24. Chapter Twenty-Four Tristan
Istepped out onto the balcony, the brisk Boston air a sharp slap against my skin. The city sprawled below me, indifferent to the chaos it cradled in its concrete arms. Adriana’s words echoed in my head: I was going to have to kill her dad. The weight of it settled like lead in my chest.
Shaking off the cold that has nothing to do with the weather, I fished my phone from my pocket, thumbing through the contacts until I found the one I needed. “Get a car to the beach,” I barked into the receiver when Ray’s line picked up. “Kieran needs a ride.”
“Got it, boss,” he said.
I called Kieran after that. He answered after only one ring. “You done with Vinny?” There was a moment’s silence, and then a grunt of confirmation. “Good. Clean it up quick.”
I hung up without another word.
Turning back to the room, I watched Adriana. She was curled up by the fire, the flames casting a warm glow over her delicate features. Her dark hair fell in waves around her shoulders, and for a moment, I let myself forget the blood that taints both our hands. She looked so peaceful, so damn beautiful, and I hated that I’d pulled her deeper into this world of violence and shadows.
I pushed the door open and stepped back inside, the warmth of the room wrapping around me. But it did little to chase away the chill in my bones. It wasn’t supposed to be like this—us against the world, love entwined with death. Yet here we were, and as I looked at her, all I could think about was how much I love her.
“Adriana,” I called softly, not wanting to startle her. She looked up, her eyes meeting mine, and there was a fear there that cut me deep. I wanted to take it away, to make things right, even though I knew some stains wouldn’t wash out.
“Let’s eat something, yeah?” I suggested, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “It’ll help.”
There was no guarantee in those words, but maybe if we went through the motions, pretended normalcy, we could fool ourselves for just a little while longer.
She nodded, a small smile pulling at the corners of her mouth, and I could see the effort it took her. We were both playing roles now, trying to keep the darkness at bay with every mundane act, every slice of normal life we could mimic. But I would do it, over and over, if it meant keeping her safe, keeping her with me.
I moved to the tiny kitchen with her and rummaged through her sparse cabinets, looking for something, anything to feed us.
The cupboards are as bare as our current situation, and I can’t help but feel responsible for the emptiness around us. But then, nestled behind a box of pasta, I found a bag of potatoes. It was not much, but it would do.
“Jacket potatoes okay?” I asked Adriana, holding up my find.
“Sure,” she said, her voice small. “I’ve never had one before.”
“It’s just baked potatoes. You’ve never had one?” I was genuinely surprised. It was a staple back home. Comfort in an edible form, if you will.
“Never,” she confirmed with a shrug. “I mean, as a side. Never as a meal.”
“Then you’re in for a treat.” I tried to inject some warmth into my voice as I pierced the potatoes with a fork and popped them into the microwave. It hummed to life, a simple tune in the background.
As the potatoes cooked, I gathered cheese, sour cream, and butter—luxuries in a time like this—and set them on the counter. When the microwave dinged, I pulled out the hot potatoes, sliced them open, and dressed them with the toppings. I handed one to Adriana, watching as she took her first bite. Her eyes lit up, and for a moment, the shadows lifted from her face.
“It’s good,” she said, a hint of surprise coloring her tone.
“It’s cheese and butter and salt,” I replied. “Of course it’s good.”
She nodded. “Right.”
“Mom used to make them all the time,” I said, nostalgia lacing my words. “Simple, but fills you up.”
Adriana fell silent after that, her gaze lost in the flickering flames of the fire. There was something on her mind; I could see it weighing her down. I couldn’t stand to see her troubled. Not if I could help it.
“Hey,” I said softly, reaching out to touch her hand. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
She hesitated, and then her voice was barely above a whisper. “My father... he told me Malachy killed all his wives. Is it true?” Her eyes sought mine, looking for confirmation or maybe denial.
I took a deep breath. This wasn’t the kind of conversation I want to have, especially not now when we should be finding solace in each other. But she deserved the truth, even the ugly bits.
“Malachy...my father...he was not a saint,” I admitted, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. “But what exactly do you know about the Callahan brothers? Be honest with me.”
“Only rumors,” she took another bite from her fork, her shoulders slumped. “I know you don’t all share the same mothers. That’s about it.”
“Right,” I sighed, feeling the weight of my family’s history pressing down on me. “There’s a lot to unpack there, more than just rumors and whispers in the dark. It’s a long story, filled with mistakes and regrets.”
“Tell me,” she insists, her grip tightening on my hand. “I need to know who I’m...who we’re dealing with.”
“I thought you said I wasn’t my father.”
“You’re not,” she replied. “But I still deserve to know the kind of family I’m bringing children into.”
“Fair enough,” I replied. The truth was always going to come out, one way or another. Might as well be from my own lips. And so, with the quiet crackle of the fire our only audience, I began to unravel the twisted tale of the Callahan legacy, piece by sordid piece.
