13. Tristan #2
That evening, I meet my father and Konstantin for dinner downstairs.
I’m escorted to a table near the back of the restaurant by the hostess, where the two of them are already waiting, sipping undoubtedly expensive liquor and chatting.
I slide into my chair, immediately asking for a drink, and look at the two of them.
“Well?”
“Good to see you made it in one piece,” Konstantin says, taking a sip of his drink. “You look a little tired, Tristan. Are your new duties not settling well with you?”
My father gives me a look that tells me, in no uncertain terms, that I should think about what I say next.
“I’m doing fine,” I assure him. “Just long nights, acquainting myself with everything I’ve inherited and what I need to do to move Russo’s empire forward.”
“ Your empire now,” my father corrects. “Russo is dead.”
“Indeed.” I take the drink that the waitress brings me out of her hand, the burn of the whiskey welcome. “Here’s to dead rivals.”
Konstantin chuckles. “And your marriage? How is that agreeing with you? Your father said that Simone was proving to be a bit… difficult.”
“It’s fine.” I realize, too late, that it’s fine twice in such quick succession suggests that everything is not, in fact, fine. “Simone is adjusting, just as I am. There are no problems.”
I sound like I’m protesting too much, I’m sure. Konstantin is watching me with a bland expression that gives away nothing, and my father’s gaze is narrow, taking in what I’m sure he knows is a lie.
“Simone is spirited,” Konstantin says finally. “Her father brought her in line when she was young enough to be taught that he was in charge, and that she deferred to him. But a husband is different. Particularly a husband that she didn’t expect.”
“She’s adjusting,” I say tightly. Simone—and the difficulties of our marriage—is the last thing I want to talk about, particularly with my father sitting there looking at me as if he knows exactly how poorly it’s going.
Konstantin chuckles. "To being owned by an Irishman? Yes, I imagine that's quite an adjustment for the former Russo princess."
I feel the muscle in my jaw tick. I don’t like hearing him talk about her, even though I know Konstantin doesn’t have the slightest interest in my wife.
I don’t want to hear any man talk about her.
"Let's talk business," I say abruptly, tossing back the rest of my drink as I glance at the menu. “We didn’t come here to gossip, we came here to make deals. Let’s focus on that.”
My father isn’t fooled. I can feel his eyes on me.
But for the rest of the meal, we discuss the business that we came here to do—drug shipments, cartel deals, casino investments.
I should be completely focused on that, but my thoughts keep drifting back to Simone, wondering what she’s doing.
If she’s glad to be alone. If she’s disobeying me in some way.
If, in some small part of herself, she misses me.
The last thought is laughable. But she’s impossible to get out of my mind.
When dinner is over, I head back to my room, pouring myself another drink from the minibar.
I know I shouldn’t stay in here brooding.
I should go downstairs, hit the casino, find a woman to take my mind off my wife.
It wouldn't be the first time I've used sex to clear my head.
A good fuck is exactly what I need to regain my equilibrium, to remind myself that my wife is a means to make an heir, not a woman to obsess over.
But the thought of touching another woman, of being inside someone who isn't Simone, makes my stomach turn. I've never been faithful to anyone in my life. I’ve never needed to—I’ve never been exclusive with anyone.
Never made any kind of commitment. But I did make a commitment to her, and even though I know fidelity among mafia men is something that rarely exists, the idea of betraying her—even when she clearly hates me—feels wrong.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I pour another drink and sink into one of the leather chairs, staring out at the neon chaos of the Strip.
I've always prided myself on being in control, on never letting emotions cloud my judgment. But Simone has stripped all of that away, left me raw and wanting and completely out of my depth. Her defiance, her bravery, her refusal to bend… I realize, as I stare out at the lights, that I respect it as much as I’m aroused by it.
It pisses me off, makes me feel slightly insane—but I’ve never known a woman like her.
She’s maybe the only woman in this world who could be my match. Who could stand toe-to-toe with me and not back down. And as I sit there, swirling the amber liquid in my glass, I wonder if I’m wrong about what I thought I wanted.
Maybe I don’t want to break her or make her submit. I don’t want to quell her fire. I just want her to let me step into it without being burned to death.
