Page 93 of False Heir

“I’ll fight this,” Tristan declared, his jaw set, defiance etching every line of his face.

Bellamy laughed, a low, mocking sound that made my skin crawl. “Will you now?” He scanned the gathered family members, his smirk widening. “Does anyone here argue with my claim?”

But before anyone could say anything, the sound of a gunshot rang out.

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Tristan

I’d worried so much about turning out like my father that I hadn’t even thought about who my father fucking was.

Blood ties—what a joke. The revelation hit me like a sucker punch; Bellamy, the old man with more secrets than the Vatican, was apparently my father. At least according to him. My mind spun with the implications, each one more treacherous than the last. He had been close enough to pull strings, yet distant enough to be a myth. And now, his identity tangled up with mine in ways I couldn’t afford to unravel.

All the years of trying not to turn into Malachy, and here I was, staring at the possibility that it was my destiny all along as I wondered if I should kill my father’s most despised enemy: his brother.

My stomach roiled as if I’d swallowed broken glass, but I couldn’t let it show. Not here. Not with so much at stake.

But then, a gunshot echoed through the catacombs, ricocheting off ancient stone and shattering my spiraling thoughts. In that instant, my bloodline didn’t mean a damn thing. Survival did. Adriana’s survival.

“Get down!” I barked at Adriana, pushing her to the ground just as another shot rang out. I swept my jacket aside and grabbed my gun, feeling its familiar weight grounding me. I scanned the shadows, heart slamming against my ribs.

The catacombs were crawling with Irish gang members, strangers with sharp eyes and itchy trigger fingers. Likely Bellamy’s men, judging by the way they moved with military precision. They didn’t know me, and I sure as hell didn’t trust them.

I kept low, moving with purpose, the icy floor numbing my hands as I positioned myself between Adriana and the unknown shooters. Her breathing was ragged, fear spiking her scent amidst the musty chill of the underground.

“Stay behind me,” I whispered, watching her nod sharply, her dark eyes wide but fierce.

The gunfire intensified, the cacophony of chaos echoing off the walls, the air thick with the smell of gunpowder. My instincts were screaming; I had to get Adriana out, away from the flying bullets and the scent of death.

“Tristan,” Adriana’s voice cut through the madness, a steel thread of determination lacing her tone. “We need to move.”

She was right. I couldn’t shoot down all these bastards, even if I tried. With every faction for themselves, the Irish, the Italians, hell, even some Russians, it was a powder keg that’d been lit with a reckless spark. Alliances be damned; this was war in the bowels of Boston.

“Keep your head down,” I instructed, my hand finding hers, our fingers intertwining like our lives. We crawled, dodging debris and staying as silent as the grave that surrounded us. The cold seeped through my jeans, but it was the heat of Adriana’s palm that scorched my skin, reminding me what was at stake.

“Tristan, I’m scared,” she murmured as we made our way through the labyrinthine tunnels, her breaths coming out in white puffs against the frigid air.

“Focus on breathing, Ade,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through me. “I’ve got you.”

We reached a fork in the catacombs, and I hesitated for a moment, listening. Left or right didn’t matter; both led to uncertainty. But uncertainty was better than the certain death that nipped at our heels.

“Left,” I decided, hoping it was the quicker path to the exit. The shadows clung to us as we moved, but we pushed forward, driven by the primal urge to survive. We were close now; I could feel it in my bones, or maybe that was just hope whispering sweet lies.

“Almost there,” I promised Adriana, though I wasn’t sure who I was trying to convince more—her or myself. The sound of our pursuers faded, replaced by the pounding of my own heart.

“Keep moving,” I urged, half-dragging, half-carrying Adriana as the flicker of an oil lamp in the distance promised a way out. The scrape of her shoes against stone echoed too loudly, each step resonating like a countdown.

And then it happened—the squabble that cut through the bedlam like a knife. Tommy Sullivan’s gruff voice clashed with James Kensington’s smooth baritone, their heated words a jarring symphony of anger and betrayal.

“Ya think you can waltz in here and take over, Kensington? Not on my watch!” Tommy roared.

“Your watch is about to end, Sullivan. This is the new order,” James retorted, every word dripping with venom.

The argument was a momentary distraction, but one that cost dearly. I pressed Adriana against the cold wall, sheltering her body with mine. “Ignore them,” I whispered fiercely. “We need to focus on getting out of here.”

“Are they going to...?” Her sentence trailed off, unfinished, but the fear in her eyes said everything her lips couldn’t.

“Listen to me,” I said, looking into her eyes. “Nothing is going to happen to you or our babies. I swear it.”

Adriana nodded, her faith in me unspoken but clear. We resumed our escape, leaving the tumult behind us. That’s when I realized Silvio wasn’t there. Adriana must have noticed her father wasn’t there, too. A spike of worry pierced me, but I shoved it aside. My priority was Adriana and the twins.

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