“Malachy and Catherine, my mother, they were the first,” I started, my voice steady despite the churn of emotions inside me. “Their marriage, it was...complicated. A lot of ups and downs, you know? But they had something that looked like love, at least to a kid.”
I took a bite of the potato, its warm simplicity grounding me as I delve into a past marred by complexity and pain.
“Then there’s Kieran,” I continued, stealing a glance at Adriana. Her eyes were attentive, reflecting the orange glow of the fire. “He was born when I was six, to Angela—my father’s mistress.”
Adriana tilted her head slightly, considering this. “Did your mom know?”
“Everyone knew,” I said with a humorless laugh. “It wasn’t exactly a secret. Did your father ever have mistresses?”
She shrugged, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “If he did, he made sure we never found out. But honestly, Tristan, after everything that’s happened, I’m starting to realize I didn’t really know my father at all.”
I nodded, understanding more than I let on. Family secrets had a way of distorting the image we hold of those closest to us.
“Anyway, we’re getting sidetracked,” she said quickly, waving her hand dismissively. “Keep going. Don’t leave anything out, even if it hurts.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. I need to hear this.”
“Alright.” I exhaled slowly, my chest tight. This wasn’t easy for me, laying bare the skeletons in our family closet. She squeezed my hand, a silent gesture of solidarity.
God, I loved her.
“Growing up in the midst of my father’s infidelities, it was...it was a mess. And the thing is, I get it, Ade. I understand what it’s like to have a father who’s less than perfect, who’s downright fucked up.”
“Tell me everything,” she urged.
“Okay,” I agreed. “Here goes nothing.”
She continued eating her potato as she watched me. “This is so good,” she said.
I smiled at her, letting out a slow breath and sinking into the sofa next to her. “The thing with Angela, Kieran’s mom, it put a strain on my parents’ marriage,” I began, the words feeling like lead on my tongue. “But Dad, he wouldn’t give up his son. No matter what, he wouldn’t let Kieran go.”
Adriana nodded slightly, silently encouraging me to continue.
“Mom, well, she had a heart too big for her own good. She took Kieran in like he was her own flesh and blood.” I paused, remembering the sight of my younger brother, always trailing behind my mother as if he knew she was his safe harbor in the chaos we called family. “Angela was allowed to see him, but not often. It was...complicated.”
“Complicated seems to be a theme with the Callahans,” she remarked softly, a faint smile touching her lips even as her gaze remained sympathetic.
“You could say that,” I agreed, my mind drifting back. “When I was seven and Kieran was just two, things got messier. Dad started seeing Brenda. Then he’d go back to Angela, then to Brenda again. It went on for years like that.”
“Liam’s mom?”
“Yeah, Liam’s mum,” I replied.
“Years, though?”
She sounded incredulous, her eyes widening in disbelief.
“Years,” I confirmed, feeling the weight of those memories pressing down on me. The constant shifting of women in and out of our house, the whispered arguments that filled the nights – they were the soundtrack of my childhood.
“God, Tristan. That’s...it’s a lot,” she murmured, reaching for my hand once more. Her touch was gentle but carried the kind of strength that comes from having weathered storms of your own.
“That’s not the half of it,” I said, clearing my throat and shifting the focus back to the past, “Anyway, when Liam was born, my mum...she was a saint. She took him in as her own despite everything.”
My voice softened with respect for the woman who had been more of a mother than anyone else. For all of us.
“Seriously?” Adriana’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “After all that betrayal?”
“Yup. That was her. She couldn’t stand to see a child suffer because of Malachy’s sins. Even after they divorced, she still cared for Liam like he was her own blood.”
“Wow,” she murmured, her eyes reflecting a mix of admiration and disbelief.
“Malachy eventually married Brenda,” I continued, my gaze fixed on the flames that seemed to burn away the edges of my words. “But it was doomed from the start. He always loved my mum; nothing could change that. He wanted it all back, you know? Not just her, but the status he had when he was with her. It helped, having a good, devoted Catholic woman by his side. But she wasn’t just good for his reputation. I think, in his own fucked up way, she was the love of my dad’s life.”
“Funny way of showing it,” Adriana said.
“Yeah, not a great husband,” I said.
“So what happened?” Adriana prompted, her hand still clasping mine.
“He killed her. Brenda, I mean.” There, I’d said it—the dark truth that had started to haunt me since I was twelve. “Interference—that’s what he called it. She tried to keep him from seeing Catherine and that was something he couldn’t tolerate.”
“Jesus, Tristan...” Her voice trailed off, horror etched into every syllable.
“First one he ever killed,” I stated flatly, the bitter reality of it tasting like ash in my mouth. “And it wasn’t the last. Liam’s mum was just…she was just the beginning.”