Page 41 of False Heir

Killian’s gaze flickered towards me, a plea for understanding in his watery eyes. But all I felt was a profound emptiness where warmth and camaraderie used to reside. He’d made his choice. Chose Silvio Orsini over us. Chose Silvio Orsini over my future wife.

Chose Silvio Orsini over my children.

“Will you take care of Maia, please?” he asked. “She doesn’t…she’s probably been worried sick about me since this all went down, and I can’t go home and…”

I grabbed my gun, pointed it at him. “Yeah. Nothing will happen to your wife,” I said.

“And Morgan?” Killian asked, his voice choked and strained. The raw fear in his eyes struck a chord within me, a reminder of the reasons behind my own loyalties.

I nodded, my gun still pointed at him. “Your kid will be taken care of. That much I can promise.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“Yeah, don’t mention it,” I replied.

And then I pulled the trigger.

Chapter Sixteen: Adriana

My heart was hammering in my chest as I thought about how my confession would go.

But Tristan didn’t get home for hours. I heard him stumble in with Kieran in fits of laughter, but it was…odd, weirdly subdued.

I blinked away the remnants of sleep, the sheets a cool contrast to my warm skin, as the sound of clumsy footsteps echoed in the otherwise silent room. The digital clock on the nightstand read 2 a.m., its red glow a solitary beacon in the darkness of the Boston townhouse safehouse. I propped myself up on one elbow, squinting through the dimness as Tristan’s broad silhouette staggered through the doorway. His attempt at removing his jeans were almost funny, his movements as out of sync as the off-key whistling that accompanied them.

“Tristan?” I called out softly, my voice laced with concern as he wobbled, one leg trapped in denim. “You’re home late.”

He grunted an incoherent response, finally freeing himself from his jeans and slumping against the doorframe. I swung my legs out from under the covers, the chill of the room raising goosebumps along my thighs. Clad only in a black top and panties, I approached him, taking in the disheveled t-shirt that hung loosely over his muscular frame.

I held back laughter. “I have never seen you this drunk.”

I thought he would laugh too, but he waved me off. That worried me. He was always in control—his demeanor as unyielding as the empire he stood to inherit. But tonight, something was different.

“Ah, Ade, it’s nothing,” he mumbled, his blue eyes unfocused as they met mine—a sharp contrast to their usual piercing clarity. “Just another night.”

I reached out, my hand hesitating before resting gently on his arm. “It’s not ‘just another night’ if you’re stumbling in like this. Talk to me, Tristan.”

But he only shook his head, brushing past me toward the bed, the scent of whiskey heavy on his breath. I watched him, my heart aching at the sight of this man who held so much power, yet seemed so vulnerable in this moment.

He didn’t lie down. I was sitting on the bed when he approached me.

“Let’s not talk about tonight,” Tristan said, his voice slurred but insistent. He caught me by my waist, pulling me close. His breath was warm against my neck as he kissed my skin, hands wandering over my chest. “I just want to forget it all.”

And it would have been so easy to go with it. He always knew exactly what he did to me, and this…I wanted this. But more than that, I wanted–I needed–to make sure that he was okay.

“Tristan, stop.” I scooted back, placing a hand on his chest. “We need to talk.”

“Talk?” He laughed, a short, bitter sound. “We can talk while I’m inside you.”

I scowled, my frustration bubbling up inside me. These were serious issues that needed to be addressed, not brushed aside with a flippant gesture. But as usual, Tristan opted for the easy way out - using physical pleasure as a band-aid for his problems. It was all too predictable. It would have probably been exhausting if I didn’t want to give into it just as much as he did.

“My father, what I did tonight, there’s so much we need to address,” I persisted, trying to steer the conversation back to what mattered.

“I would rather not talk about your father while we’re having sex. Wait, are you into that?”

“Tristan,” I snapped, my voice coming out sharper than I intended. The fire in his eyes grew hotter, but I didn’t step back, I couldn’t. “This is serious.”

“So am I,” the charm in his tone was gone, replaced with a commanding edge as he grasped my shoulders and guided me back toward the bed, sitting me down firmly. “Right now, I need this. I need you.”

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