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.”
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.
