Page 27 of False Heir

Mr. Hunter nodded. “Good. But we need to consider all variables. Is there anything... anyone that might come out of the woodwork?”

Tristan’s jaw tightened, a subtle tell of his discomfort. “There is a Bellamy Callahan.”

I had never heard that name before. I wondered if it was another son.

“Another potential heir?” Mr. Hunter asked with what seemed like professional interest.

“No, at least, I don’t think so,” Tristan said, and I knew this wasn’t just a name but a chapter of his life he wished remained closed. “Malachy’s brother, my uncle, estranged and living in Dublin. He could be...problematic.”

“You never told me about him,” I said.

Tristan shrugged. “Because there’s nothing to say. He didn’t come to the funeral because he didn’t want to come to the funeral.”

“You invited him?” I asked.

Tristan frowned. “I mean, I think so? Everything is such a blur.”

“In any case,” Mr. Hunter replied, effectively ending our conversation, his pen poised over a notepad. “We’ll prepare for that contingency.”

“Good. I don’t think he should come crawling out of the woodwork, but with my father’s family, it’s hard to know.”

The lawyer nodded, and soon, we were making our way to the cafe where we had said we were going to meet Kieran. But he was waiting by the side of the building. Tristan must have told him where we were going.

“Everything set?” His voice was low, a rumble of thunder on a clear day.

“More or less,” Tristan replied. “I have a feeling it’s going to be a long process.”

“Yeah, and you’re going to be dealing with the Orsinis and the Rossis breathing down your neck. No offense, Ade.”

I shrugged, my hand finding my bump. “Can’t be offended by the truth.”

We made our way to a nearby café, its windows fogged from the warmth inside, a stark contrast to the chill of Boston’s streets.

“Two coffees, please,” Tristan ordered once we settled into a corner booth, his voice steady as he scanned the room with practiced nonchalance.

“Make that three,” Kieran said.

The barista nodded, her movements brisk and efficient in the early morning rush.

As soon as she left, I leaned forward, my elbows on the table. “We need to talk about security measures,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Especially now that it’s not just us in the crossfire.”

Tristan’s eyes met mine, the blue in them hardening like ice. “I know. We’ll change cars regularly, vary our routes, use different safe houses.”

The coffee arrived, and we each took a sip, the bitterness on my tongue grounding me back to the moment. Our conversation shifted then, from logistics to something far more personal and daunting. I knew Kieran was right there, but I couldn’t stop myself. I needed to know.

“Tristan,” I began, the fear seeping into my voice despite my best efforts, “what about the kids? This life...it’s not what I wanted for them.”

Kieran cocked his head. “You sure? Because you could’ve like, moved.”

“Be quiet,” Tristan said to him, not without affection. “It’ll be different for them, love.”

“Yeah,” Kieran nodded after a bit. “He’s not our dad.”

I opened my mouth to say something else, but I noticed that Kieran was looking behind me, his eyes narrowing. “What is it?”

“Not sure, but I think we’re being watched,” Kieran said.

Suddenly, I had the realization that something had been pricking against the back of my neck. I thought it was just the uncomfortable feeling that came with being pregnant; for some reason, it felt like everyone wanted to watch what I was doing all the time.

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