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.”
“Did my father send you?”
He drew back slightly, eyes narrowing as he searched mine. Silence stretched, measuring how serious I was.
“Sorry,” I said. The edge in my tone lingered. “That sounded harsh. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine,” he cut in, soft. “Your father just wanted to make sure you got home safely.”
I pointed toward the cloakroom and started walking, papers stacked in my arms. He fell into step.
“Are you interested in ancient history?” I asked over my shoulder.
“Not really. But you never stop learning. Want me to carry something?”
“Gladly.” I handed him the documents, grabbed my backpack, and together we left the museum.
Evening settled over the city: muted bustle, slow light. I stole a glance at him—quick, fleeting—enough to feel the weight of his presence. Quiet. Unassuming. His gaze never strayed, posture steady, movements so controlled they almost disappeared into the crowd. You could pass him without ever noticing him, and still I wondered how anyone could miss him.
