3. Tristan
Tristan
Iflick off the last remaining overhead light and let out a sigh. Without the glare of the lights, the pressure on my head slightly eases.
It also helps that there are no more overly tanned men and women prancing around in swimsuits. Seriously, no man, reality star or not, needs to be walking around in a Speedo.
For a second, things are peaceful in the apartment. Isolde Matheson has a nice place, I’ll give her that.
It’s too bad the building is owned by Hadrian Fucking Hallow.
As a rule, I’m not a fan of rich pricks who think they run this city. Which is why it’s a kick in the teeth, knowing I now sort of work for him.
Actually, there isn’t any sort of doubt about it. Once he signs the contract I just sent over, he’ll be another one of my clients.
It was one thing when Ren sprang the idea of watching over Matheson. But she’s Ren Callahan. There’s no point in pissing her off, and if I’m being honest, after several weeks being her shadow, it’s not in me to upset her. She’s a good person. Scary but good.
I know why she’s upset. It’s clear how close she and the Brit are. Though, if I’m correct, I’m guessing there’s a part of Isolde she’s unaware of. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have looked so surprised tonight when someone tried to off her best friend. Again.
This is from Cade.
The man I killed tonight deserved his death just for his dramatics alone. Goddamn, did he not notice everything going around him? He stood there acting like the moment had been a cinematic feat, staring down at Isolde, who, for the first time since I’d known her, had gotten knocked off her feet.
The phone in my hand bends slightly, and I quickly relax my grip.
The screen lights up just as Isolde slips into the bathroom, the door shutting with a click.
“Dad,” I say as I move closer to the wall of windows. This is the apartment they show on social media, convincing you to move to the city. Airy and bright during the day, with a snapshot of lit-up skyscrapers at night.
Who knows what the fuck Hallow did to afford it.
“I thought you were coming by tonight?” my father says. If I had to guess, based on the TV running in the background, he’s sitting in his favorite recliner. Some big, ugly thing that’s older than I am, but comfy as hell.
“It’s midnight.” As loath as I am to admit it, I bet this wall of windows in Matheson’s place shows off a stunning sunrise.
“Yeah, I thought you were coming. I’m guessing not anymore.”
Not wanting to repeat what time it is, I keep my mouth shut.
“Luis says you got a new client. I thought you said you had a week in between the one you were just working with and that thing you booked for next month.”
“Yeah.” I rub at the space between my eyebrows. That plan went to shit thanks to some guy named Cade. “I booked a client last minute.”
“Oh.” There’s a burst of laughter, some late-night show echoing down the line. “Business is good then?”
“Yeah.”
I hadn’t planned on taking on Ren as a client, but I can’t lie. It’s a good thing to have on your resume. The moment people got wind she—Aunt Macy’s niece—was a client, enquiries into my business exploded. I went from just a couple of clients on the books to a waiting list.
A blessing. That’s what my mother would say if she were here. As a small business owner, I’m not knocking it, but now I’m coming to terms with a balancing act.
“How long will you be with this client?” Dad asks.
“I don’t know.” It’s the honest truth. It’s a lucrative gig, something open-ended like this. And Hallow has the cash flow to keep it going.
A mixture between a grunt and a sigh comes from my dad. It’s his typical ‘I’m thinking noise.’ “Well, that’s good, though. You know. Good for business. Keeps the cash going.”
I’d probably be more inclined to agree if Isolde hadn’t just told me to take Hallow’s money.
How the fuck are you even involved with a guy like that?
It’d been on the tip of my tongue, but her blue eyes had stopped me. People talk about saucer eyes, but shit, I thought the entire ocean was staring back at me. And that’s coming from a guy who never waxes poetically.
But her skin, porcelain with a smattering of freckles, looked gray. She wouldn’t let me take a look at the wound, which is why I’d called Tyler. He’s always been like that—putting people at ease.
She should have changed earlier. Instead of sitting around in a blood-soaked hoodie while pretending to watch reality TV.
Dad’s voice pulls me from my dissection of the past several hours. “Do you think you’ll have time to come to my birthday party?”
“It’s on the calendar.” I’ve never known him to celebrate his birthday, but my aunt decided that for his sixtieth, he needed to go big.
“Hmmm,” he mumbles. “Luis said this client is a big one. I wasn’t sure with how busy you would be. You’re always off doing something.”
He’s not referring to my new business. “Look. . . you know. . . that’s over.”
My time as the Ghost has ended.
“Really?”
“Yes.” All those names, every person connected to that bitch Marissa. They’re gone. Killed. Gunned down by the Ghost.
