Chapter Sixteen Adriana
My heart was hammering in my chest as I thought about how my confession would go.
But Tristan didn’t get home for hours. I heard him stumble in with Kieran in fits of laughter, but it was…odd, weirdly subdued.
I blinked away the remnants of sleep, the sheets a cool contrast to my warm skin, as the sound of clumsy footsteps echoed in the otherwise silent room. The digital clock on the nightstand read 2 a.m., its red glow a solitary beacon in the darkness of the Boston townhouse safehouse. I propped myself up on one elbow, squinting through the dimness as Tristan’s broad silhouette staggered through the doorway. His attempt at removing his jeans were almost funny, his movements as out of sync as the off-key whistling that accompanied them.
“Tristan?” I called out softly, my voice laced with concern as he wobbled, one leg trapped in denim. “You’re home late.”
He grunted an incoherent response, finally freeing himself from his jeans and slumping against the doorframe. I swung my legs out from under the covers, the chill of the room raising goosebumps along my thighs. Clad only in a black top and panties, I approached him, taking in the disheveled t-shirt that hung loosely over his muscular frame.
I held back laughter. “I have never seen you this drunk.”
I thought he would laugh too, but he waved me off. That worried me. He was always in control—his demeanor as unyielding as the empire he stood to inherit. But tonight, something was different.
“Ah, Ade, it’s nothing,” he mumbled, his blue eyes unfocused as they met mine—a sharp contrast to their usual piercing clarity. “Just another night.”
I reached out, my hand hesitating before resting gently on his arm. “It’s not ‘just another night’ if you’re stumbling in like this. Talk to me, Tristan.”
But he only shook his head, brushing past me toward the bed, the scent of whiskey heavy on his breath. I watched him, my heart aching at the sight of this man who held so much power, yet seemed so vulnerable in this moment.
He didn’t lie down. I was sitting on the bed when he approached me.
“Let’s not talk about tonight,” Tristan said, his voice slurred but insistent. He caught me by my waist, pulling me close. His breath was warm against my neck as he kissed my skin, hands wandering over my chest. “I just want to forget it all.”
And it would have been so easy to go with it. He always knew exactly what he did to me, and this…I wanted this. But more than that, I wanted–I needed–to make sure that he was okay.
“Tristan, stop.” I scooted back, placing a hand on his chest. “We need to talk.”
“Talk?” He laughed, a short, bitter sound. “We can talk while I’m inside you.”
I scowled, my frustration bubbling up inside me. These were serious issues that needed to be addressed, not brushed aside with a flippant gesture. But as usual, Tristan opted for the easy way out - using physical pleasure as a band-aid for his problems. It was all too predictable. It would have probably been exhausting if I didn’t want to give into it just as much as he did.
“My father, what I did tonight, there’s so much we need to address,” I persisted, trying to steer the conversation back to what mattered.
“I would rather not talk about your father while we’re having sex. Wait, are you into that?”
“Tristan,” I snapped, my voice coming out sharper than I intended. The fire in his eyes grew hotter, but I didn’t step back, I couldn’t. “This is serious.”
“So am I,” the charm in his tone was gone, replaced with a commanding edge as he grasped my shoulders and guided me back toward the bed, sitting me down firmly. “Right now, I need this. I need you.”
His touch was demanding, and for a moment, I felt myself sinking into the familiar comfort of his desire. But the weight of unspoken words hung heavy between us, and I couldn’t let it go—not when so much was at stake.
“Please listen to me,” I said.
“Okay. I’m listening,” he replied, looking into my eyes, practically nodding off as he did so.
He was not listening. “Okay. Maybe a conversation better left for tomorrow,” I said.
I sighed, feeling the heavy pull of exhaustion and the ache for a different kind of connection. Resigned, I lay back on the bed, my resolve waning under the intensity of his gaze.
He mistook my surrender for acquiescence, his hands deft as he peeled down my top and captured one of my nipples with his mouth. A gasp escaped me, betraying my body’s instinctive reaction to his touch. Tristan, emboldened, began to crawl up the bed, his torso bare and muscles taut. He was half-dressed, the epitome of raw masculinity, and under different circumstances, I would have definitely given in.
“Wait.” I pushed against his shoulders, halting his advance. It pained me to resist him, but there were things that couldn’t be drowned in sensation. “We need to talk about my dad. Seriously.”
Tristan’s movements stilled, and he looked at me, irritation flickering in his eyes. He was used to being the one in control, but tonight, I needed him to listen.
“I’m pretty sure he’s growing unstable,” I said firmly, meeting his gaze head-on. “It’s not just about us anymore. It’s about the family, our future. We can’t ignore it.”
His jaw clenched, the playfulness gone from his expression as he absorbed my words. We both understood the gravity of what I was saying—the potential danger that my dad’s erratic behavior could pose to everything we held dear.
I was about to tell him how I had gotten that information when he sat up.
I hesitated, the weight of what I needed to say pressing down on me like the thick Boston air outside the safehouse. Tristan’s annoyance was very obvious, etched into the tight set of his mouth and the furrow in his brow. “Everything is a damn problem,” he muttered under his breath.
“Tristan,” I started again, trying to anchor him back to the conversation. “I went to see Carmen today—“
“We don’t need to do this now,” he cut me off, his voice laced with irritation. His hand found the waistband of my panties as if trying to divert us back to familiar territory, away from the complexities that awaited us outside these walls.
