Page 14 of Velvet Betrayal (The Dark Prince of Boston #3)

Ruby

H e was gone when I woke up. The sunlight was already knifing through the curtains, and the other side of the bed was cold—like he’d been gone for hours, not minutes.

My head throbbed, a hangover of adrenaline and whatever else had kept me up half the night.

I stared at the ceiling, waiting for my courage to catch up with my body.

Rosie was already awake, of course. She’d raided the mini fridge and was perched in a chair by the window, legs tucked up, drinking orange juice straight from the bottle. Her hair was a disaster, her cheeks sticky. She looked like a wild animal and a princess at the same time.

I forced myself out of bed, pulled on my leggings, and padded into the bathroom.

The robe I’d worn was stiff with dried sweat and sex—disgusting, but also weirdly sentimental.

I half-expected to see last night’s version of myself in the mirror, haunted and furious.

Instead, even with the bags under my eyes, my skin looked almost…

luminous. Like maybe I was still alive after all.

“Don’t eat too much, sweetheart. We’re going to meet my brother for breakfast,” I heard Kieran say from the other room.

“What’s your brother like?” Rosie asked, voice muffled through the door.

Kieran’s answer came with a sharp inhale. “He’s…a lot. Bigger than me, smarter than God, way more fun at parties.”

Rosie nodded like this made perfect sense. “Like a supervillain?”

“Kind of,” I called out, intercepting. “But he wears much better suits.”

“Who is smarter than God?” Rosie pressed.

“Good question, kid,” Kieran shot back.

The banter helped, for a second, to keep the panic at bay.

Unfortunately, that could only last so long.

A half-hour later, the three of us crammed into the hotel’s glass elevator, floating down twenty-eight floors while Rosie pressed her face to the window, entranced by the city rushing past. Kieran’s hand rested steady on her shoulder, but he caught my eyes in the mirrored wall and mouthed: Ready?

I rolled my neck, tried to shake off the guilt. My turn to lead.

I braced myself for whatever waited on the ground floor. Tristan Callahan had always seemed like the sort of man who didn’t need to threaten you to be dangerous. Still, there was a certain comfort in facing the devil you knew—especially if you suspected he already knew everything about you.

We stepped out into the marble lobby, three ducks in a row.

Kieran found his stride and Rosie matched it, legs pumping like she was heading to the front lines.

I trailed behind, suddenly aware of how we must have looked: a man too big for his own shirt, a kid with juice stains and a cyclone of hair, and me, hiding behind a Celtics hat and sunglasses that cost more than my monthly mortgage.

The breakfast place was two blocks away.

It was cold, the streets bleached out and empty, the sky colorless.

Rosie kicked at the slush, swinging her hand in Kieran’s like she’d never known a world where she couldn’t trust him.

Kieran’s head was up, every step measured, eyes flicking to every car, every doorway, every face that might matter.

He didn’t do paranoia—not on the surface—but the man had an in-built radar for trouble, and it showed in the way he moved.

We cut down Tremont, then through a construction plaza, Kieran’s shortcuts always absolute and never once Googleable. It left me a little breathless and a little annoyed, but that was just Kieran: always two steps ahead, even when you didn’t want him to be.

The breakfast spot was tucked into a red-brick corner, black-mullioned windows, a line of early risers forming at the door.

Of course Tristan would pick the place with a hand-lettered menu and a basement full of private rooms. We skipped the host’s desk and slid through the hush of regulars and silver-haired Sunday types, up a staircase and down a side hallway.

Rosie drank it all in: the fancy chairs, the smell of coffee, the nervous energy of the waitstaff who seemed to know exactly who we were and how little they wanted to cross us.

Tristan was already there when we walked in, seated at the head of a table meant for ten but set for four.

A single cup of black coffee sweated into its saucer in front of him.

He didn’t stand. Just watched us enter, brows knitting in a way I couldn’t quite read—approval, calculation, maybe even hunger.

This wasn’t his house. But the decision had been out of our hands. Tristan had decided where we were going to meet.

He looked nothing like Kieran. And exactly like him.

Older, sharper, with grey dusting his temples and beard.

Same cold light eyes, same impossible stillness.

Tattoos curled around the backs of his hands, visible even under the cuffs of a navy suit.

No tie. Top button undone. The kind of power play that would’ve felt ridiculous on anyone else. On Tristan, it just landed.

