Chapter Four Tristan
The blood loss hadn’t stopped. I was getting dizzy.
The blood was real, warm and wet as it soaked through the fabric of my white shirt—a stark reminder that I wasn’t invincible. I pressed the phone to my ear, Sean’s voice urgent on the other end, confirming what I already feared: The Crooked Thorn was under siege.
If Sean was afraid, it had to be for good reason.
The Crooked Thorn wasn’t just any pub; it was a Callahan stronghold. My stronghold now that Malachy was dead. I couldn’t sit back, not when every minute counted. Yet, here I was, in a situation where leaving hurriedly would raise more than an eyebrow. Silvio didn’t miss much, and with Adriana carrying our twins, I couldn’t risk it.
I ended the call and subtly glanced over at Silvio, who was still lingering in the hallway outside the living room as he sent a message on his phone. He was all sophistication and killer intent wrapped up in an expensive suit, I assumed texting with his capos. His sharp eyes flicked toward me for a moment—calculating, considering—before returning to his conversation.
Adriana needed to know what was happening. She was smart, sharper than her father’s best blade, and if anyone could cover for me while I slipped away to deal with this mess, it was her. Silvio needed to send his men away, but I definitely didn’t feel confident just leaving her here with him.
Not until I saw him do what he promised…and things at the pub were urgent.
Fuck. I needed to get her involved, but involving her meant pulling her into the fray, something I’d sworn to protect her from.
“‘Scuse me,” I said, going past him in the large hallway. I maneuvered through the room, my movements deliberate but casual, trying to mask the pain that flared with each step. I needed to play this right—if Silvio suspected anything amiss, it wouldn’t just be my life on the line. There was no reason for him to honor our agreement except his interest in his daughters and grandkids.
I heard a knock on the double doors that led to the back of the winding hallway and saw a barely clothed Adriana standing there. She must’ve been freezing. I opened it while Silvio occupied himself with whatever phone call he had just received.
“Tristan?” she asked.
“Hey,” I said, forcing a smile as I looked down into her concerned eyes. She noticed the blood then, her gaze sharpening.
“Your shirt...” she started, her voice laced with worry.
“Let’s take a walk for a second,” I suggested, nodding toward the back garden. Once we were out of earshot, I filled her in on the situation, the urgency clear in my voice. “Can you handle your father? You’re surrounded by my men and he wouldn’t dare touch you. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t urgent.”
“What’s going on?”
“Sean just called me to tell me the Crooked Thorn is under siege,” I said, running a hand through my hair. I’d barely noticed, but my palm was covered in blood, and I’d gotten it on my face when I did that. “He needs me and the boys there.”
“You think my dad did this?” she asked, her voice shaky.
I thought for a second. “If he did, he’s a really good actor. He seems to be dealing with a crisis of his own.”
“What kind of crisis?”
“Ade, I don’t know,” I said, looking back at the house. “Listen, the pub—“
“Of course,” she replied without hesitation, her eyes fierce and determined. “Go. Take care of yourself and The Crooked Thorn. I’ll manage things here.”
“You’ll be okay?”
“Yes,” she said. “But promise me you’ll seek medical attention before you do anything?”
“Do I have to?” I asked, grimacing.
“How are you going to deal with anything related to the pub if you’re dead?”
That was an excellent point. I nodded. “Okay. I promise,” I said. “You’ll be okay?”
“Yes. I promise.”
With a quick, reassuring squeeze of her hand, I left her side, trusting her to navigate the treacherous waters of her father’s suspicion. Every fiber of my being screamed to stay and protect her, but I knew she was capable—more than capable.
Slipping out of sight, I made my way to the estate’s periphery, where the shadows offered concealment. It was time to get patched up and retake control of my territory. For Adriana, for our family, for the Callahans.
I slipped behind the wheel of my car, the leather seat cold against my skin. The ignition roared to life, a familiar comfort amidst the chaos. I drove with one hand on the wheel, the other pressing against my side where the bandage was already soaking through. Every bump in the road sent jolts of pain up my spine, but I gritted my teeth and focused on the road.
“Keep it together, Tristan,” I murmured to myself. “Just get to the clinic.”
The night air was sharp as I stepped out of the car at one of Dr. Hawthorne’s clinics, the one she kept in Boston.
My father always had really great concierge doctors on call just in case something happened, and with his help, Dr. Hawthorne had expanded well past the state limits of Delaware.
Before I even reached the door, it swung open and Dr. Sylvan Bauman stood there, his face a mask of professionalism tinged with concern. He’d helped me before, and I had texted him to know I was on the way, but he didn’t look particularly impressed when he saw me.
“Inside, quickly,” he instructed, ushering me into the warmth of the clinic. The smell of antiseptic filled my nostrils as he led me down the hall to a private room, the sterile environment a stark contrast to the gritty world I operated within.
“Sit. Take off the shirt,” Dr. Bauman ordered, his tone brooking no argument. I complied, wincing as the fabric stuck to the wounds. Even moving my arms up hurt an excruciating amount.
“Tristan, you know better than to let it get this bad,” he chided me gently as he began to assess the damage. His hands were steady and efficient, cleaning the cuts with a practiced ease that belied the gravity of the situation.
“Occupational hazard,” I replied with a grunt, trying to make light of it despite the throbbing pain.
