Page 65 of Sins of the Father

Tiernan presides at the head of the table, carving the roast with precision. His eyes meet mine briefly—not friendly, not hostile. Acknowledgment of new reality.

"The Sullivan contract finalized yesterday," Cillian says, accepting the potatoes from his mother. "Complete transfer to legitimate operations."

Tiernan nods. "Good. Less exposure through that channel."

The conversation flows around import regulations, property acquisitions, charity functions—business discussed in family code. I follow easily now, understanding layers beneath innocent words.

Eamon sits across from us, his gaze meets mine with uncomfortable recognition. Our shared history—his hand ending my father's life, my choice not to shoot him during the rescue—creates unspoken tension. Neither forgiveness nor accusation, merely acknowledgment of complicated truth.

"Orla," Niamh says, "will you help with the foundation gala next month? Your organizational skills would be invaluable."

The Kavanagh Family Foundation—charitable work funded by less charitable income streams. Legitimate philanthropy with complicated origins.

"I'd be happy to," I reply, accepting my place in this careful balance.

Later, after dinner, Cillian and I walk through the garden behind the house. March chill giving way to early April warmth. Trees showing hints of green.

"Doyle took the evidence?" Cillian asks, voice low despite privacy.

"Yes. He wasn't happy with the arrangement."

"Few people get exactly what they want in this world." Cillian's hand finds mine, warm against evening air. "Collins faced justice."

I stop near a stone bench. "Your family's version of justice."

"That concerns you."

Not a question. Cillian reads me easily now.

"Everything about this new life concerns me," I admit. "I came seeking justice and found complications."

"Regrets?" His eyes search mine.

"No." The answer comes without pause. "Just awareness. Of choices made. Lines crossed. New boundaries formed."

Cillian traces a finger along my cheek. "We exist in gray areas, Orla. Always have. The difference now is acknowledging it together rather than fighting alone."

"And when new lines need drawing? New boundaries?"

"We draw them together." He cups my face. "My family operates by certain rules. Protection. Loyalty. Family above all. You're now part of that equation."

"Not quite family," I counter.

A smile touches his lips. "Yet."

The implication hangs between us, neither rushed nor dismissed. Simply acknowledged as possibility.

From the house, I see Eamon watching through the window, guilt and resentment warring in his expression before he turns away. The past never vanishes, merely transforms into new shapes we learn to carry.

Cillian follows my gaze. "He'll find his own peace eventually. With the right guidance."

"The family takes care of its own."

"Yes." He draws me closer. "Always."

I rest my head against his shoulder, feeling the solid strength beneath expensive fabric. My life now exists in contradiction—safety found with dangerous people, peace within constant calculation, love growing in soil watered with past violence.

Two weeks ago, Vincent Collins died for his betrayal. His choices seven years past finally catching up. My father's murder creating ripples still spreading outward, touching all our lives.

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