30. Chapter Thirty Tristan
Bellamy didn’t kill us.
He stayed quiet. He pretended we were friends.
He took the DNA test news–there was no need to fake anything, I was 99.99% Malachy Callahan’s son, just like Kieran–relatively well.
He welcomed me back. He tried to get close to the twins.
He swore he would get the person who had hurt me back. But we were just waiting for the other shoe to drop, but we were biding our time. The wedding was coming and we had agreed that the best way to protect ourselves, and each other, was to be as public as possible.
If the Callahan twins were dear to people in our community, they were less likely to grab them for Bellamy, even if they didn’t particularly like me or Adriana.
And getting closer to the Orsinis had been a good idea. It had happened naturally since Alessia and Silvio loved the twins, but it also sent a message: the deal my father had worked for was still going through, and the Callahan-Orsini family was going to rule over Boston.
For a brief moment, silence hung over the Orsini mansion's dining room like a thick winter fog, despite the clatter of silverware and the occasional murmur of conversation. I scanned the table, my crutches propped against my chair—a reminder of progress, of not needing wheels to move through the world anymore.
"They’re so cute. I can’t believe they're almost crawling now," Carmen mentioned, breaking into my thoughts with a tender note in her voice that seemed to soften the edges of the tension around us.
"Changed so much in just a few months," Adriana added, her eyes lighting up for a moment before returning to their usual guarded state. It was a brief respite in the undercurrent of unease that always seemed to accompany our gatherings.
“They’re so cute. Can’t believe they’re your children. Uh, sorry, lad,” Liam said.
I elbowed him. He had gotten over the Malachy reveal surprisingly quickly. I supposed Kieran was right, and he really did already know. These dinners, with Adriana’s family, were the first time in a long time we had done something so…domestic.
So what if Silvio and I discussed business after dinner sometimes? That was to be expected.
Adriana laughed. “I think they look a little like you, actually. Catherine does, anyway.”
I forced a smile at Liam's comment, even as I felt a twinge in my chest. Adriana's eyes met mine for a fleeting moment, a silent acknowledgment passing between us. The twins were a living reminder of our complicated history, of choices made and paths diverged.
“Let’s just hope Matteo doesn’t start looking like his uncle Kieran,” Liam said.
“Hey, fuck you,” Kieran said, then caught himself. “Apologies, Mr. and Mrs. Orsini.”
Silvio chuckled, waving off Kieran's apology. "No need for formalities, boy. We're all family here."
I couldn't help but chuckle at his audacity, feeling a reluctant admiration for how he handled the shadows of our world with such deceptive lightness. It was an art form, really, his way of laughing in the face of darkness.
"Careful, your Irish is showing. Try not to scare them," I teased, earning a playful scoff from him. The laughter that followed was a brief respite, a collective breath we all seemed to need.
Alessia, always poised, turned her attention to Adriana. "Darling, how are the wedding preparations coming along?" she asked, her voice smooth as the wine she sipped.
Adriana's lips curled into a rare smile. "It's all falling into place. The venue, the dress... It's like a well-oiled machine."
"Sounds boring," Kieran interjected, his tone deadpan but eyes dancing with mischief. "I've already penned my best man speech, by the way. It's a real tear-jerker."
"Is it now?" Carmen raised an eyebrow in mock skepticism. "I'll need to screen that before you make everyone cry for all the wrong reasons."
“Maybe it’ll be incredibly moving, Carm, and you’ll eat your words.”
I still marveled at the fact that those two had become friends. That, I had never expected.
“To be honest, I’m surprised you even know how to write,” Liam said.
“Don’t help her!” Kieran protested.
Laughter erupted around the table, genuine and warm, filling the room like sunlight breaking through clouds. For that fleeting moment, the weight of our existence lifted, and we were just a family sharing a meal
Laughter still hung in the air when Silvio's chuckle turned into a sudden cough. I leaned forward, my instincts kicking in as I eyed him cautiously. Maybe it was the dryness of the wine or a misplaced crumb.
"Silvio?" I called out, ready to pat his back. But…he wasn't choking. His hand shot to his chest, face contorting in pain as he slumped back in his chair. And then he fell to the floor.
By the time his body thudded on the floor, he was no longer breathing.
"Shit," I whispered under my breath. The room erupted into chaos; faces blanched, chairs scraped back from the table, and cries of alarm mingled with the clinking of fine china.
"Move!" I barked, forgetting for a moment about my crutches leaning against the wall. I limped quickly toward Silvio, my heart hammering in my chest but my mind clear. Gritting my teeth against the pain shooting up from my leg, I lowered myself to the floor by Silvio's side. This wasn't about me—this was life or death.
"Kieran, call 911!" I yelled. I thought he answered, but his voice sounded distant as I focused on Silvio's pale face.
"Orsini, stay with me," I urged, placing my hands on his sternum. I started compressions, counting each push against the eerie silence that now filled the gaps between our collective breaths. My arms worked mechanically, driven by adrenaline and the fierce determination not to let this man—this kingpin who had become like family—slip away.
