Page 80 of False Heir

“Come on,” I murmured, opening the door and reaching in to help Kieran out. He leaned heavily against me, his body a dead weight, but not dead enough to suppress the familiar pang of concern that tightened my chest.

We staggered up the stairs, the old wood creaking under our combined weight. At the top, I propped Kieran against the wall, fishing in his pockets for his keys. They jangled mockingly as I struggled to isolate the right one—like they knew time was slipping through my fingers while I fumbled.

“Got it,” I finally announced more to myself than Kieran, whose head had lolled forward, chin resting on his chest. The lock clicked open, and we stumbled into the dark apartment. My hand found the switch, and a soft glow filled the room, casting long shadows across the floor.

“Here.” I guided Kieran to the couch, his movements sluggish, like he was fighting through molasses. “Rest.”

He collapsed onto the cushion, a ghost of a nod indicating he’d heard me. I stood there for a moment, watching over him, the quietness of the apartment wrapping around us like a shared secret. I’d get the answers tomorrow; tonight, I’d let the silence speak.

Kneeling down, I gently pried Kieran’s shoes off one at a time, the leather sliding over his heels with a soft shuffle. Setting them aside, I noticed how scuffed they were—battle scars from the night or from life, it was hard to tell.

“Always lookin’ out for me,” he mumbled again, his voice slurred and distant.

“Aye, what else would I do?” I replied, my hands moving to grab a blanket draped over the back of an armchair. It was a familiar routine, one that didn’t require thanks or recognition. I spread the blanket over him, tucking it around his sides with more care than I’d admit aloud.

I watched his chest rise and fall, slow and steady, a silent confirmation that the chaos of the night hadn’t followed us here. In his sleep, Kieran’s face seemed younger, stripped of the burdens that came with being a Callahan.

His lips parted, a breath of words escaping as he slipped further into sleep’s grasp. “No matter what, you’re always my brother, Tristan.”

My blood ran cold. “The fuck does that mean?”

But Kieran rolled over to his side, and he clearly wasn’t in the mood to have a conversation.

I turned off the lights, leaving only the faint glow from the streetlights outside to illuminate the room. Settling into the settee across from him, I closed my eyes.

The air in the room was still, laced with the scent of leather and Kieran’s cologne—a constant reminder of who we were, of the legacy that bound us.

I tried to make sense of his actions, the danger he’d danced with that could’ve cost us everything. What the fuck was Kieran thinking? The question carved itself into my thoughts, echoing around the cavernous space of uncertainty between us.

But as the night deepened, the edges of my consciousness began to blur, my mental grip on the day’s events loosening. Sleep came, and I couldn’t resist, but my last thought before it claimed me was that I definitely needed to talk to him.

I had to find answers…because I knew answers would keep both of us alive.

Chapter Thirty-Four: Adriana

I was still steeling myself to go inside when I heard my sister’s voice.

“Can’t believe you swiped Dad’s baby,” Carmen’s voice broke through my thoughts as she sauntered over, her red hair a fiery contrast against the melting Boston snow. A chuckle escaped her lips, light and carefree. “Bet he’s going to have a fit.”

“Let him try,” I replied with a smirk, even though I knew better than to rile up Silvio Orsini. I stepped out, my boots crunching on the gravel driveway, and straightened my jacket.

Dad was waiting at the front door, his aura one of deceptive calm. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly combed back, and that familiar smile that never quite reached his eyes greeted us. “Enjoy the ride, Adriana?” His voice was smooth, but the hardness behind it was unmistakable.

“Only took it for a couple of joyrides.” I shrugged, trying to match his nonchalance.

Carmen’s laughter rang out again, bright and untamed. But Dad – he didn’t laugh. “That isn’t funny,” he said, and there was a warning in his tone.

“Where’s Mom?” I quickly changed the subject, not wanting to linger on thin ice.

“Alessia’s on a trip with her friends. She drove into the city earlier today,” he answered, gesturing us inside. “I think they’re staying in New York all week.”

“That sounds nice,” Carmen said.

“It does,” I replied, then mouthed a thank you at Carmen. She had to know Mom wouldn’t be here, she wouldn’t have planned this otherwise.

“Well, you know how much your mother enjoys her trips,” Dad said. “Come, breakfast is ready.”

We followed him into the dining room, where the table was set with fine china and crystal glasses, the smell of fresh espresso mingling with the scent of baked pastries. It felt like any other morning in the Orsini household, if only you ignored the undercurrent of unease.

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