Page 60 of False Heir

There was a pause on the line, long enough for doubt to creep in. Had I overstepped? Pushed too hard, too fast?

“Tristan and the Callahans—none of that,” I rushed to clarify. “Just... Orsinis. That’s all.”

“Is that so?” His voice carried an edge of confusion, as if the very idea of a family meeting sans any Callahan mafia entanglements was foreign to him. Which, frankly, it probably was.

“Yes,” I affirmed, pushing back against the hesitation threatening to choke my resolve. “I think we need it.”

“Alright.” Another pause, then a soft exhale that I imagined ruffled those distinguished salt-and-pepper strands of his. “Alright, Ade. Let’s have a meal, then. Just family.”

“Thank you,” I said, a weight lifting off my shoulders. I ended the call with a click, my fingers trembling slightly from the adrenaline that still coursed through my veins.

“Done,” I announced to Carmen, who had watched the entire exchange with bated breath. Her eyes held a mix of pride and worry—a mirror to my own feelings.

“Hopefully, this is a start,” she murmured, coming over to wrap an arm around my shoulders.

“Yeah,” I said.

And hopefully, he didn’t kill Tristan before we made up. But I couldn’t exactly say that, could I?

Chapter Twenty-Four: Tristan

Even from the door of the restaurant, Liam looked like shit.

The cold Boston winter nipped at my skin as I stepped into the fish and chip shop near the marina, the scent of salt and fried batter a stark reminder of how far we were from the palatial comforts of our usual haunts. Liam was already there, seated in a booth with his jacket tossed carelessly over the seatback. He picked up his head and smiled at us.

“About time, lads,” Liam said, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he grinned broadly. “Thought I was going to have to start eating without you.”

I forced a chuckle, my appetite as absent as the warmth outside.

“You ordered food?” Kieran asked, sliding into the booth.

“You are predictable,” Liam said. “Both of you.”

“Aye, fair enough,” Kieran said.

The plate before me was piled with golden chips and a piece of battered cod, but it might as well have been cardboard for all the interest I could muster.

“Ah, come on now, don’t let it go cold,” Liam chimed in, his voice rich with the casual ease that always seemed to coat his words. I sat down next to him and he nudged me with a playful elbow, his own meal half-devoured. “Alright lad, what’s got you looking like a lovesick puppy who lost its chew toy?”

My eyes met his briefly; I could feel them narrowing despite my efforts to appear unfazed. That damn charm of his could unravel anyone, myself included. But the weight of everything unsaid, everything I had to shoulder, pressed down on me until I felt like I was made of lead.

“Nothing,” I grumbled, picking up a chip and examining it disinterestedly. “Just not hungry, I guess.”

“You’re not hungry? Are you sick? Kieran, is he ill?”

“Leave him be, Liam,” Kieran said, his gaze flickering to mine briefly. “Can’t a man have a moment of peace without being pressed on it?”

“Aye, a man, sure. Not him.”

I rolled my eyes.

Liam raised an eyebrow, skepticism written all over his face, but he didn’t push further. Instead, he took a large bite of his fish, letting the conversation lapse into the easy banter between bites.

“Speaking of love, how’s Ali? That was her name, right? What happened when you left Killian’s?” I asked, looking across the table at Liam. His carefree demeanor faltered, a shadow crossing his face.

“Ali...She’d already left by the time I went back.” He set down his fork, pushing the food around on his plate.

My gut tightened. Liam’s tone, the slump of his shoulders—it all told a story without him uttering another word. “And you went back to the pub after that mess with Killian?” I prodded, needing to understand his reasoning.

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