Page 9 of False Heir

“Names, addresses...threats,” he replied grimly.

Anger surged and tangled with the fear in my gut. How dare they? For all our differences and disputes, family was sacrosanct. Crossing that line landed them squarely in uncharted territory.

“Get everyone inside,” I said, finishing my drink in one gulp and slamming the glass down on the counter with more force than necessary. “I need to make some calls.”

Without another word, I turned on my heel and headed for the back office, shutting the door behind me with a decisive thunk. The room was dimly lit, the only light coming from an old desk lamp, casting long shadows that seemed to echo my dark mood.

Leaving the chaos of the main room behind, I retreated to the backroom—the one place where I could think without interruption. The walls here knew secrets, the air heavy with whispered strategies and silent vows.

I sank into the chair behind the desk, a makeshift command center in a world where peace was a myth. Today had been close—too close. The realization that it could’ve been my last wasn’t lost on me. As a leader, a protector, and a father, the weight of my roles constricted around me like a vice.

I wondered if this was how my father felt sitting here, then decided it didn’t matter.

There was no time for self-pity or doubt. My family, my people, depended on me—depended on the facade of strength I wore like armor. With deliberate movements, I cleaned my hands, washing away the blood.

My phone lay on the desk, a lifeline to the one person who saw through the mask—the contradiction in my world. I tapped out a message to Adriana, each word heavy with unspoken promises. “Handled. Safe. Love you.” The digital words were a poor substitute for what I wanted to give her—security, normalcy, a life untouched by violence—but they were all I had at that moment.

I stood, ready to survey the damage outside, when a sharp pain shot through my foot. A shard of glass, a remnant of a broken window—one I hadn’t noticed in my preoccupation—pierced through the sole of my shoe. Cursing under my breath, I plucked it out, the sting a reminder that nothing was truly handled. The Rossis had breached the walls of the Callahan estate, and our enemies were multiplying, becoming more daring.

With a deep exhale, I steeled myself for the battles to come. Adriana’s face flashed in my mind—her strength, her resilience. For her, for all of us, I would fortify these walls, sharpen our defenses, and prepare for war. Because now I was certain—we had more enemies than we thought.

And I would stop at nothing to protect what was ours.

Even if it meant giving my own life for them.

Chapter Five: Adriana

Tristan was hurt…again.

The air in the Callahan estate felt like a vice around my chest, each breath reminding me of Tristan’s absence and the thick tension that lingered like smoke after a fire.

And now I sat across from my father as if his actions hadn’t almost killed the father of my unborn children.

And there he was; Silvio Orsini himself, in an opulent room that suddenly seemed more like a beautiful cage than a home. We’d moved back into the living room, and he sat here like this place was his fucking own.

The light from the chandelier above us cast long shadows across his face, making him appear more like a statue than my father.

“Ade…”

“Save it,” I said, my hand on my bump. “Did you always know Diamond would end up dead?” I asked, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me.

He shrugged, a casual gesture that didn’t feel like it fit at all with the weight of the topic. “That wasn’t the plan, Adriana. But let’s be honest, it’s hardly a loss.” He paused, his eyes softening just a fraction. “I never wanted you or Carmen to get hurt.”

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, a black shirt clinging to my skin and leggings hugging my legs like a second skin. I should have been angry, furious even, but anger was a luxury I couldn’t afford—not when I had so much at stake. If my dad thought he was losing me again, he might drug and kidnap me once more and I didn’t want to deal with that.

“I’m so thirsty. Can I drink your water?” I asked, a deliberate attempt to steer the conversation into safer waters, to probe the depths of his mood and intentions without diving headfirst into dangerous currents.

“Sure,” he replied, sliding the clear bottle across the polished wood table between us. His answers were short, deflective, as if he was holding back a tide of secrets with every word he didn’t say.

I leaned back, trying to read the lines etched in his face, searching for a hint of the father I knew beneath the layers of the mafia kingpin he was. Of course, I had always known this; I knew who my father was, I did his fucking books.

He was a fucking brutal man.

I knew that.

And yet…he had always been a good father to me, a kind man. My brain couldn’t come to grips with the odd contradiction. There was something different about him tonight, a guardedness that set off alarm bells in my head. The nagging suspicion that had been gnawing at my gut tightened its grip.

“Everything alright, Daddy?” I ventured, watching him closely.

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