Page 7 of False Heir

If Sean was afraid, it had to be for good reason.

The Crooked Thorn wasn’t just any pub; it was a Callahan stronghold. My stronghold now that Malachy was dead. I couldn’t sit back, not when every minute counted. Yet, here I was, in a situation where leaving hurriedly would raise more than an eyebrow. Silvio didn’t miss much, and with Adriana carrying our twins, I couldn’t risk it.

I ended the call and subtly glanced over at Silvio, who was still lingering in the hallway outside the living room as he sent a message on his phone. He was all sophistication and killer intent wrapped up in an expensive suit, I assumed texting with his capos. His sharp eyes flicked toward me for a moment—calculating, considering—before returning to his conversation.

Adriana needed to know what was happening. She was smart, sharper than her father’s best blade, and if anyone could cover for me while I slipped away to deal with this mess, it was her. Silvio needed to send his men away, but I definitely didn’t feel confident just leaving her here with him.

Not until I saw him do what he promised…and things at the pub were urgent.

Fuck. I needed to get her involved, but involving her meant pulling her into the fray, something I’d sworn to protect her from.

“‘Scuse me,” I said, going past him in the large hallway. I maneuvered through the room, my movements deliberate but casual, trying to mask the pain that flared with each step. I needed to play this right—if Silvio suspected anything amiss, it wouldn’t just be my life on the line. There was no reason for him to honor our agreement except his interest in his daughters and grandkids.

I heard a knock on the double doors that led to the back of the winding hallway and saw a barely clothed Adriana standing there. She must’ve been freezing. I opened it while Silvio occupied himself with whatever phone call he had just received.

“Tristan?” she asked.

“Hey,” I said, forcing a smile as I looked down into her concerned eyes. She noticed the blood then, her gaze sharpening.

“Your shirt...” she started, her voice laced with worry.

“Let’s take a walk for a second,” I suggested, nodding toward the back garden. Once we were out of earshot, I filled her in on the situation, the urgency clear in my voice. “Can you handle your father? You’re surrounded by my men and he wouldn’t dare touch you. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t urgent.”

“What’s going on?”

“Sean just called me to tell me the Crooked Thorn is under siege,” I said, running a hand through my hair. I’d barely noticed, but my palm was covered in blood, and I’d gotten it on my face when I did that. “He needs me and the boys there.”

“You think my dad did this?” she asked, her voice shaky.

I thought for a second. “If he did, he’s a really good actor. He seems to be dealing with a crisis of his own.”

“What kind of crisis?”

“Ade, I don’t know,” I said, looking back at the house. “Listen, the pub—“

“Of course,” she replied without hesitation, her eyes fierce and determined. “Go. Take care of yourself and The Crooked Thorn. I’ll manage things here.”

“You’ll be okay?”

“Yes,” she said. “But promise me you’ll seek medical attention before you do anything?”

“Do I have to?” I asked, grimacing.

“How are you going to deal with anything related to the pub if you’re dead?”

That was an excellent point. I nodded. “Okay. I promise,” I said. “You’ll be okay?”

“Yes. I promise.”

With a quick, reassuring squeeze of her hand, I left her side, trusting her to navigate the treacherous waters of her father’s suspicion. Every fiber of my being screamed to stay and protect her, but I knew she was capable—more than capable.

Slipping out of sight, I made my way to the estate’s periphery, where the shadows offered concealment. It was time to get patched up and retake control of my territory. For Adriana, for our family, for the Callahans.

I slipped behind the wheel of my car, the leather seat cold against my skin. The ignition roared to life, a familiar comfort amidst the chaos. I drove with one hand on the wheel, the other pressing against my side where the bandage was already soaking through. Every bump in the road sent jolts of pain up my spine, but I gritted my teeth and focused on the road.

“Keep it together, Tristan,” I murmured to myself. “Just get to the clinic.”

The night air was sharp as I stepped out of the car at one of Dr. Hawthorne’s clinics, the one she kept in Boston.

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