Page 67 of False Heir

Tristan’s jaw clenched visibly, a muscle ticking away as he raked a hand through his short-cropped hair. I caught the subtle shift in his stance; broad shoulders set more rigidly, a fortress wall against whatever siege Dr. Davies was laying.

“How do you know about that?” Tristan asked, the words like gravel tumbling from his lips.

“Tristan,” the older man said with a sigh, “criminal families in Boston have always been patriarchal, most are catholic. It’s not a secret.”

He paused, studying Tristan as if he were an interesting specimen pinned under glass. “How are you finding settling into the role?”

I noticed the tightening of Tristan’s fists at his sides, knuckles whitening as though they were the only things keeping him tethered to reason. Shaking off Dr. Davies’ inquiry felt like watching someone teeter on a high wire, one misstep away from a fall.

“Fine,” he grunted, the word anything but what it meant. I inched closer, my own body tensing as if preparing to catch him. Tristan was a fuse inching toward ignition, and the good doctor seemed blissfully unaware that he was playing with matches.

“Fine,” Tristan repeated, more forcefully this time, his voice a low rumble that reverberated in the quiet of the townhouse’s secluded courtyard. “I’m doing what needs to be done.”

Dr. Davies nodded slowly, as if digesting Tristan’s words, his fingers tapping a silent rhythm on the desk. “Your father, Malachy Callahan,” he prompted, shifting gears with the ease of someone well-versed in navigating treacherous waters, “what did he tell you of your family’s past?”

The question seemed to strike a chord in Tristan, and for a moment, I saw a flicker of vulnerability cross his face before it was quickly masked by the stoic façade he always wore with strangers. He took a sip and emptied his whiskey glass, the ice clinking against the sides, a signal of the discomfort he rarely showed.

“Stories,” he started, voice rough like sandpaper. “Bits and pieces about a man who fashioned an empire with his bare hands—through bloodshed and sheer willpower.” His jaw clenched, then released, as if he were grappling with each memory before giving it voice.

“Malachy Callahan was many things, but a saint wasn’t one of them,” Tristan continued, his gaze distant. “He taught me that power is taken, held, and sometimes... sometimes, it demands sacrifices that stain your soul.”

Dr. Davies reached over, pouring another generous helping of whiskey into Tristan’s glass with a thoughtful nod, as if acknowledging the weight of the legacy being unfurled.

“Indeed,” Dr. Davies murmured, his voice a soft echo in the waning light. “Empires aren’t built by the timid.”

I shifted, the leather of the chair beneath me creaking as a hush settled over us like a shroud. The room felt smaller, the walls lined with history that whispered secrets and spilled blood.

“Know what’s funny?” I said, breaking the silence with my attempt at levity. “Catherine Callahan probably would’ve made a better king than Malachy. At least she had the brains for it.”

Tristan’s gaze snapped to me.

Dr. Davies chuckled softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Ah, Tristan, she’s right. Your mother was indeed a formidable woman.” He steepled his fingers, a thoughtful smile playing on his lips. “And I don’t disagree with her pedigree.”

“Wait, what does that mean?” Tristan asked, turning to face him.

“Her lineage,” Dr. Davies continued, his gaze drifting to an ancient bookshelf, “was not to be taken lightly.”

He rose from his seat, his movements deliberate as he reached for a dusty tome nestled among its brethren. The leather cover was worn smooth, the spine cracked with age. As he returned to his chair, he laid the book gently on the table between us.

“History is often more tangled than we can imagine,” he said, his voice thick with historical weight as he opened the cover. “Catherine O’Connell.”

The name reverberated through the room, hanging in the air like a ghost summoned from the past. My eyes flicked to Tristan, who seemed to steel himself against the tide of revelations threatening to crash down upon us.

“Catherine O’Connell,” Dr. Davies repeated, tracing a finger over the faded script on the page. “A name etched into the very foundation of Boston’s power struggles.”

Tristan nodded, silent, his expression unreadable. “I didn’t know any of this about her.”

Dr. Davies smiled. “Sounds like she was as private as people said.”

“I mean, I guess?” Tristan asked. “I am her son, so…”

When he trailed off, Dr. Davies continued.

“Your mother,” he said, peering over his glasses at Tristan with the kind of look that usually precedes the fall of empires, “was not just born into wealth. She was mafia royalty, through and through.”

I watched Tristan closely, his jaw tensed, as if the words had physically struck him. It was the kind of blow that reshapes a man’s world, the kind he’d need time to recover from.

“Royalty?” Tristan echoed, his voice barely above a whisper, disbelief etching every syllable.

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