Page 68 of False Heir

“Indeed.” Dr. Davies nodded solemnly, his eyes reflecting the gravity of his revelations. “Catherine O’Connell was a force to be reckoned with, even within her own family. A sharp mind, a ruthless streak, and the blood of the Irish mob coursing through her veins—she was quite the princess in her day.”

I could see the wheels turning in Tristan’s head, the weight of this new truth settling on his shoulders. Mafia royalty. The term carried a sense of power, of inevitable dominance, but also an undercurrent of danger that couldn’t be ignored. It was something I knew Tristan wrestled with, the allure and the fear of what ran in his blood.

“So my mom was like a mafia princess...” he mused, the word looking like it tasted foreign on his tongue.

“More like a queen, if you ask those who knew her,” Dr. Davies corrected gently. “But before Catherine, the Callahans didn’t rule Boston. The O’Connells did.”

I looked at Tristan as he rubbed his temple.

“Malachy’s move to marry Catherine,” Dr. Davies continued, “was a masterstroke in the game of power. With that union, he didn’t just gain a wife—he sidelined the heir apparent and cemented his own position at the helm of the Callahan family.”

“Usurped” might have been another word for it, but I kept my thoughts to myself. Instead, I watched Tristan grapple with this revision of history, a history he had been born into but never questioned. Until now.

“Are you saying my father was...what, a usurper?” There was a tremor in Tristan’s voice, betraying the quake of his foundations.

“I think he was probably an opportunist,” Dr. Davies said.

Before Tristan could respond, I found my own voice cutting through the tension. “But that’s not all, is it?” I demanded, my gaze fixed on the historian. “There’s more to the story.”

Dr. Davies met my eyes, and I saw respect there—respect for my refusal to be anything less than direct. “Indeed, Adriana. There were rumors of another player in the game, someone who might’ve taken a very different path with Catherine.” He paused, letting the words hang before adding, “Bellamy Callahan.”

“My uncle?” Tristan asked. “No, that can’t be right.”

Dr. Davies nodded, taking a sip of his own drink.

“Sorry. Go on,” Tristan urged, though I could tell every syllable was a stone in his shoe.

“Bellamy wasn’t cut from the same cloth as Malachy,” Dr. Davies explained. “He had no taste for mafia life; his aspirations lay elsewhere. And he genuinely loved Catherine. At least that’s what people say.”

“Rumors,” Tristan muttered, as if trying to reduce them to mere smoke.

“Rumors, yes,” Dr. Davies agreed. “Nothing more than that. But Bellamy went back to Ireland and his brother stayed here, married Catherine. And then you were born, Tristan.”

“Rumors or not,” I interjected, feeling an urge to protect Tristan from the burgeoning storm inside him, “it doesn’t change who you are.”

“Doesn’t it?” he questioned, his blue eyes meeting mine for a brief, haunted moment. Then he turned back to Dr. Davies. “The box you mentioned earlier—“

“Ah, yes,” Dr. Davies interrupted, almost eagerly. “I didn’t ask Kieran to make copies. But I would love to see it again.” His request seemed almost innocuous, but we all knew nothing involving the Callahans ever truly was.

Tristan buried his head in his hands. Instinctively, I put my hand on his back. “Tristan, you okay?”

Tristan shook his head, slightly, almost imperceptibly. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Tristan

So there was a chance Malachy Callahan was not my dad.

I had no idea how that made me feel.

I’d taken Adriana to the safehouse closest to the marina, mostly because returning to where we had been before seemed like a good idea, but in truth, because everything was a blur.

Now, as I was there, I paced the length of the safehouse apartment, each step a testament to the storm brewing inside me. The late afternoon sun spilled through the windows near the marina, casting shadows that seemed to mock my restlessness. I couldn’t sit still, couldn’t quiet the jitters that had every muscle in my body wound tight.

Adriana was there, her expression pinched with worry as she watched me make yet another pass across the room. We were supposed to be safe here, in this nondescript Boston apartment, but safety felt like a joke when your own blood could be the one gunning for you.

Fuck, was Kieran even my blood?

“Tristan?” Her voice cut through my thoughts, but I couldn’t afford the distraction—not even from her.

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