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"Which I have." Two years of planning paid off. "Orla Kelly exists, on paper."

Doyle nods, then gazes back at my father's grave. "Thomas wouldn't want this for you. Let it go, live your life. Safe. Not poking the bear."

"Thomas didn't want to die with his face in accounting files, while swimming in his blood." My voice turns cold. "But here we are."

Doyle sighs but stays quiet. He's voiced his concerns many times, my need for revenge is something no one could understand. He reaches into his pocket and hands me a business card.

"That’s the address and contact information. I already had the application submitted under your... alternate name."

I take the card, tucking it into my coat pocket.

"Be careful, Orla. These people—" He trails off.

"I know exactly who these people are." I turn away from the grave. "I'll let you know."

***

My apartment is almost bare, only what I need. A bed, a desk, a locked metal box under the floorboard with my father's bloodstained business papers. Bare walls, no photos. Nothing to distract me from my purpose, or give away who I am.

I spread documents across the small table. Birth certificate, driver's license, diploma, employment records - all for Orla Kelly, fabricated with care. Next to them, a resume designed to catch Cillian Kavanagh's attention. Business administration degree from Boston College. Four years administrative experience at firms the Kavanaghs won't investigate too deeply.

I rehearse my backstory in the mirror. Born in South Boston to working-class Irish parents. My ‘father’ a construction worker, my ‘mother’ a nurse. Both dead – to Covid during the pandemic. A good Catholic school education. No siblings. I lived with an estranged aunt during college and have no other living relatives.

I practice aloud, my voice steady, but different. A hint more South Boston in my vowels. A warmer tone. Orla Kelly must appear perfect, but forgettable, and seem like she is no threat at all.

In my bathroom mirror looking back at me is a woman with auburn hair pulled back tight, green eyes that glisten with thehunger for revenge. I'll style it softer tomorrow. Wear less makeup. Look normal, unremarkable.

My phone buzzes.

A text from Doyle.

Background check initiated by Kavanagh security. Basic level only. Your story will hold up.

Good. I have been waiting too long for this to get flagged by a simple background check.

I open my laptop, reviewing the Kavanagh Import & Export corporate structure. Legitimate business on paper - shipping, customs brokerage, international trade. Behind that façade—weapons, drugs, money laundering. And somewhere in their records, is the reason my father died.

He found something in their accounts. Something worth killing for.

I change into running clothes and put my papers back into their hidden box. Physical preparation matters just as much as mental. Five miles to clear my head and wreck my body before I sleep.

Tomorrow, I finally become Orla Kelly.

I touch the small photo of my father tucked inside my wallet - the only personal item I keep with me always.

"Watch me," I whisper. "I'll make them pay. Every last fucking Kavanagh."

CHAPTER 2

CILLIAN

Iscan the security monitors, watching as the camera feeds cycle across my desk. The lineup of applicants bores me. None of them really understand what working for the Kavanagh empire truly means.

A woman walks through the lobby, catching my eye.

Auburn hair pulled back neatly, navy suit, modest jewelry. At first glance, she is nothing special—until I notice how she looks at each camera, even the guards disguised as reception staff. Not obvious—a quick glance here, a pause there. Most idiots would miss these details. She is not most people.

Her resume is on my desk. Orla Kelly. She has five years administrative experience. A business degree from Boston College. A six-month gap attributed to family responsibility leave. Her references check out perfectly. Too perfectly. My gut says she’s too good to be true, and twenty-nine years as a Kavanagh taught me to trust my gut.