12. Chapter Twelve Adriana
Water dripped from my skin, the remnants of our heated moment still lingering as I stepped out of the steamy shower. Wrapped in a towel, I found Tristan sitting on the edge of the bed, his broad shoulders hunched, hands clasped between his knees. He looked up at me with those piercing blue eyes, the weight of the world seemingly resting on them.
“Adriana,” he began, his voice tinged with concern, “you’ve been quiet. Thought you were psyched to go to church.”
I laughed. “Psyched is a bit much.”
“Right, my point stands. You’re not being too chatty.”
I hesitated, biting my lip. I knew I should have mentioned it earlier, but secrets and silence had become an unfortunate habit in our lives. And he had come back so upset, there had been no time to talk about it. “Actually, yes,” I admitted, fidgeting with the hem of my towel. “While you were out... I went through some things.”
“Things?” Tristan’s brow furrowed slightly.
“Files,” I clarified. “I thought maybe the Callahans had information on the Orsinis—on my father.”
His reaction was immediate; surprise etched into his features before he quickly masked it. “You did what?” The words came out sharper than I expected, and I took a small step back.
“Tristan, I—“ I started, but he held up a hand.
“Adriana, why didn’t you tell me you were looking into this? I could have helped.” His annoyance was palpable, but so was the hurt that underscored his words.
“Because you’re always busy, and this just happened yesterday when I couldn’t find any more info on the embezzling,” I said softly, meeting his gaze. “With everything going on, I didn’t want to burden you further.”
“Busy or not, Adriana,” he stood up, closing the distance between us, his presence enveloping me. “I’m never too busy for you. You should know that by now.”
His touch was gentle as he brushed a damp strand of hair from my face. There was a tenderness in his eyes, a promise that no matter the chaos that swirled around us, I was his constant. I nodded, feeling the tension ease from my body. With Tristan, even in the midst of turmoil, there was a sense of safety—a sanctuary within the storm.
Fuck, I loved him so much.
“Okay,” I whispered, leaning into him. “I’ll remember that.”
“Good,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “Now, tell me about these files you found.”
And there, in the quiet of our bedroom, I laid bare the secrets I’d uncovered—the files on my father that I couldn’t make sense of. As I spoke, Tristan listened, his expression flickering with every detail I shared. It was in these moments, vulnerable and raw, that I remembered why I loved him—why, despite the danger that cast shadows over our lives, I trusted him more than anyone else.
“I’ve never seen these,” Tristan said. “But it doesn’t surprise me at all my dad kept files on yours.”
“There’s a lot of info here,” I replied. “Tons of things to sort through. Not exactly clues but…I’m learning things about my dad I didn’t know.”
“Well, let’s learn them later,” he said, standing up. “We need to get to church now.”
The sun was high up in the sky when Tristan and I found ourselves seated in an old wooden pew, the church around us filled with a calm that seemed at odds with the turmoil in our hearts. It was a reconciliatory service, meant to heal and unite, yet as we sat side by side, I couldn’t help but feel the weight of secrets between us.
I glanced over at Tristan, his profile etched against the fading light from the stained-glass windows. His eyes were fixed on the altar, a seriousness about him that made him seem even more unreachable than before. The air was heavy with the scent of incense and the whispered prayers of the faithful, wrapping around us like a shroud. In that moment, amidst the hushed tones and solemn faces, the contrast between our lives and this sanctuary of peace couldn’t have been starker.
At least he was a Catholic. This would have been terrible if he wasn’t.
As the priest spoke words of forgiveness and redemption, I found myself lost in thought, contemplating the darkness that had seeped into the corners of our existence. I shifted uncomfortably on the hard bench, feeling the cool wood through the thin fabric of my dress. When the opportunity for confession presented itself, I felt a tug in my chest—a need to unburden my soul that I could no longer ignore.
“Tristan,” I murmured, leaning close so only he could hear. “I need a moment.”
He turned to me, his expression softening as he took in my troubled gaze. He nodded, understanding without needing further explanation, and I squeezed his hand before sliding out of the pew.
