Page 92 of False Heir

“Let’s just hope everything he touches doesn’t turn to blood,” I said softly, setting down the diet coke. “What about them?”

“Ah, there they are,” Kieran said, following my gaze toward the other side of the room where two figures stood, exuding an air of relaxed authority.

“Friends from Florida—the cousins,” he explained, nodding toward Teo Costa and Bash Rivera. Teo’s dark eyes surveyed the room with a cunning that belied his casual stance, while Bash’s laughter rang out, cutting through the tension like a knife through silk.

“Are they trustworthy?” I asked, eyeing the pair as they exchanged greetings with other leaders.

“Who the fuck knows, Ade?” he replied. “But you know the reason Tristan called this and we didn’t just stay local.”

“Right,” I said. I did know why; the business was hard and tricky, harder to keep secure when it was just local. Sure, we might have been in the crosshairs of the FBI, but any police department had a hard time following us if we worked together. The network was vast, and the unrest in Boston was making it difficult for the Callahans to keep up their end of the bargain; launder money for the gangs that needed money to be laundered, running drugs to and from New York City.

Things were getting worse, and that was why what felt like every single gang leader in America had come to this meeting.

Kieran paled. I glanced over, following his gaze to where a solitary figure hovered at the edge of the gathering. I saw a man that looked vaguely familiar and also like I had never seen him before in my life.

“Maybe that’s the scariest man in the room,” I joked.

Kieran shook his head. “That’s Bellamy Callahan,” he said.

“Wait, that’s your uncle?”

“Tristan should know,” Kieran suggested, already on edge.

“Let’s not stir the pot,” I said, keeping my voice low as I shot a glance at Tristan. “He’s got enough on his plate.”

“Understood,” Kieran replied, though his eyes darted back to Bellamy, gauging the potential threat.

“Come on,” I said, tugging gently on Tristan’s sleeve. “Let’s find our seats. The less attention we give Bellamy, the better.”

Tristan followed my lead, but I caught the slight stiffening of his body as he clocked Bellamy’s presence. There was no love lost between them, and Bellamy’s arrival was a complication we didn’t need. But right now, it was about maintaining composure, about showing unity in the face of whatever game Bellamy thought he was playing.

“Let’s focus,” I whispered to Tristan, and he nodded.

“Alright, let’s get down to it,” Tristan announced, his voice steady as he addressed the room from where he stood at the head of the long table, once the room had quieted down. “I called you all here today for one reason: to ensure that we stay safe in Boston. If we’re not safe in Boston, our opps can’t continue, and I know it’s an important trade spot for all of you or you wouldn’t be here. My family cares about yours. We’re concerned, so we need to figure out a way to make this work.”

There was a collective nod among those gathered, a silent agreement to the gravity of his words. But the moment was shattered by the slow clap that echoed through the room. Bellamy had decided it was his time to take the stage.

The room held its breath as Bellamy advanced, his every step measured and assured. I felt Tristan tense beside me, his hand balling into a fist beneath the table.

“Did you really think you could keep this charade going forever?” Bellamy’s voice was smooth, almost hypnotic in its malice, his accent thick. He sounded so much like Malachy Callahan, it sent a shiver down my spine. “That you could sit at the helm of the Callahan Legacy without acknowledging the truth?”

“Get to the point, Bellamy,” Tristan’s voice cut through the thickening atmosphere, his tone sharp but controlled.

Bellamy’s eyes locked onto Tristan’s, and his next words were delivered with the precision of a knife to the heart. “Your mother,” he began, his voice heavy with insinuation, “was a woman of passion. She was great in bed. Guess my brother knew that too.”

“Jesus Christ,” Kieran said quietly.

The implication hung in the air like a toxic mist. Muffled reactions rippled through the room, but no one dared speak.

“Let me clarify for those still grasping at straws,” Bellamy continued, his voice rising with each syllable. “I am your father, Tristan. Which means the control you so desperately cling to should have been mine from the start.”

My heart raced, and I reached under the table to place my hand over Tristan’s clenched fist. His skin was hot to the touch, his pulse throbbing beneath my fingertips. This revelation, whether it was real or fake, threatened to unravel everything we knew about our lives and the future of the Callahan family.

“Tristan,” I murmured, trying to reach him through the shock that had rendered him statue-still.

He blinked, his gaze snapping to mine, a silent storm brewing in his eyes. “It’s a lie. You’re just…why are you here, Bellamy? It’s a lie and you all know it,” he said, his voice rough with disbelief. He turned to face the family, his back straightening as he sought support from the one person he thought would never waver. “Kieran?”

But Kieran didn’t move. He just sat there, a shadow among us, his silence more damning than any accusation could ever be. Tristan’s hand twitched at his side, the betrayal slicing deeper than any blade.

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