“Your occupation shouldn’t include getting shot at,” he retorted, but there was no real heat in his words. He worked swiftly, bandaging my wounds with a deftness that spoke of years of experience dealing with injuries far worse than mine.
“And yet here we both are,” I said simply.
He nodded. “Indeed.”
“Thanks, Doc,” I said as he finished up, feeling a fraction more human now that the bleeding had stopped. His nod was curt, a silent acknowledgement of the unspoken agreement between us—no questions asked, no answers given. “Can I take anything for the pain?”
“I can write you a script for some painkillers,” he said, scribbling down a prescription. “And give you a few samples. But I advise you to lay low for a few days. Your body needs time to heal.”
A bitter laugh escaped my lips as I accepted the slip of paper. “I don’t have that luxury, Doc.”
He gave me the samples of a couple of giant horse pills, and I swallowed them dry.
Dr. Bauman shook his head in disapproval but knew better than to argue with me further. He had seen many like me come through his doors—men who lived life on a razor’s edge. He was employed by Dr. Hawthorne, after all, and her craft was looking after our men.
So this shouldn’t have been anything special. But he looked oddly disappointed. I didn’t have time to deal with him.
With a sharp nod, I thanked him and made my way back to my car. The night was colder now, the moon a distant beacon illuminating the empty streets. Back into the lion’s den I had to go, back into the world of danger and uncertainty that was my life.
Stepping back into the night, the chill seemed less biting now. I had been patched up, but the real work was just beginning. The Crooked Thorn awaited, and with it, the next round in this never-ending fight for power, for survival, for family.
I drove away quickly, feeling a little bit better. It didn’t take long before I got to the pub. The Crooked Thorn loomed in the darkness like a fortress, its dimly lit windows a beacon in the night. I pushed through the door, my senses immediately assaulted by the cacophony of clinking glasses and low murmurs—a deceptive calm that masked the turmoil beneath.
Sean was at my side before I could scan the room, his grim expression cutting through the smoky haze. “Tristan,” he began, voice low, “we’ve had a situation.”
“You said,” I replied. “Do you know who it was?”
“Rossis, I think,” Sean said.
“But they were…” What? Injured in my living room? That didn’t really matter, considering that Nick could make a call and have things go fucking crazy just by using his cellphone. And he was probably prepared for contingencies.
“Yes, boss?”
“Nothing. Carry on,” I replied, flagging the bartender down so she could get me a drink.
“They’re getting bolder. Tried to stake a claim on our territory. It got ugly fast.” His words were clipped, tension radiating off him in waves.
“Any casualties?”
“Minor injuries, thankfully. But it’s a clear message—they’re testing us.”
I shook my head. This made no sense. He said we were under siege. Everything seemed fine, at least at first glance. “I don’t understand. Then why were you so shaken?”
“They, uh, were talking about our families,” he said.
A cold shiver of dread pierced me. I thought I got it now. “What did they say?” I asked, my voice sharper than intended. The mention of family always cut through my tough exterior, revealing the raw vulnerability beneath.
“Names, addresses...threats,” he replied grimly.
Anger surged and tangled with the fear in my gut. How dare they? For all our differences and disputes, family was sacrosanct. Crossing that line landed them squarely in uncharted territory.
“Get everyone inside,” I said, finishing my drink in one gulp and slamming the glass down on the counter with more force than necessary. “I need to make some calls.”
Without another word, I turned on my heel and headed for the back office, shutting the door behind me with a decisive thunk. The room was dimly lit, the only light coming from an old desk lamp, casting long shadows that seemed to echo my dark mood.
Leaving the chaos of the main room behind, I retreated to the backroom—the one place where I could think without interruption. The walls here knew secrets, the air heavy with whispered strategies and silent vows.
I sank into the chair behind the desk, a makeshift command center in a world where peace was a myth. Today had been close—too close. The realization that it could’ve been my last wasn’t lost on me. As a leader, a protector, and a father, the weight of my roles constricted around me like a vice.
I wondered if this was how my father felt sitting here, then decided it didn’t matter.
There was no time for self-pity or doubt. My family, my people, depended on me—depended on the facade of strength I wore like armor. With deliberate movements, I cleaned my hands, washing away the blood.
My phone lay on the desk, a lifeline to the one person who saw through the mask—the contradiction in my world. I tapped out a message to Adriana, each word heavy with unspoken promises. “Handled. Safe. Love you.” The digital words were a poor substitute for what I wanted to give her—security, normalcy, a life untouched by violence—but they were all I had at that moment.
I stood, ready to survey the damage outside, when a sharp pain shot through my foot. A shard of glass, a remnant of a broken window—one I hadn’t noticed in my preoccupation—pierced through the sole of my shoe. Cursing under my breath, I plucked it out, the sting a reminder that nothing was truly handled. The Rossis had breached the walls of the Callahan estate, and our enemies were multiplying, becoming more daring.
With a deep exhale, I steeled myself for the battles to come. Adriana’s face flashed in my mind—her strength, her resilience. For her, for all of us, I would fortify these walls, sharpen our defenses, and prepare for war. Because now I was certain—we had more enemies than we thought.
And I would stop at nothing to protect what was ours.
Even if it meant giving my own life for them.