Chapter 24 Daisy
Together with Vincent, I stood in front of a display case, studying an artifact from ancient Greece.
“I’m certain. The inscriptions and the style match the era perfectly. But we can examine it again if you don’t trust me.”
Vincent smiled. “I trust you. Your knowledge is remarkable, Daisy.”
Vincent was the new director of the Museo Nazionale Romano—a striking young man who had only just finished his studies the year before, stepping into the role of his predecessor with ease.
For a week now, I had been working at the museum.
A few days ago, my father bought me a small house in an idyllic spot.
I’d wanted an apartment, but he’d found this single-story home that had just come on the market.
It was perfect—not too far from the museum and close enough to the hills that I could see them from my windows.
And yet, despite the newness of everything, my thoughts kept circling back to Damian.
I missed him so much my fingers ached to dial his number.
Every time, I stopped myself. The distance was good for me.
It gave me clarity. I refused to let his darkness swallow me again.
Still, I couldn’t let him go—couldn’t kill the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, he would change. For me. For us. For love. Foolish.
For now, I poured myself into the work—the hush of the rooms, the stillness etched into stone and bronze. History didn’t ask questions. It just waited.
I analyzed and documented new acquisitions, maintained the collection, curated exhibits. Today I bent over a tray of coins from the early Roman Republic, examining their worn surfaces through a magnifying glass.
By late afternoon, I packed up and made my way to my father’s restaurant.
The air inside hit me at once—dense, almost suffocating.
It clung like smoke, edged with something raw and dangerous.
These weren’t ordinary patrons. Mafia men.
Weight and power pressed into the darkest corners of the city.
As I crossed the room, gazes followed—silent, heavy, pressing like a tide.
My heartbeat quickened. I walked as if nothing unsettled me.
In a private room at the back, a long table crowded with men.
Every head turned when I entered—every head except one.
He didn’t look up. Black leather motorcycle jacket, dark hair, sharp features.
Tattoos marked his hands and crept up his neck, the rest lost to shadow.
His attention stayed on his phone. Not quite one of them—more like something that had slipped into their circle, colder, quieter, as if none of this mattered to him.
My father’s men greeted me warmly—smiles, nods, respect.
“Tristan,” my father said, deliberate. No reaction. “Tristan.” Sharper. At last, he lifted his head—slowly, like surfacing from another world. Our eyes met for a flicker. It burned. Dark, unyielding, edged with danger.
“This is my daughter, Daisy.”
I offered my hand. Without a word, he set his phone aside.
He didn’t rise—just clasped my hand from his seat.
Cool, firm, too steady. The touch lingered a heartbeat, then he leaned back again.
My father’s brow furrowed slightly as he studied him, then shifted his gaze to the man across from me.
Tall, broad-shouldered, features cut from stone.
He rose, smile warm, almost tender. I knew who he was. And what he could do.
“Do you remember me, Daisy?” His deep voice carried a rough warmth.
“Marcelo Berlini,” I said, stepping into his embrace. Lo Squalo. The Shark. My father’s right hand for years—a feared, respected killer with a kind smile that never fooled me.
“How could I forget my father’s best friend? It’s good to see you again, Marcelo.”
“You’ve grown,” he said, drawing back to take a better look.
“And you too,” I teased, and he laughed—low, gravelly, breaking the tension for an instant.
“I’ve become an old man.”
“How old are you now?”
“Fifty-six,” he said, mischief sparking.
“That’s not old yet.”
“Tell that to my gray hairs,” he smirked, combing a hand through silver-streaked hair.
“Your father told me you studied.”
“Art history,” I said, quiet pride in my voice.
“And do you enjoy your work?”
“I love it. Every day I learn something new.”
Marcelo nodded. “I’m glad you’ve found your path. Your father is very proud of you. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes. I know.”
He pulled out a chair for me. I sat. For a beat, silence blanketed the table. My father, at the head, spoke in a calm voice that carried authority.
“Daisy, I’d like to introduce you to some of my closest friends—though you probably know a few already.”
He gestured to his right. “This is Il Corvo—the Raven.” Jet-black hair cut close, sharp, watchful eyes. I remembered him; even as a child I’d sensed his menace.
“Rocco,” I said. He inclined his head.
“And here we have…”
“Domenico. The Devil,” I finished.
“Nice that you remember me, little one,” Domenico said. His grin was wide but cold, the kind that sent a shiver along the spine.
My father turned to the young man at my right, who’d drifted back to his phone. “And Tristan here is called the Falcon. He always thinks one step ahead and has become indispensable to our circle.”
Tristan. The name clicked—half-mentions in my father’s calls, a shadow in the background: lethal, calculating, striking before anyone knew he was there.
Now he was here beside me—young, almost too young, lounging in black leather, phone in hand like this had nothing to do with him.
The relaxed, almost bored demeanor didn’t match the myth.
My father pointed to the only blond man at the table. “This is Benjamin Ohara, originally from England. He’s lived in Italy eight years. Our computer genius.”
I nodded; he returned it.
“Next to Benjamin sits Vito. Il Serpente—the Snake. Why he has the name… you’d rather not know.” Smirks rolled around the table.
“Two more belong to the circle,” my father added. “They rarely join us in person. Antonio, the Bull, and Il Lupo, the Wolf. They handle affairs abroad.”
“I understand,” I said softly.
Food arrived. Voices rose—loud, overlapping, a constant murmur beneath the clink of glass and scrape of silverware. Lively, almost celebratory, undercut by power and control.
