Page 86 of False Heir

“Okay, so…”

“Actually, scratch that,” I said abruptly, the unease in my gut turning into a solid knot of conviction as I turned around and leaned against the countertop. “The rooftop won’t work. Too open, too exposed.”

Kieran’s brows knitted together, a silent question forming.

“Think about it,” I pressed on, the sense of urgency thick in my voice. “Open air means multiple access points, not just the stairs or elevator. And what if there’s a chopper? No, we need something more...contained. Something with one way in, one way out.”

“Like a labyrinth,” Kieran mused, tapping a finger against his lips—a sign he was deep in thought.

“Exactly,” I said, snapping my fingers as an idea struck me like lightning. “The catacombs at Granary Burying Ground. They’re old, they’re creepy, and nobody goes down there without a damn good reason.”

“Or a death wish,” Kieran quipped with a wry twist of his mouth. “But you’re right. It’s perfect. The dead don’t talk, and the living won’t dare to listen.”

“Set it up,” I said with a decisive nod, already feeling the weight of our choices settling on my shoulders. This meeting wasn’t just necessary; it was life or death for the Callahan Domain.

And for my children.

And my future wife.

“Will do,” Kieran replied, pulling out his phone to start making arrangements. His fingers paused over the screen, and he shot me a wary glance. “What about Liam?”

“Keep him out of it.” My words were clipped, final. Protecting Liam from this world had become my singular focus, a mission I couldn’t afford to fail. “He doesn’t need to be involved in this mess.”

“Tristan, he’s not going to like being left in the dark,” Kieran warned, but I could see in his eyes that he understood the necessity behind the command.

“Better in the dark than six feet under it,” I countered, my tone brooking no argument. “We do this for him, not despite him. Remember that.”

“Alright,” Kieran conceded, though the worry didn’t leave his eyes. He knew the stakes just as well as I did. “I’ll make sure he’s busy with other tasks. Far away from the catacombs.”

“Good.” A grim satisfaction settled in my chest. “Now let’s get to work. The sooner we have this meeting, the sooner we can end this bloodshed.”

Kieran nodded, and together we started our grim task, dialing numbers and rallying our forces with the hope that, by the end of this, we’d still have something left worth protecting.

“Are you sure about this decision?” Kieran’s voice cut through the silence that had settled in my apartment, a concerned edge lacing his words. He was leaning against the kitchen counter, phone in hand, but his gaze was fixed on me, searching for reassurance.

I could feel the weight of his question hanging in the air between us, heavy with unspoken fears. I straightened my shoulders, meeting his stare head-on. “Yes,” I said firmly. The certainty in my voice surprised even me. “It’s a risk, but it’s one we need to take.”

Kieran scrutinized me for a moment longer, as if assessing whether my confidence was genuine or just another facade to keep the chaos at bay. Finally, he nodded, accepting my resolve.

“Alright,” he replied, his voice steady, but I could see the tension in the set of his jaw. “Then let’s get it done.”

We returned to the task at hand, our phones pressed to our ears, our voices low and resolute as we coordinated with the trusted few who would stand with us. With every call, the plan took shape, a silent promise to protect what was ours, whatever the cost.

I tapped the screen of my phone, ending one call and initiating another with practiced ease. I didn’t have to glance at Kieran to know he was doing the same; we were a synchronized force when it came to matters of the family. Our network was vast, but only a select few held our complete trust—those were the calls we were making now.

“Rory, it’s Tristan,” I spoke into the receiver, my voice a low hum that filled the quiet of Kieran’s apartment. “We need you at the moot. Next week. No details over the phone, just be there.”

The replies were variations on a theme: immediate agreement, unwavering loyalty. These were the men and women who understood what was at stake, the ones who’d bleed for the Callahan Legacy without a second thought.

“Time’s not on our side,” I reminded Rory, the urgency clear in my tone. The words felt like a heavy weight in my chest, pressing down with the reality of our situation. We couldn’t afford hesitation or mistakes; lives depended on the swiftness of our actions.

“Understood,” came the reply, serious and to the point. Rory knew better than to ask questions now. When a Callahan said jump, you didn’t just ask how high—you were already in midair.

“Thanks.” I hung up and immediately dialed the next number, working through the list with a focus that left no room for doubt. There was a rhythm to it, the back-and-forth of confirmations and assurances, a cadence that propelled us toward an outcome we could only hope to control.

From across the kitchen island, Kieran met my gaze, his expression mirroring the resolve etched into my own features. This was family, blood calling to blood, and nothing would stand between us and the safety of our own.

“Everyone’s in,” Kieran said, as he ended his last call. His voice was a steady beat in the chorus of our preparations.

---