The ringing droned in my ear, every heartbeat a blow against my ribs. My grip tightened on the phone. He had to know. He had to know where she was.
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 theMuseo 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.”
