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.
Themuseum 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.”
