Page 29 of Sins of the Father

The exclusive Darby Club brims with noise as Cillian guides me inside, it has been two weeks since we went to New York. Things haven’t been the same at work, or between us since we had sex.

Generations of Boston's Irish elite have celebrated here, though I doubt many of those gatherings involved quite as many criminals as tonight's event will. They don’t usually all come out of the shadowy underworld at once.

"Ready to meet the extended family?" Cillian asks, his palm pressed against my back.

I nod, adopting Orla Kelly's pleasant smile while Orla Nolan is making a note of all the faces. "Of course."

Tiernan Kavanagh commands attention near the bar, accepting congratulations on his sixtieth birthday with the confidence of a man who owns everyone in the room. Niamh circulates between guests, the perfect hostess draped in emerald silk.

"Come meet my uncle Patr," Cillian says.

I spend the next hour being introduced to Kavanagh family, associates, and enemies, each handshake another piece of the puzzle I am trying to build. Pat Kavanagh imports through Canada. Kevin Murphy handles union negotiations with strategy and baseball bats. Sean Flannery runs distribution across New England. I note the connections, territories, way they all interlock and need one another.

"Your girl asks smart questions," an older man—Tommy Doyle—tells Cillian after I inquire about his ‘waste management’ business. A paper-thin cover for money laundering, based on his vague answers.

"She manages my schedule, my accounts, and apparently me," Cillian replies with a rare public display of affection, his arm around my waist.

My smile stays fake as guilt cuts inside me. Every bit of information I get inside this room pushes the Kavanaghs closer to prison. Puts him in a cage he will never escape.

A traditional band assembles in the corner—fiddle, tin whistle, bodhrán, accordion. The music plays, and memories rush back. Dad teaching me to dance in our kitchen, explaining how his parents brought these songs from Cork.

"You know this one." Niamh materializes beside me.

"The Star of the County Down," I reply without thinking. "My grandmother loved traditional music."

She watches me. "Did she teach you to dance as well?"

"A little." The band changes it up, a faster reel, and couples fill the small dance floor.

"Cillian never learned properly," Niamh says. "His father considered it to be frivolous."

Across the room, Eamon watches me, whiskey in hand. He hasn't approached me all evening, not even to say hello, but his eyes follow me. He senses there's more to me than my cover story, he doesn’t like me.

"Mrs. Kavanagh," a club manager interrupts, "the cake is ready whenever you are."

"Thank you, Michael. We'll gather the hoards now."

The birthday toast follows Irish tradition. Tiernan stands as his sons flank him, the family on full display. Glasses raised. Irish whiskey burns down my throat as Tiernan speaks about legacy, loyalty, and the future.

"To the Kavanaghs," the crowd choruses.

I drink with them, playing my part while guilt eats me alive. Three city councilmen. A judge. Two police captains. The corruption runs deeper than even Doyle suspected, I still feel deeply uncomfortable at how comfortable I am around the bottom feeders of humanity.

The dancing continues after cake. Cillian surprises me by holding out his hand to me.

"Your mother said you can’t dance," I say as he leads me to the floor.

"She said, I never learned properly. Not that I couldn't manage to fling a lass around the floor." He guides me into his arms as the band plays a waltz. "Besides, I have excellent motivation to try now."

We float across the floor, and I allow myself to enjoy the moment. The past fades away. My purpose here forgotten in the haze of being so close to him. The need for revenge blurs at the edges. There's just music and Cillian's hot body pressed too close to mine.

"You dance better than your mother gives you credit for," I say.

"Any man can dance with the right woman," he replies. He thinks I amright, he has no idea the traitor he is holding in his arms is here to end him.

When the song ends, Cillian checks his watch. "I need to speak with my father for a moment. Wait here?"

I nod, watching him move through the crowd to find Tiernan, who is sitting down now, accepting birthday wishes from a parade of murderers and madmen. Each one speaks close to his ear, private conversations whispered right here at this public celebration. Crime never stops, it just there lurking right beneath the shiny surface.

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