Page 8 of Legacy Of Ashes
The documents she hands me make my economics degree feel like a children's coloring book. Investment statements.Property deeds. Asset transfers spanning decades. Numbers with more zeros than I can count at first glance.
"You've been hiding family money?"
"Growing it. Protecting it. Multiplying it." Mother smooths her skirt. "Your father built the empire. I made sure it would outlive him."
"How much?"
"Enough to keep this family comfortable for three generations. Even if every other revenue stream dried up tomorrow."
The weight of her secret presses against my chest. All those years of watching her play the dutiful wife while she quietly moved mountains of cash through offshore accounts.
"Why tell me now?"
"Because you'll need weapons for what's coming." Mother stands, brushing dirt from her hands. "Cillian has vision but no spine. Eamon has fire but no brain. You have both."
"And Conall?"
Her eyes turn predatory. "Conall is dangerous in ways my sons will never be. He's earned his place through blood and brutality. But he serves the family, not himself."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning he'll follow whoever proves they deserve to lead." Mother heads back toward the house. "Question is whether you have the balls to prove it."
Two hours later, I storm into Cillian's office. He looks up from his computer like a deer caught in headlights.
"I want in," I say. "The legitimate businesses."
He leans back. "Saoirse?—"
"I have a master's degree in economics from Oxford. I speak three languages fluently. I've spent six years learning howinternational markets actually work." I plant my hands on his desk. "Use me or explain to Mother why you're wasting family resources."
That shuts him up. Cillian knows better than to cross our mother.
"The shipping companies are hemorrhaging money," he says after a long pause. "European contracts need complete restructuring. You'd be working with Conall on operational oversight."
My pulse kicks up at his name. "Perfect."
"He doesn't coddle anyone. Or take orders from anyone except Father."
"Good thing I'm not planning to coddle him or give him orders."
Cillian studies my face. "Conference room in twenty minutes. Try not to get yourself killed."
I find Conall spreading maps across the mahogany table, red ink marking territories like a predator claiming hunting grounds. He doesn't acknowledge me when I enter, just continues his work. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, revealing forearms that could snap a man's neck—or pin a woman beneath him.
"Your brother thinks you can help," he says without looking up.
"My brother's right."
Now those gray eyes find mine. They take inventory—my tailored suit, my straight spine, the way I position myself across the table instead of cowering in a corner chair.
"These are our current shipping routes." He points to lines crisscrossing the Atlantic. "Portuguese and Spanish operations turn profit. Everything else bleeds money."
I lean forward to study the documents. His scent hits me—leather and sandalwood and something purely male that makes my stomach clench with want. The table separates us, but I feel his presence like heat from a fire.
"The problem isn't your routes," I say, scanning the numbers. "It's your overhead. You're paying full port fees in cities where you own half the dock masters."
His finger traces a shipping lane. "Go on."