The confessional was small, a darkened booth that promised anonymity and solace. I stepped inside, the door closing with a gentle click behind me. The dim light barely illuminated the lattice screen that separated me from absolution.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” I began, my voice trembling slightly with the weight of my confession.
“Speak, my child,” came the gentle reply from the other side, a voice I had come to trust in times of distress.
I hesitated, the words catching in my throat. How could I explain the web of lies and deception that had ensnared my life? How could I admit to the fears that kept me awake at night, the doubts that clouded my judgment?
The people I’d had a hand in killing?
“Father, I am lost,” I confessed, the words spilling out of me now. “I have seen things, discovered truths about my family that I cannot reconcile with who I am trying to be. There is a darkness that follows me, one that I fear will consume everything I love.”
“God sees all, Adriana,” the priest said softly. “He knows the burdens you carry and the strength within you to overcome them. Trust in Him, and trust in yourself. You are not alone in this fight. And you’re not responsible for the sins of others.”
His words were a balm to my frayed nerves, offering a glimmer of hope in the shadowed corners of my mind. I knew that the path ahead would not be easy, that the choices I made could alter the course of our lives forever. But in that moment, within the safety of the confessional, I allowed myself to believe that redemption was still within reach.
Maybe…maybe even for Tristan.
“Thank you, Father,” I said. We finished confession and he told me to go in peace, which didn’t seem possible as soon as I stepped out of the confessional and back into my world, though this time with renewed resolve.
Now that the service was over, everyone was mulling around before leaving the church. This was an Orsini and Callahan crossover service, a real exclusive type, and Irish and Italian mobsters talked to each other as if they were all friends who hadn’t been killing each other’s families.
Another one of Tristan’s show of forces.
This one, at least, felt a lot nicer than the little he’d told me about what had happened at the warehouse.
The stained glass windows cast a kaleidoscope of colors across the church’s stone floor, but I barely noticed. My gaze was fixated on Tristan as he stood among our friends, his tall frame tensed like a coiled spring. There was a tightness around his eyes that didn’t sit well with me.
“Hey,” I said, nudging my way to his side, “you okay?”
“Fine,” he replied curtly, not meeting my eyes. His jaw clenched when Killian, one of his closest friends since childhood, clapped him on the shoulder. The gesture meant to be comforting seemed to spark irritation instead.
“Tristan, you look like you’re about to start a fight right here in the house of God,” Killian joked, but his laughter faltered when Tristan shrugged off his hand and stepped back.
“Later,” Tristan muttered to me under his breath, his tone clipped.
“Is something wrong?” Concern laced my voice as I watched him. Even his blue eyes, usually so clear and commanding, seemed clouded over, like a stormy sea.
“Ade, not now.” He looked around at the crowd dispersing from the church service before focusing back on me. “We’ll talk later.”
I nodded, understanding the weight behind his words. Mafia life was never simple; it was a tapestry woven with threads of loyalty, power, and secrets—too many secrets. And it was clear Tristan was entangled in them now more than ever.
“Okay,” I acquiesced, touching his arm lightly to reassure us both. “Later then.”
As people milled around us, offering prayers and farewells, I couldn’t help but feel a shiver run down my spine. Whatever was brewing in Tristan’s world, whatever had him cutting conversations short and pushing friends away, it involved me too. We were in this tangled life together, for better or worse.
“Let’s go home,” he said quietly, the softness in his voice a stark contrast to his earlier demeanor. As we walked out, hand in hand, I knew that whatever lay ahead, we’d face it side by side. But for now, the silence between us spoke volumes, and the questions burning in my mind would have to wait until ‘later’ became ‘now.’
“Home? You mean back to my parents house?”
Tristan rubbed his temple. “Fuck. Right. I forgot all about that brunch. There’s no way to get out of it, is there?”
“Not unless you want my dad to kill you,” I said.
He shook his head. “No, no. We’ll meet my brothers there, I guess.”
“Okay,” I said. “And don’t worry. Unless you do anything egregious, my father won’t kill you.”
He smiled at me. “Is getting his daughter pregnant egregious enough?”
I didn’t smile back. “Yes,” I said. “But only if you don’t marry me.”