"Come on, come on, Silvio," I muttered through clenched teeth, refusing to acknowledge the fear gnawing at my insides. Each compression was a silent promise to fight for him, to push through my own vulnerability for the sake of his life.
My hands moved rhythmically against Silvio's chest, each compression a desperate bid for his life as the chaos of the room closed in around us. The atmosphere was charged with panic, the air filled with the clatter of shifting furniture and the sharp tang of fear.
I could hear the dispatcher's distant voice, tinny and disconnected, as Kieran relayed our emergency with an urgent calm that really spoke to how used he was to chaos. So I guessed we had that going for us. His presence was a rallying point, a bastion of control in the eye of an emotional hurricane sweeping through the opulent dining room.
A few feet away, Carmen's vibrant red hair was a flame caught in a gust of sorrow. She wrapped her arms tightly around Alessia and Adriana, their bodies huddled together like saplings against a gale. Carmen’s usual fiery demeanor was doused by dread, her features twisted in a silent plea for mercy.
"Please, not Dad," she whispered, her words barely audible above my counting—thirty compressions, two breaths, repeat. Her boldness, always so commanding, now faltered, leaving her clinging to the maternal fortress that was Alessia.
Alessia, the matriarch, stood stoic yet shaken, holding her daughters close. Her designer clothes, a testament to her unspoken authority, seemed inconsequential now as she murmured reassurances that sounded hollow even to my ears. But it was the tremor in her embrace that betrayed her—the untouchable queen was rattled to her core.
And Ade…I couldn’t bear to look at her. Her face was buried in her mother’s shoulder, her frame rigid with tension. This woman, who always navigated everything with such savvy, rendered motionless by the prospect of this loss.
I couldn’t let that happen.
The weight of life and death pressed upon my palms as I continued the rhythmic compressions against Silvio's chest. Sweat beaded on my forehead, my own heart hammering a frantic cadence in my ears. Around us, the Orsini mansion—once so full of bravado and whispers of power—had constricted into a web of stifled sobs and desperate hopes.
I wasn’t sure how long I had been doing chest compressions for. It could have been minutes or it could have been hours. I didn’t know, I couldn’t tell. My arms burned. My back burned.
“Kieran. The ambulance?”
“They said two minutes,” Kieran said.
“Got it!” I replied, not breaking the rhythm of my movements. My hands, though strong from years in a world where might often meant right, and now used to carrying all my weight, trembled with the strain of this battle.
I felt Silvio's ribs give under my force, a necessary evil for a chance at redemption.
They cracked.
He didn’t breathe.
Each push was a silent plea to whatever gods watched over men like us—men who lived by the sword and too often died by it. But Silvio deserved better; he’d tried to weave some honor into this tangled legacy we shared.
"Stay with us, Dad." Carmen's voice cut through the thick air, barely louder than a whisper. Her usual fire subdued by fear, she clung to Alessia, their combined strength now fragile as porcelain.
Then, amidst the chaos and the clinging threads of hope, the unthinkable happened: Silvio's breath hitched, a gasp echoing softly in the cavernous dining room.
For a split second, I thought–no, hoped–that it was life returning. The room stilled. Everyone froze.
But the moment didn’t hold. His chest rose once, barely perceptible. Then it stopped, his silence filling more than his tiny gasp.
His eyes remained closed. His body heavy, unmoving.
“Fuck,” I said, going back to doing chest compressions.
I pushed harder, my arms burning with the effort. The room around me blurred, faces and voices melding into a cacophony of desperation. Silvio's last breath hung in the air like a ghost, taunting us with its finality.
"Don't you dare," I growled, my voice raw with emotion. "Don't you fucking dare, Silvio."
Adriana's sob pierced through my concentration. I couldn't look at her, couldn't bear to see the pain etched across her face. Instead, I focused on the lifeless form beneath my hands, willing him back with every ounce of strength I possessed.
Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder with each passing second. But time had become a cruel joke, stretching endlessly as Silvio slipped further away.
"Move!" A paramedic's voice cut through the haze. Hands pulled at my shoulders, trying to pry me away.
"No," I snarled, shrugging them off. "I can't stop. I can't—"
"Sir, please," the paramedic insisted, her tone firm but kind. "Let us take over."
Reality crashed down around me. I watched as the EMT tried to find a pulse, but she couldn’t.
I stumbled back, my legs buckling beneath me as the paramedics swarmed around Silvio. Their practiced hands took over, attaching leads and shouting medical jargon that blurred in my ears. I watched, helpless, as they worked with frantic efficiency.
"Clear!" The sharp command cut through the chaos. Silvio's body jerked as the defibrillator sent a jolt through him. Once. Twice. Three times.
Nothing.
They did it again. And again, and again. And again.
And…nothing happened.
I didn’t even hear them at first. My mind refused to process the finality of it. The paramedics stopped, stepping back, their faces drawn in resignation. One of them looked at me, but I couldn’t meet his eyes. It wasn’t real yet—it couldn’t be real.
Then, “It’s 7:47 pm.”
The words fell like a hammer blow. No one moved. No one breathed.
But it was over.
Silvio Orsini was dead.
And everything we had worked for was dead with him.