Chapter Thirty-Nine Tristan
I’d worried so much about turning out like my father that I hadn’t even thought about who my father fucking was.
Blood ties—what a joke. The revelation hit me like a sucker punch; Bellamy, the old man with more secrets than the Vatican, was apparently my father. At least according to him. My mind spun with the implications, each one more treacherous than the last. He had been close enough to pull strings, yet distant enough to be a myth. And now, his identity tangled up with mine in ways I couldn’t afford to unravel.
All the years of trying not to turn into Malachy, and here I was, staring at the possibility that it was my destiny all along as I wondered if I should kill my father’s most despised enemy: his brother.
My stomach roiled as if I’d swallowed broken glass, but I couldn’t let it show. Not here. Not with so much at stake.
But then, a gunshot echoed through the catacombs, ricocheting off ancient stone and shattering my spiraling thoughts. In that instant, my bloodline didn’t mean a damn thing. Survival did. Adriana’s survival.
“Get down!” I barked at Adriana, pushing her to the ground just as another shot rang out. I swept my jacket aside and grabbed my gun, feeling its familiar weight grounding me. I scanned the shadows, heart slamming against my ribs.
The catacombs were crawling with Irish gang members, strangers with sharp eyes and itchy trigger fingers. Likely Bellamy’s men, judging by the way they moved with military precision. They didn’t know me, and I sure as hell didn’t trust them.
I kept low, moving with purpose, the icy floor numbing my hands as I positioned myself between Adriana and the unknown shooters. Her breathing was ragged, fear spiking her scent amidst the musty chill of the underground.
“Stay behind me,” I whispered, watching her nod sharply, her dark eyes wide but fierce.
The gunfire intensified, the cacophony of chaos echoing off the walls, the air thick with the smell of gunpowder. My instincts were screaming; I had to get Adriana out, away from the flying bullets and the scent of death.
“Tristan,” Adriana’s voice cut through the madness, a steel thread of determination lacing her tone. “We need to move.”
She was right. I couldn’t shoot down all these bastards, even if I tried. With every faction for themselves, the Irish, the Italians, hell, even some Russians, it was a powder keg that’d been lit with a reckless spark. Alliances be damned; this was war in the bowels of Boston.
“Keep your head down,” I instructed, my hand finding hers, our fingers intertwining like our lives. We crawled, dodging debris and staying as silent as the grave that surrounded us. The cold seeped through my jeans, but it was the heat of Adriana’s palm that scorched my skin, reminding me what was at stake.
“Tristan, I’m scared,” she murmured as we made our way through the labyrinthine tunnels, her breaths coming out in white puffs against the frigid air.
“Focus on breathing, Ade,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through me. “I’ve got you.”
We reached a fork in the catacombs, and I hesitated for a moment, listening. Left or right didn’t matter; both led to uncertainty. But uncertainty was better than the certain death that nipped at our heels.
“Left,” I decided, hoping it was the quicker path to the exit. The shadows clung to us as we moved, but we pushed forward, driven by the primal urge to survive. We were close now; I could feel it in my bones, or maybe that was just hope whispering sweet lies.
“Almost there,” I promised Adriana, though I wasn’t sure who I was trying to convince more—her or myself. The sound of our pursuers faded, replaced by the pounding of my own heart.
“Keep moving,” I urged, half-dragging, half-carrying Adriana as the flicker of an oil lamp in the distance promised a way out. The scrape of her shoes against stone echoed too loudly, each step resonating like a countdown.
And then it happened—the squabble that cut through the bedlam like a knife. Tommy Sullivan’s gruff voice clashed with James Kensington’s smooth baritone, their heated words a jarring symphony of anger and betrayal.
“Ya think you can waltz in here and take over, Kensington? Not on my watch!” Tommy roared.
“Your watch is about to end, Sullivan. This is the new order,” James retorted, every word dripping with venom.
The argument was a momentary distraction, but one that cost dearly. I pressed Adriana against the cold wall, sheltering her body with mine. “Ignore them,” I whispered fiercely. “We need to focus on getting out of here.”
“Are they going to...?” Her sentence trailed off, unfinished, but the fear in her eyes said everything her lips couldn’t.
