades. What does he want? What does he know?

Orla knocks waiting to bring in a pile of paperwork for signatures. I wave her in, seeing her in a new light. She holds out the papers, a pen. Her fingers brush mine, and what once felt intimate now feels like a calculated seduction.

"All okay?" I ask, signing without reading.

"Of course." Her voice stays flat. She doesn’t know that I know.

"You look a little distracted."

"Just tired." A good lie from someone I just watched meeting with a cop.

As she takes back the papers, I notice the silver chain at her neck, tucked into her blouse.

"The Richardson shipment arrives Thursday," I say. "We should talk about it."

"I'll get the documents and manifest ready."

"Orla."

She stops at the door without turning to face me.

"Your work in New York impressed me. I value people I can trust."

Her shoulders rise. Just an little. Just enough.

"Thank you," she says, and walks out.

I weigh up my options. Confronting her I will loses our chance to control what information she passes on to the pigs. It might spook her, and she’ll be gone for good. A thought I shake off right away. Watching her gives me the power to plant false leads, to find out if I have one rat or an infestation.

This woman who I let into my office, into my plans, my fucking bed is trying to destroy me.

I text Eamon.

Security problem. Talk tonight.

I check with IT what files she has accessed this week. A pattern forms—shipping records, money transfers, client lists. Building blocks for RICO charges.

I need to plan my move against this threat with cold focus.

I shut the laptop and look at her desk. She is talking on the phone, glancing up to see if I am watching her.

I am. And she knows it.

CHAPTER 13

ORLA

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