I want her to admit that she wants me, too. That admitting desire doesn’t mean letting go of her pride.
I want her to admit that if she were me, she’d have done the same things I did. That if she were offered the opportunity, she’d take power for herself without question. I didn’t do all of this to hurt her. I did it because it’s what I was always meant for.
And a part of me feels like she was always meant to be my wife.
We could be something good if she’d just meet me halfway.
The problem is, I don't know how to fix it. I don't know how to make her stop hating me without losing the part of her that makes me feel alive. Her fire, her defiance, her refusal to submit—it's what draws me to her in the first place. But it's also what's tearing us apart.
My phone buzzes with a text from Vitto, the head of my security: Everything quiet at home. Your wife spent most of the day reading in the garden.
I chuckle, setting my phone back down. Of course she did. Probably planning my demise while surrounded by roses and sunshine.
I look back out toward the neon lights of the Strip, thinking about what the night would bring if I weren’t married.
Or if I weren’t feeling so guilty about the possibility of infidelity.
My marriage to Simone is a business arrangement, and even she wouldn’t claim that I’d be doing anything wrong by fucking another woman.
Hell, she might prefer it, especially if it meant I slaked my lust enough that I wouldn’t come home ravenous to touch her.
But that’s the problem. Another woman isn’t her . And my lust for her is about more than just warm, wet flesh wrapped around my cock. It’s about how Simone makes me feel.
My father would say she’s just an accessory. Just a key. But she feels like more than that.
I can practically hear his voice in my head, what he’d say if he knew the thoughts rattling around in there right now. Go downstairs. Find a woman. Remind yourself what you are—a king, not a slave to some Italian princess who thinks she's too good for you.
My jaw tightens. All my life I’ve listened to him.
All my life I’ve followed his advice, his rules, his path.
And it hasn’t led me astray. I am where I am because of him, because I’ve followed the rules of our world, because I’ve driven myself hard enough to earn power despite being the second son.
And what have I done since I’ve gotten it?
Obsessed over a woman who hates me. Made myself sick with desire over a woman who doesn’t want my touch.
Fuck it.
I down the rest of my whiskey and stand, straightening my shoulders. That voice in my head is right. I’m the second son of the Irish King in Boston, a prince among men, the second-most powerful man in Miami.
I don't beg for anyone's attention, and I don't lose sleep over a woman's opinion of me.
It’s time I remember that, and put Simone out of my head.
—
The casino floor is packed, full of tourists eager to lose money and get drunk. I make my way to one of the private rooms, in a high-roller section where the bets are high and money is no object for anyone playing there.
I settle at a blackjack table, tapping my fingers against the felt as I watch the cards being dealt. The dealer is a blonde in her twenties, gorgeous and curvy, and as soon as she sees me, her eyes linger on me for a moment too long.
"You're new here," she says with a smile, her voice low and sultry. "I would have remembered you."
“Just here for a couple of nights.” I slide the cards toward me, tossing down my chips for the buy-in. Ten grand, to start.
She pushes her lower lip out slightly, her eyes teasing. Her mouth is deliciously full. “I could show you around, if you like,” she purrs, her voice low enough that only I can hear. Her gaze sweeps over me, and there’s hunger in it.
I should take the bait. Should let her show me exactly what Vegas has to offer.
I can tell she’d give me a night to remember—her eyes promise that there’s probably nothing she wouldn’t do.
But all I can think about is Simone, the way she looks at me with those dark eyes, the way she fights me even when her body is screaming for my touch.
“What can I get you to drink?” A cocktail waitress appears in a tight black dress, her cleavage practically spilling out of it, her eyes sweeping over me with that same look. She's beautiful, and clearly interested. Everything I should want.
“Whiskey,” I tell her, dropping a chip onto her tray for a tip.
From my blunt tone, I know she can tell that a drink is all I’m interested in.
Even though, if I wanted to, I’d bet all my chips I could convince her to take a ten-minute break and have her on her knees in a corner faster than I could win a hand at this game.
I watch her go, watch her hips sway in that tight dress, try to picture her riding me with it rucked up around her waist. It does nothing for me—except to make me think of Simone bent over that chair, her ass red from my belt, her pussy swollen and glossy with need.