“Listen to me,” I said, looking into her eyes. “Nothing is going to happen to you or our babies. I swear it.”
Adriana nodded, her faith in me unspoken but clear. We resumed our escape, leaving the tumult behind us. That’s when I realized Silvio wasn’t there. Adriana must have noticed her father wasn’t there, too. A spike of worry pierced me, but I shoved it aside. My priority was Adriana and the twins.
“Tristan?” Adriana’s voice trembled, pulling me back from the edge of panic.
“Right here, love,” I assured her, even as a fresh wave of shouts surged behind us. Almost there, I told myself. Just a little farther.
Her grip tightened on my hand, and together we stumbled towards salvation, towards the dim light that promised freedom from the darkness of the catacombs and the violence we left behind.
But before we could get out, it was like the whole world had narrowed down to the sound of gunfire and heavy breaths. I whirled around, my own gun coming up instinctively, as an Irish thug took a shot at me. Time seemed to slow as I squeezed the trigger, once, then again, dropping two of them before they could get another round off. My heart was pounding, but not from fear—this was adrenaline, pure and sharp.
“Keep crawling, Adriana,” I grunted, pushing her forward. This wasn’t the kind of game I ever wanted to play, but damn if it didn’t feel like one. The difference was, in this game, you didn’t get another life.
The catacombs were rank with the stench of decay and something else—fear, maybe, or desperation. It clung to the damp walls and filled the air with an acrid taste. Crawling on the floor felt like moving through centuries of filth, but we didn’t have the luxury of disgust.
“Tristan!” James Kensington’s voice cut through the chaos, like an anchor in the midst of a storm. I glanced back to see him take down one of the Irish goons who had gotten too close for comfort. But my relief was short-lived.
A searing pain exploded in my back—a sensation far removed from anything I’d experienced before. One of Bellamy’s men had managed to close in on us, his blade finding its mark between my ribs. I crumpled onto the stairs, gasping as every nerve in my body screamed in protest.
“Tristan!” Adriana’s voice was laced with terror, her hands reaching for me even as I tried to regain some semblance of control over the pain.
“Keep going,” I gritted out, forcing myself onto shaky legs. “We’re almost out.” I couldn’t afford to show weakness, not now when she needed me the most.
I could feel the warm trickle of blood soaking into my shirt, the cool rush of air in the tunnels suddenly biting against my skin. But there was no time to stop, no time to think about anything but getting us out alive.
“Adriana, lean on me,” I ordered through clenched teeth, my arm wrapping around her waist. She hesitated, her own pain etched into the lines of her face, but her survival instincts were as sharp as ever.
We stumbled up the remaining stairs, each step a battle against my body’s desire to collapse. The sounds of gunfire and shouts echoed behind us, a stark reminder that death was only a heartbeat away.
“Are you scared?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure if I wanted to hear her answer.
“Mostly scared for you,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.
I locked eyes with her for a moment, allowing myself a brief respite in her gaze. “You’re going to be fine, Ade,” I said with more conviction than I felt.
Emerging into the dimming light of the late afternoon, we found ourselves at the mouth of the catacombs. Relief washed over me, tinged with the adrenaline of our escape. We had made it out, but safety was still a distant dream. Every movement was urgent, driven by the desperation to put distance between us and the hell below.
“Keep moving,” I urged, my voice a hoarse command born from necessity rather than authority. Adriana nodded, her determination mirroring my own, as we pushed through the pain toward the promise of salvation that lay beyond these cursed tunnels.
My legs were a mess of agony and tingles, each step sending jolts of pain up through my body like electric shocks. I gritted my teeth, refusing to let it slow me down. Adriana needed me, and I’d be damned if I was going to fail her now.
“Almost there,” I breathed out, more to convince myself than her. She didn’t complain, just clenched her jaw and kept pace beside me. The tough-as-nails woman she was, she’d walk through fire if it meant getting to the other side.
My car loomed somewhere ahead. My lungs filled with the cold, but it couldn’t chill the heat of the adrenaline coursing through me.
“Tristan! What the fuck?” Adriana’s voice was sharp with alarm. Time slowed as I turned to follow her gaze.
There he stood behind us. Kieran, framed by the graying sky, his gun steady in his hand.
And he had a gun trained right at us.