“Wait, Tristan—“ My protest was silenced by the sudden press of his lips against mine, demanding, insistent. It was a tactic straight out of his playbook, using passion to sidestep conflict. But even as I recognized his avoidance, I couldn’t deny the way my body responded to his touch, how the warmth of his hands sent a jolt of electricity through me.
“Let’s just forget for a moment, yeah?” he whispered against my lips before capturing them again in a kiss that left no room for argument. I wavered, torn between my need for him and the urgency of our situation. His fingers tightened around my arms, pulling me closer, and for a second, I allowed myself to get lost in the sensation, in the escape he offered.
But reality clawed its way back, and I knew that no matter how much we wanted to hide in each other, we couldn’t outrun the truths waiting in the shadows of The Callahan Domain.
I pushed against Tristan’s chest, putting space between us as my resolve hardened. He looked at me, confusion etched in the lines of his face, his blue eyes searching mine for an answer.
“This isn’t about that. It’s not just about sex,” I said, trying to steady my breath and gather my thoughts. The frustration was clear on his face, a crease forming between his brows.
He shook his head. When he spoke, his speech was slurred. “When have I ever failed to make you come?” he asked.
“That is completely irrelevant.”
“You don’t seem to think so most of the time,” he said.
But he wasn’t having any of it. He was too drunk to argue, but he wasn’t too drunk to move.
“Seriously, stop,” I tried again, but he was relentless, his fingers finding my clit in a way that made me gasp despite myself. My body betrayed me with its responsiveness, yet my mind remained clear–barely clear–on what needed to be addressed.
“But Ade, you always look so perfect with my cock inside of you,” he groaned, grabbing my hand and placing it on his erection through the thin fabric of his boxers.
“Fuck, why? Why are you so insistent on this right now?” I managed to ask, though my voice came out weaker than I intended.
“Because being inside you is all I can think about,” he said. “It’s all I can think about all the time.”
“We can do that in the morning,” I said, trying to sound more convincing.
“No, Ade, we’ll do it whenever I want,” he stated, a hint of the authority he wielded within The Callahan Legacy seeping into his tone.
The conflict within me raged on, knowing that the conversation we were avoiding was about more than just our relationship—it was about survival, about the very fabric of the life we were entangled in. As I lay there, with Tristan’s heated presence enveloping me, I realized that our love was both our sanctuary and our battlefield. And right now, the battle lines were being drawn.
“Tristan, stop.” I pushed against his chest, but he misread it as playful resistance, and his finger slipped inside me. That was the moment everything shattered.
“Get your hand off me!” My voice cracked like a whip in the early morning stillness of the Boston townhouse.
He stilled, confusion etched on his face. “What?”
“Is this how you see me? As someone to be used at your convenience?” My anger boiled over. “You didn’t want to marry me so you wouldn’t put me in danger but it’s okay as long as you get to use me whenever you want?”
Suddenly sobered, he blinked at me, a hint of hurt flashing in his eyes before it was quickly replaced with a hardened expression. “That’s not what this is—“
“Don’t.” I cut him off sharply, pushing myself up to a sitting position. “I am not one of your possessions, Tristan.”
He opened his mouth to say something, to perhaps argue or apologize, but closed it again, his jaw clenching. The tension in the room was thick as the quiet stretched between us.
“You have no fucking idea what I would do for you,” he said. “What I have done for you. What I have done for you and our babies.”
I glared at him, anger clouding my thoughts. “Do you think that’s the kind of thing Malachy used to say to your mother?”
The comment hit like a slap across the face. Tristan recoiled as if I’d physically struck him, the shock quickly replaced by a dark glower. “Don’t you dare bring my mother into this,” he bit out, his voice low and dangerous. “You know what? Forget I came in here. I’m going to sleep on the couch.”
The words hung in the air, heavy with consequences we hadn’t yet unraveled. He rose from the bed, his tall figure casting an imposing shadow in the dim light that seeped through the drawn curtains.
“Tristan,” I called out, regret washing over me as I saw him stiffen. The anger was gone, leaving only a hollow feeling in my chest. But saying sorry seemed too little too late. “Wait.”
He stopped but didn’t turn around. His back was still to me, his shoulders rigid and unyielding. I didn’t need to see his face to know that he was hurting.
“I’m sorry,” I said softly, not sure if my apology would reach him or if it was enough to mend what I’d broken.
He stood there for a moment before responding, “Not tonight, Ade.” The once warm nickname sounded cold and distant, stinging more than I thought possible. “Sleep.”
And then he closed the door behind himself.
This was fucked. I immediately knew I had really messed up, even though I was right to be angry.
This was bigger than us, bigger than an ill-timed advance or a lapse in judgment. This was about the self-destructive spiral that seemed to grip him more tightly with each passing day—a spiral I feared I could not stop.
But as he walked away it felt like the chasm between us grew wider. The burden of his legacy and the ominous shadow of his father hung over us, suffocating and undeniable. In that moment, I understood the painful reality—no matter how fiercely I loved him, I couldn’t protect Tristan from the darkness within.
I could do absolutely nothing to protect him from himself.
But I could protect him from Silvio Orsini.