Page 1 of Legacy Of Ashes
CHAPTER
ONE
"Traditional import dependency models are bullshit."
The word lands like a slap across Oxford's pristine conference hall. Three hundred economists shift in their seats. Professor Morrison's eyebrows shoot up. Good—I have their attention now.
"Sorry," I say, not sorry at all. "But polite academic language won't fix broken systems. When we examine Southeast Asian markets, we're not looking at numbers on a spreadsheet. We're looking at human lives."
I click to my next slide, adrenaline singing through my veins. Six years at Oxford taught me that being brilliant isn't enough—you have to be memorable. Dr. Saoirse Kavanagh doesn't play nice.
My phone buzzes against my thigh.
"The correlation between infrastructure investment and trade dependency—" I glance down. Text from Mother:Emerald down. Come home.
My mouth goes dry. The remote slips in my suddenly sweaty palm.
Emerald down.Dad's code name. It means one thing: Tiernan Kavanagh is dying.
"—shows a clear pattern when we account for political instability," I continue, muscle memory taking over while my world collapses. "As demonstrated in this regression analysis?—"
Another buzz. Cillian:Emergency. Call NOW.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I speed through the remaining slides, my heartbeat drowning out the applause. Colleagues swarm forward with questions, but I'm already moving.
"Family emergency," I throw over my shoulder, pushing through bodies toward the exit.
The corridor's limestone walls close in around me. These ancient stones were my fortress for six years—undergrad, PhD, fellowship. I built Dr. Saoirse Kavanagh here, piece by careful piece. Someone respectable. Someone clean.
Someone who's never killed anyone.
My phone rings.
"What happened?" I demand.
"Stroke," Cillian says without preamble. "Massive. He's alive, but barely responsive. Right side paralysis, speech fucked."
I lean against the wall, fighting nausea. "Recovery?"
"Unknown. But that's not why I'm calling." His voice drops. "Word's out. Every crew in Boston smells blood. Moretti. Donovan. New players we don't even know yet."
"How long do we have?"
"They're already moving. Shipments intercepted. Bribes falling through. Three of our judges just recused themselves from pending cases."
Of course they are. Vultures always circle the wounded.
"What about—" I stop myself.
"Conall?" Cillian knows me too well. "He's holding the line. But this isn't about muscle anymore. It's about legitimacy.Political connections. Financial networks. The stuff you actually understand."
Conall.Even his name sends heat spiraling through my belly. Stupid, considering I haven't seen him in two years. Considering he's Dad's enforcer and I'm supposed to be the reformed academic daughter.
The memory hits without warning: age ten, pressed against his chest in the panic room while gunfire erupted outside. His heartbeat steady against my cheek. The smell of his cologne mixing with gun oil and danger.
"Quiet, princess,"he whispered, lips brushing my hair."I'll keep you safe. Always."
