“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.
Chapter 25 Daisy
Soft murmurs and dim light soaked my father’s restaurant; cigar smoke tangled with the scent of roasted meat in the air. Mafiosi clustered at scattered tables, voices pitched low. My gaze swept the room and snagged on a group near the entrance. Tristan sat at the center—listening more than speaking, leaning back, arms loose, his posture saying:I’m here, but I don’t belong to you.
When he noticed me, he barely lifted his chin. A small nod. Calm. Almost careless. Yet his eyes stayed a beat too long—deliberate, not accidental.
One of my father’s bodyguards appeared at my side and gave a curt gesture, guiding me toward the back.
At the table, my father rose—smiling too bright, too warm.
“Daisy, my darling, I’m so glad you came. Let me introduce you to a close friend, a man who is part of our family.” He gestured toward a figure with his back to me. “Il Lupo. The Wolf. But I think you already know him.”
Myheart stopped. The room emptied of air. The name split something open in me—too familiar, too impossible. The Wolf turned, and I was staring into Damian Miller’s face. The face I thought I knew. My body locked; breath caught. Inside, everything screamed—and nothing came out.
“Hello, Daisy,” Damian said softly. Low. Almost gentle. And under it—the fracture. The thin edge of regret.
My father sat again, satisfied, as if this were nothing at all.
“I suppose you’ve met Damian Miller a few times in New York. He was your boss, wasn’t he? A few days ago, I called him and told him you were here. He was worried. He said you’d asked him for some time away.”
Frozen. Damian. Here. In my father’s restaurant. Not just as Damian Miller—but asIl Lupo. The Wolf. Not just an antiques dealer. Not fate.
Planned. Controlled. Intended.
“Daisy, please, sit,” my father said, motioning to the chair across from Damian.
I sank into it, dazed, my heart thundering like it might tear free.
