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Tristan put his gun away. “Dad?”
Kieran looked like he was about to crumble. “No,” he said.
“Fuck.”
I squeezed Tristan’s hand. “I’m sorry.”
“We can worry about it later,” he said. “But, uh, don’t take us to a safe house. I think it’s time to go home.”
Kieran looked at Tristan, confusion clear on his face. “You sure?”
Tristan’s eyes met mine, the decision in them resolute. “Yeah,” he said, helping me to my feet. “We aren’t running anymore. And if Dad is dead…”
“Then his heir has to be there,” I finished for him.
“You make it sound so medieval,” Tristan flashed me a sad smile.
“Yeah, that’s because it is.”
“Yeah,” Tristan replied, his voice was a hollow echo of its usual self. “Guess it is.”
Kieran nodded, a grim expression etching itself into his features. “Let’s go then,” he said, motioning for us to hop into the car. With Tristan’s help, I climbed into the backseat.
Kieran revved the engine and gunned it down the road. I noticed his knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his face was set in a grim line. For the next several minutes, no one spoke a word.
“I’m sorry about your father,” I said.
“Don’t be,” Kieran said. “Better than old age.”
“I mean, is it?”
“No,” Kieran admitted after a pause, his voice cracking slightly. “But it’s the life we chose.”
“Life he chose,” Tristan corrected from beside me, his gaze glued to the passing trees.
“Right,” Kieran agreed, sounding tired.
I leaned my head on Tristan’s shoulder. “So what happens when we go home? You go back to the Crooked Thorn?”
Tristan nodded. “Yes. But first, I stop by your dad’s house,” he said.
I pulled away from him, cocking an eyebrow. “What? Why?”
He flashed me a half-smile. “I think it’s well past time I ask for your hand.”
Chapter Thirty: Tristan
We were home. But it didn’t feel like a victory. I insisted on having Adriana stay with me, at least for now, and she didn’t seem to mind.
The next few days swirled in a blur of grief and paperwork, of late nights drowned in whiskey and early mornings filled with hard decisions. Being the eldest Callahan, it fell onto my shoulders to handle all the gruesome details that came with burying a man like Malachy Callahan.
After what seemed like an eternity, the day of the funeral came. I found myself standing in front of hundreds of people, all dressed in their somber black best, come to pay their respects to the fallen mafia kingpin. I could see familiar faces among them, people who had laughed and cried with my father, people he had trusted and betrayed. Kieran and Liam helped me cover the mirrors in our childhood home with thick black blankets, a somber tradition to ward off bad spirits. We oversaw the funeral preparations, ensuring everything was to my father’s exacting standards.
Adriana had been my rock during this time, her presence a comfort amidst the storm. I didn’t think she was grieving, exactly, but this sent the Rossis a message. The Orsinis and the Callahans were going to stick together.
Her parents and sister were there, too, though I hardly talked to them.
We buried my father at sunset, and as we threw the first fistfuls of dirt onto his coffin, I felt a wave of exhaustion wash over me. My body was running on fumes, my mind numb with grief.
