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"Am I a prisoner?"

"You're under my protection until I verify these accusations."

She wraps the sheet around herself, watching me with wary eyes. "And if they're true?"

"Then Sullivan pays for my father's betrayal and your father's murder."

"Family justice," she echoes my earlier words.

I pause at the door. "The man who took you from my office today—he reports directly to Sullivan."

Understanding dawns on her face. "I'm a loose end."

"Yes. So keep your gun close tonight."

I leave without looking back, her files tucked under my arm, the taste of her still on my lips. The ground beneath my feet feels unstable, family loyalty at war with new information.

Sullivan will be investigated. Quietly. Thoroughly. And if Orla's right, he'll face Kavanagh justice for betraying my father and murdering hers.

CHAPTER 21

ORLA

Iwake alone in my apartment, the taste of Cillian still on my lips. My body aches from last night—not pain, but memory. Seven years hunting the Kavanagh’s, and now I've let their heir claim me against my own wall.

The evidence files lie scattered across my table where Cillian left them. Dad's blood-stained accounting papers mock me in morning light. I promised him justice. Instead, I found complications.

My phone shows no messages. No calls from Doyle. No word from Cillian about his investigation into Sullivan.

I make coffee with shaking hands, replaying every moment from last night. His mouth on mine. His hands pinning me. His voice saying "You're mine" like a brand burned into my skin.

At ten thirty, my phone rings. Unknown number.

"Yes?"

"Doyle here. Burner phone. Development you need to know."

I grip the phone tighter. "What kind of development?"

"Cillian Kavanagh requested access to old case files this morning. Official channels. Your father's murder investigation."

My pulse jumps. "He's really investigating?"

"Looks that way. Also pulled financial records dating back five years. He's digging into Vincent Collins."

Relief floods through me. He believed what I showed him.

"Any contact from their side?" I ask.

"None. We're maintaining distance like agreed." Doyle pauses. "But Orla—be careful. This could be theater. Designed to make you trust him."

"I know." Though part of me hopes it isn't.

"Call if anything changes."

The line goes dead.

I pace my small apartment, energy crackling under my skin. Cillian investigating Collins means he took my evidence seriously. But Doyle's warning echoes—this could all be manipulation.