Roman Collahan had always figured that when it finally happened-when the man who once called him son exhaled for a final time-he'd feel something. Not forgiveness, not peace, but at least a tremor beneath the weight of all the things they'd never said. Instead, as Harry Collahan's chest stilled and the steady beep of the monitor faded to quiet, Roman felt nothing. The rage he'd hauled around since boyhood sat heavy inside him, unmoving, like stone packed into his ribs.
Richard stood near the bed, his shoulders trembling even as he tried not to let it show. Ronnie, the youngest, openly wiped at his eyes unashamed, clasping their father's limp hand like it would block him from losing another parent. The air smelled of disinfectant and wilted flowers, too clean to hold death, too sharp to hold memories. Roman looked at neither of his brothers. His gaze remained fixed on the man who taught him to build everything and then vanished the moment it mattered most.
He remembered the night their mother died, how she collapsed into the hallway bleeding, terrified, calling for Harry, and how Roman, only sixteen, had held her while waiting for help that came too late. Harry had been away at a meeting. That was the beginning of the end of their family. The vibrant home Roman grew up in became a quiet battlefield where words were weapons and silence was worse.
Now, the man who'd caused all that damage lay still, and Roman felt only the faint ache of old wounds tightening. Not grief. Just the echo of what grief could've been.
Hours afterward, following the funeral, the mansion of the Collahans felt colder than it usually did. It was jam-packed in hallways with guests offering their condolences, speaking in soft tones, and sympathetic gazes. Roman endured it all, towering above most of the crowd, expression carved from ice. Richard kept close to Ronnie, guiding him gently through the conversations. Roman stayed apart. That was their dynamic, and that was how it had been for years.
When the last visitor was gone, Mr. Davis, the family lawyer of long standing, called all three brothers into the living room. He came equipped with a thick file and the look of a man about to go into battle. Roman leaned back on the leather sofa, his arms crossed, his jaw tense. Richard sat erect, calm but concerned. Ronnie fidgeted anxiously with his sleeve.
"I know today has been difficult," Mr. Davis began, clearing his throat. "But your father insisted his final instructions be read immediately after his passing."
Roman snorted softly. Of course, Harry Collahan would still be dictating their lives from beyond the grave.
The attorney unrolled a handwritten paper, its letters all uneven, some of the words slanting in strange directions. Roman recognized the handwriting from the last few years—shaky, tired, meandering—and refused to acknowledge the pang in his chest.
"Your father wanted to explain his absences," Mr. Davis read on. "He said that he had someone he needed to protect… someone none of you knew about.
Richard blinked. Ronnie straightened. Roman's brow creased; irritation flashed hot.
Mr. Davis continued, "Your father stated he had a… companion. A woman he deeply trusted."
Roman clenched his jaw tightly. "A mistress? You are saying that?
Mr. Davis hesitated a moment, then nodded. "According to this will, yes. And she is involved in matters concerning the inheritance."
Richard sucked in a breath. Ronnie mouthed, "What?" like he couldn't believe it.
Roman got to his feet slowly, stepping forward and looming over Mr. Davis as if that could somehow wring a different answer out of him. "My father cheated on my mother and left everything tied to some stranger? Some woman we've never met?"
"I'm only reading what he wrote," the lawyer said resolutely. "This woman has been given influence over the estate. She must be part of every decision made regarding distribution of property.
"Influence?" Roman repeated, his voice cold. "Over what's rightfully ours?"
Ronnie looked overwhelmed, Richard hurt; but Roman—Roman felt a burn of fury underneath his skin, like wildfire.
He paced to the window, staring out into the dark yard. "He abandons his family for years and now we learn that it wasn't because of business or grief-it was because of a woman." The bitterness was heavy in his voice. "Unbelievable."
"There is more," said Mr. Davis quietly. "Your father requested that this woman be… respected. He said she was key to his final wishes."
Roman's head whipped toward him. "Respected? By us? He didn't respect us enough to tell us she existed!
"Roman," Richard said quietly, soothing him.
But Roman was far beyond calming.
He turned to Mr. Davis. "Who is she?"
"Misty Davis," said the lawyer. "She resides in East Manhattan. Here is the address.
East Manhattan wasn't even the type of place he'd expected. His anger sharpened. Whoever she was, she had stolen their father's time, attention, and apparently their inheritance.
Roman snatched the paper out of Mr. Davis's hand, scanning the address over and over again, as if committing it to memory would somehow help tear apart the confusion that was suffocating him.
"She's not keeping anything that belongs to this family," he said in a quiet, dangerous voice. "I'll see her myself."
"Roman," Richard repeated, soft but firm. "We should think— "I've thought enough," Roman cut in. "Tomorrow, I'm finding her." He folded the address and tucked it into his pocket, then turned to leave without another word. Whoever Misty Davis was, she had no idea the storm that was coming for her. And Roman had no idea she wasn't the enemy at all. Yet as he stepped out into the cold night air, Roman felt something strange beneath the anger—an unease he couldn't name. He told himself it was simple outrage, the kind that came naturally after years of resentment toward his father. But deep down, a small part of him wondered why Harry Collahan, a man who rarely trusted anyone, would tie his legacy to a stranger. Why he would write her name with such careful emphasis. Roman shook the thought away. Whatever truth waited behind that shaded address would not change the fact that he had been betrayed. He kept walking forward.