Page 57 of False Heir

“Fine,” she huffed, focusing on navigating the streets. The city gave way to quieter neighborhoods as we approached her home.

Her house appeared, a beacon of normalcy in my tumultuous world. I stepped out of the car, my boots crunching on the snow-dusted path. Relief flooded me as I walked toward the door, the warmth from inside seeming to reach out and pull me away from the cold reality of my life.

Carmen’s place was always welcoming, but today it felt like sanctuary. As the door closed behind us, shutting out the biting cold, something in me unclenched. This was more than a reprieve; it was a chance to breathe, even if just for a moment.

Carmen flicked on the kettle before motioning me toward the living room. “Make yourself comfortable,” she said, her voice a soft command that brooked no argument. I sank into the plush couch, its cushions hugging my form as if they were molded just for me.

“Tea will be ready in a minute.” She disappeared into the kitchen, leaving me surrounded by the quiet hum of her home. The walls were lined with photographs capturing laughter and love, the shelves filled with books that spoke of curiosity and an unquenchable thirst for knowledge.

I noticed she’d taken all of the pictures with her ex-boyfriend down. I hadn’t been around hers for a bit.

Carmen returned with a steaming mug of tea. She handed it to me, the porcelain warm against my palms. She settled beside me, close enough to offer comfort without crowding my space.

“Talk to me when you’re ready,” she said, picking up her own mug. Her gaze never wavered, patient yet piercing in their silent support.

I took a sip, letting the heat seep into my bones, chasing away the lingering frost from outside. “It’s hard, Carm,” I began, the words tumbling out. “Tristan and this life—it’s suffocating sometimes.”

She reached over, her fingers brushing mine—a tether in the whirlwind that was my life. “This world we’re born into, it can be a prison. But Ade, you’ve always been good at finding a way out. Remember that.”

“I mean, I’ve always been good at burying my head in the sand,” I said. “But I can’t exactly do that when the babies get here, can I?”

Carmen took a sip of her own tea. “I don’t know, babe,” she said. “Mom did it, and look at us. We’re perfectly normal.”

I almost choked on my tea. “Carm! The tea is hot!”

“No, but seriously,” she said. “It’s all the same, isn’t it? Find a way out, bury your head in the sand–what difference does it make as long as you keep the children safe and alive?”

Chapter Twenty-Three: Adriana

I wanted to tell her that I wanted more for my children.

But I didn’t say anything. I took a sip of my tea, looking around the room.

As the sunlight bathed Carmen’s living room in a soft glow, I found a brief haven from the storm of my life. I curled up on her plush couch, letting the warmth seep into my bones, a sharp contrast to the chill that had settled in my heart. It was then, in this rare moment of peace, that my gaze caught on something out of place—a withered flower pot where vibrant blooms should have been, and beyond the glass, a newspaper dancing a lonely waltz on the porch.

I opened my mouth to ask her about it when I found her staring at me. “I thought you were so excited for the wedding.”

“I am excited,” I said.

“But…”

“Tristan...he’s so scared of turning into Malachy, it’s like he’s preemptively sabotaging himself.” My chest tightened at the thought. “He’s nothing like his father, I don’t think, but the fear—it’s making him act out, lash out, in ways I can’t predict.”

Carmen listened, her eyes never leaving mine, her silence an invitation for me to unburden my soul. She didn’t interrupt, didn’t judge; she just waited, understanding that sometimes the best support was simply to be there, to listen.

And as I talked, as I laid bare the raw edges of my relationship with Tristan, I felt a flicker of hope. Maybe in this beautiful, flawed sanctuary, with my sister by my side, I could find the strength to face whatever came next.

“Fuck, man. It sounds like a lot.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Remember when we used to sneak out to the vineyard when we went to California?” Carmen’s question cut through the remnants of my confession, her voice laced with mischief. She was pulling me back from the edge, as she always did.

I chuckled, a genuine burst of amusement escaping despite the shadow in my heart. “And you dared me to eat a bunch of sour grapes, claiming they were a rare delicacy?”

“The face you made!” Carmen threw her head back, laughter spilling from her like a melody. The sound was infectious, and for a moment, our childhood escapades eclipsed the looming threats of mafia entanglements.

“Or that summer you convinced me the garden statues came to life at night,” I added, the corners of my mouth lifting in spite of myself. “I spent weeks on ghost patrol.”

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