Page 95 of False Heir

“Kieran! Why the hell haven’t you pulled the trigger yet?” Ronan burst through from the parking lot,, his voice slicing through the early evening calm with the sharpness of broken glass. His face twisted in desperation and fury, he stalked toward us, his every step echoing betrayal.

“Tristan, you have to believe me,” Kieran’s voice held an edge of urgency as he addressed me without taking his eyes off Ronan. “There’s more at stake here than—“

“Shut up!” Ronan bellowed, his hand twitching towards the gun holstered at his side.

My heart slammed against my ribs. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Memories crashed over me like a relentless tide—my father Malachy’s cold, ruthless hands; my mother Catherine’s lifeless eyes staring up at the ceiling of our grandiose family home; whispers and doubts about whether the blood that ran through Kieran’s veins was the same as mine.

“Kieran, please,” I pleaded, my voice barely above a whisper. The vulnerability I despised bled through, raw and unguarded. “Don’t do this.”

Time slowed, seconds stretching into eternity. Kieran’s expression remained unreadable—a mask carved from years of navigating the treacherous underworld we were born into. Then, in a move so swift it blurred before my eyes, Kieran pivoted, his arm extending in one fluid motion.

The gunshot rang out, a solitary crack that broke the silence and echoed down the empty streets of Boston. My ears rang. I flinched, expecting pain, expecting darkness. But when I opened my eyes, Ronan was the one collapsing to the ground, a red bloom spreading across his forehead.

“Run,” Kieran breathed, his gaze snapping back to me. In his eyes, I saw not malice but an intense resolve.

I fully intended to do that. But then my legs gave out, the strength I’d been clinging to evaporating like mist in the morning sun. Kieran caught me before I hit the ground, his arms steadying my broad frame as though it weighed nothing.

“Tristan, come on,” he grunted, and with an effort that betrayed his lean build, he half-dragged, half-carried me to the waiting car. Each movement was agony.

“Get him out of here, Adriana,” Kieran said, his voice cutting through the haze in my mind. “Now.”

“Wait, what about you?” I asked.

Kieran shook his head. “Don’t worry about me. Just get as far from all this shit as you can.”

Adriana was there then, her dark hair whipping around her face as she moved to take my weight from Kieran. Her hands, usually so steady, trembled as they worked to ease me into the passenger seat.

“Talk to me, Tristan,” she implored, buckling the seatbelt over me with shaking fingers. “Stay with me.”

“Adriana,” I murmured, struggling to focus on her face. The world was tilting on its axis, and all I could think of was her and the twins she carried—our future, so fragile in this moment.

“Drive. Please.” My voice was a hoarse whisper, the words laced with more fear than I cared to admit. I couldn’t afford to lose her; not her, not our babies, not now.

She nodded, her eyes—a deep well of resolve—locking onto mine for a heartbeat before she slipped into the driver’s seat. The engine roared to life, and we peeled away from the curb, leaving behind the catacombs of Boston and the life I knew.

“Keep talking, Tristan,” she said again, her voice steady despite the clear panic I saw dancing in her gaze. It was her strength, her unwavering determination, that kept the darkness at bay, that whispered promises of safety and love even as my world went black.

The city lights blurred into streaks as we raced away from everything I had ever known. “I thought Kieran would...you know.” I couldn’t finish the sentence, the admission lodging like a bullet in my throat. My own brother, whose loyalty I’d questioned, might have been my silent guardian after all.

“Kieran?” she prompted gently, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror before settling on the road ahead.

“Maybe he’s been protecting me. It’s hard to believe, but—“ A shudder ran through me. “I’ve been wrong about him.”

“Tristan, this changes nothing.” She reached over, her hand finding mine, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “We’re in this together. You’re safe with me.”

“Adriana, your hand is shaking.” I squeezed back, trying to pour whatever strength I had left into her.

“Focus on us, okay?” She gave me a weak smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “We need to get you some help. A hospital—“

“No hospitals.” The words came out firmer than I felt. “They’ll be watching. We can’t risk it.”

“Okay, no hospitals,” she acquiesced, though her brow furrowed with worry. “We’ll figure something out. Just rest for now.”

Rest. As if such a thing were possible when every nerve ending screamed in protest, and the future was a gaping abyss that threatened to swallow us whole.

“Delaware,” I murmured, my voice a husky whisper as I fought against the pain. “We should’ve stayed in Delaware.”

“Tristan, you need help now.” Adriana’s tone was laced with urgency, her grip on the steering wheel white-knuckled.

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