There’s the pop of a spring like Dad just stood from his chair. “You know all your cousins will be here. And your tía is spending a fortune on cake.”
“Dad, I’ll be there.” It’s several weeks away, and it’s on the calendar. I’ll shuffle whatever I have to.
He’s my dad after all. He’s all I’ve got left. Well, he and about a million cousins, including Luis, who hasn’t stopped texting me all night long. I should’ve never hired him, but my baby cousin is a thorn in my side I’ve never wanted to get rid of.
“You know Luis will drag me there even if I try to skip.” The joke falls flat. I guess he really thinks I’d miss his birthday.
There’s a shuffle on the other end of the line. More audience laughter.
“All right.” With those two words, the conversation ends. “Call your old man when you can find the time.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, cutting off the image of a lit-up skyline. “Night, Dad. Love you.”
“Same, Tristan, same.” He ends the call first.
I’m miles away from him in a different part of the city, but I can picture him perfectly. He’ll place his phone down on the tray table that’s always set up beside his chair. He’ll snack on pistachios, and the late-night show will reflect off his glasses.
Juan Paul Trevino is a good man. I’m not sure how he ended up with a son like me.
The shower turns on in the bathroom, and I pick my phone back up. It’s late here, but the time difference works in my favor.
The line rings three times before he picks up.
Envisioning Ciaran O’Connell is slightly harder than the predictable nature of my father.
That’s because he’s changed so much in the past few years. But the throaty, gruff laugh tells me that somewhere buried beneath this new Ciaran—the one who acts more like Hadrian Hallow—is the old Irish bastard I used to drink with.
Back then, it was dive bars and cheap beer. The last time I saw Ciaran, he sported a wristwatch worth more than any contract I’d ever taken when I worked with the Irish. I rolled my eyes when I heard about the sports car he’s been driving around in.
“Tristan Trevino.” I smile, hearing the typical breath of humor in his voice still. “The sun’s barely risen here, but shit, is there some news coming out of New York or what?”
“What have you heard?”
“Something about a good old fashioned shootout.”
Ren would be pleased to know that even overseas, she’s the talk of the town.
“Shit, you should have seen Russo with his son and grandson. They were lobbing Molotov cocktails.”
A full-bodied laugh comes from across the Atlantic. “No fucking shit. Russo’s got to be what, seventy now?”
“You wouldn’t know it.” It’d been amusing, albeit odd, watching the family bonding session. Ren had no idea just how close she was able to bring people together.
“And you were there?” Ciaran asks.
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
I turn away from the windows, continuing my exploration of Isolde’s apartment. Her front door opens into the living room. If you turn right, you’ll find a hallway with a bathroom in between the two bedrooms. To the left of the living room is the kitchen, partially enclosed.
“You never went to Fujimori’s,” Ciaran notes. “So color me fucking surprised when we hear about a suited and booted Tristan Trevino hanging out there.”
“Who is ‘we’?”
The kitchen is clean, but not sterile. There’s a cookie jar sitting on the counter. I lift the lid and find a single joint. Figures. Ren and Isolde are nothing but a pair of potheads.
I set the lid back down gently, creeping around in the quiet.
“All of Dublin,” Ciaran replies.
What he really means is his uncle. The same O’Connell bastard Boris Akatov once ran out of New York. But there’s one Irishman the Russians haven’t managed to get rid of yet.
What’s the deal between your dad and Boris?
I’d love to know the fucking answer, but that’s not how these types of conversations go.
Plus bringing up Cain Murray to his younger son is always risky.
I’ve got a limited number of questions, and I’m not wasting them on bullshit gossip.
Though I know Ren might think differently about that type of information.
But speaking of information.
“What else is Dublin talking about?”
Ciaran makes a noise like he might be drinking his morning cup of coffee. “What exactly do you think they should be talking about?”
“You know a guy named Cade?”
“Yeah, he’s out in London. What the fuck you want with him?”
“For starters I want to know who the fuck he is.” I’m loath to admit when I don’t know something—or someone. It’s why I’m glad I have Ciaran to call. Not only are we friendly, but he won’t tell anyone I’ve called.
He’s also one of the only people I know overseas.
Isolde hired me the day after she and Ren had been accosted by a gunman. Considering bodies were piling up around Ren, it made sense to think she was the target. But when I dug around, finding the idiot triggerman who got tackled by Roman Zimin, the truth came out.
Someone had put a hit out on Isolde.
It wasn’t until tonight that I actually got a name.