Kieran hesitated for half a second at the entry—just long enough to register. Then he moved, pulling out a chair near Tristan but not beside him, settling Rosie into the seat between them. I took the open spot across from Kieran, diagonal from Tristan.

“Ruby,” Tristan said. “It’s good to see you.”

No it wasn’t.

I didn’t say anything.

He sipped his coffee, eyes flicking to Rosie. “This must be your daughter,” he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “She looks just like you.”

Kieran, unbothered, poured Rosie more juice from the carafe. The server appeared, hands only shaking a little, and set down silverware. “Would you like to hear the specials, gentlemen—”

Tristan didn’t even look at him. “We’ll take the usual,” he said, and the server vanished.

As soon as we were alone, Tristan leaned in. “Kieran said there was urgency. That you needed help.”

For a second, I forgot how to breathe.

I’d expected threats. Instead, he just watched me, all the usual Callahan bravado stripped away, leaving…

urgency. In that moment, I truly believed he wanted to help us; that he saw us as family and he would protect us, just like Kieran said.

Even the way his hand rested on the table was calculated—relaxed, but only because the other hand was ready to snap to violence if needed.

Violence in service of family.

Just like Kieran .

I could tell he was already doing the math: Rosie’s coloring, her jaw, the way she curled her little finger around the spoon. He’d reverse-engineered the whole situation before I’d even sat down. Kieran’s hand twitched when Rosie reached for the muffin basket, and Tristan didn’t miss it.

“I don’t want to be seen here, Mr. Callahan,” I said. “But the circumstances have left me no choice.”

“We can drop the formalities,” he replied, giving Rosie a look that was almost fond. “Considering your family’s position.”

Clearly, the Callahans didn’t operate on love or loyalty. What held them together was simpler—and harder to break. You could hate each other’s guts, but if someone else came for you? That was war.

Rosie seemed unfazed, either not listening or pretending not to. She was busy building a tower out of spoons and napkins, quietly draining her juice like this was any other Tuesday.

Beside me, Kieran didn’t say a word, but I could feel it in him—that bone-deep promise. He’d let the city burn before he let anyone touch us.

“Okay, Tristan,” I said. “Let’s skip the theater. Last time we spoke, you asked me not to pursue the DA role.”

“That’s not quite right. I asked you not to pursue my family if you became DA. Which you have. Congratulations.”

“Well, your brother,” I said, nodding to Kieran, “thinks there’s something bigger at play here than just your family’s interests.”

Tristan weighed my words, eyes tracking every syllable. He smiled, crow’s feet deepening. “I appreciate Kieran’s confidence in my intelligence, but if the threat isn’t coming from us, I doubt it’s significant.”

I wanted to call his bluff, but the truth was, I didn’t know. Not yet. My mind was a minefield, the urge to grab Rosie and run so strong it made my teeth hurt. But there was an old part of me—a mechanism I thought I’d broken—that wanted to win against this man, to out-maneuver the legend.

So I leaned in, elbows on the white linen, chin up. “Kieran says there’s surveillance. Not federal. Not standard. Something high-end, freelance. You know the market. Who could afford it?”

Kieran stayed quiet, eyes locked on his brother.

Tristan’s smile softened. He turned to Rosie. “What do you want for breakfast, darling?”

She didn’t hesitate. “French toast sticks.”

“My daughter loves those, too,” he said. “She’d eat nothing else if she could.”

Rosie giggled.

Tristan snapped his fingers, the tiniest signal, and someone in the restaurant snapped to attention. “Where do you go to school?” he asked. “And remind me of your name?”

I didn’t want Tristan Callahan talking to my daughter. But there was no stopping it. If anything, he might be the only reason we survived this.

“Her name is Rosie,” I said. “She’s in second grade at Tynan. She likes art, and YouTube, and unicorns and bunnies. She loves books. You are not to talk to her outside this room, ever.”

“Of course not,” Tristan said, already bored with the warning. He turned back to Rosie. “Do you like horses?”

She cocked her head. “Only the tall ones. Ponies are boring.”

He grinned, wolfish and genuine. “Me too. Did you know racehorses can run faster than cars on some Boston streets? My daughter and I go to the track sometimes. My son isn’t as interested. I’ll tell Kieran to take you, if you ever want that. Would you?”

“That sounds fun!” Rosie said.

Fuck…he knew exactly what she was doing. She was already warming to him, eyes bright with the kind of delight she reserved for magicians and troublemakers.