My gaze slid to the other women—comfort in not being the only one. Then back to Tristan. Detached. Uninterested in the chaos. Leaning back, eyes on his phone. He only looked up when someone addressed him directly.
“And how do you like the food here?” I blurted. The second it left my mouth, I wanted to smack my own forehead. Tristan raised his head slowly. His dark eyes locked on mine—calm, unhurried, measuring.
“So-so,” he said, flat, neither warm nor cold.
Heat rose in my chest. I mumbled something inane about the room’s decoration.
A flicker of a smile—quick, real, gone too soon. The tension loosened, but not enough to breathe. “Do you work in New York?” he asked, tone steady, interested without intrusion.
I nodded. “I… I worked in an antiques shop. But I’m not there anymore.”
Something flickered in his gaze—brief, thoughtful—then he nodded once and said nothing more. Relief and unease tangled inside me.
Marcelo entertained the men with family stories, laughter booming. Still, the presence of the Mafia hung over everything like an invisible shadow.
“And what are your next plans, Daisy?” he asked.
“For now, the museum. I’m organizing a new exhibition—it’s a big challenge, but I’m looking forward to it.”
“If you need support, or someone to watch your back, you can count on us.”
For a brief moment, I felt safe. Protected.
“Excuse me,” Tristan murmured, slipping out. He didn’t return. Only the smell of leather and cold smoke lingered, along with a trace of something I couldn’t name.
The museum tour had just ended. Polite applause.
Then scattering footsteps, echoes fading beneath the high ceilings.
My voice still hung in the air as I answered the last two questions.
I’d noticed Tristan among the visitors—discreet, detached, hovering at the edges.
When the final guests left, he stepped forward.
“That was impressive,” he said. “You made history come alive.”
“Did my father send you?”
He drew back slightly, eyes narrowing as he searched mine. Silence stretched, measuring how serious I was.
“Sorry,” I said. The edge in my tone lingered. “That sounded harsh. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine,” he cut in, soft. “Your father just wanted to make sure you got home safely.”
I pointed toward the cloakroom and started walking, papers stacked in my arms. He fell into step.
“Are you interested in ancient history?” I asked over my shoulder.
“Not really. But you never stop learning. Want me to carry something?”
“Gladly.” I handed him the documents, grabbed my backpack, and together we left the museum.
Evening settled over the city: muted bustle, slow light.
I stole a glance at him—quick, fleeting—enough to feel the weight of his presence.
Quiet. Unassuming. His gaze never strayed, posture steady, movements so controlled they almost disappeared into the crowd.
You could pass him without ever noticing him, and still I wondered how anyone could miss him.
My thoughts slid to Damian. Where was he now?
Did he think of me? Miss me? Or had he already found someone else?
The ache flared. Every night I wrote him a message, then left it unsent—tucked into my notes.
I couldn’t cut him out. He was in my soul, in my blood.
I knew a day would come when I’d try to find him again.
“I can make it home alone, Tristan. You don’t have to walk me. Otherwise, it feels like my father is having me watched.”
“Your father asked me to see you home on days when there are disturbances in the city. He has enemies here, Daisy. This isn’t about control—it’s protection. So yes, I’ll make sure you get home safely.”
I stopped, exhaling hard. “Where exactly do you see disturbances?” I gestured at the peaceful city, gold with the setting sun.
“They’re not the kind you can point to. Gang members where they shouldn’t be. Signals you can’t see with the naked eye. So I’ll walk you—whether you want me to or not.”
At the restaurant, he’d been barely present—quiet, withdrawn. Now he spoke. Not much. Not personal. Just enough. The calm, measured way he chose what to say—never more than necessary—felt more honest than any smile.
“You’re persistent, you know that?” I said with a small smile.
Fifteen minutes later, we reached my house.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“You’ve got a nice place,” he said, glancing around.
“I hardly have any things yet. Most of my stuff is still in Cold Spring. What do you want? Soda, Coke, alcohol?”
“A Coke.”
“So—how did you meet my father?” I asked, handing him the can.
Tristan sat on the couch, legs spread, leaning back. “Long story. My parents were old friends of his. We knew each other when I was a kid. After they died, Franco practically adopted me.”
I frowned. “Their names?”
“Carlos and Amelia Bjanares.”
My mouth fell open. “You’re the child of the Bjanares?”
He nodded, took a drink.
“I remember them. But I never saw you.”
“They kept me away from anything tied to the Mafia.”
“How did they die? My father must’ve told me once, but I can’t recall.”
“Accident,” he said curtly. “I was eleven. And to this day, I don’t believe it was just an accident.”
“So—murder?”
“Probably.”
A chill rippled through me. Why had my father never told me how close he’d been to Tristan—or what really happened to his parents? My gaze slid, almost unconsciously, to the tattoos inked along his arms.
“Do you have any?” he asked.
“No.”
“Maybe you should get one,” he said, calm, almost casual. “Something small—a book, maybe. Tied to your work. My brother’s a tattoo artist. He’s good.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Our eyes met—longer than they should have. Something flickered in his gaze. Warmth? Interest? Then he shut it down, fast, the wall rising as if it had never cracked. He drained the Coke in one swallow, set the can on the table with a dull clack, and stood.
It took me a moment to move; then I followed.
“I wish you a pleasant evening, Daisy. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, not looking back as he opened the door.
“Wait—tomorrow?”
He stopped, turning halfway. His gaze was calm, almost detached. “Your father wants you at the restaurant after work. I think he has something to discuss with you.”
“And why doesn’t he tell me himself?”
A light shrug. “Because he has me for that.”
A quick, almost imperceptible wink cut through his composure, and then he disappeared into the night.