Mythoughts slid to Damian. Where was he now? Did he think of me? Miss me? Or had he already found someone else? The ache flared. Every night I wrote him a message, then left it unsent—tucked into my notes. I couldn’t cut him out. He was in my soul, in my blood. I knew a day would come when I’d try to find him again.
“I can make it home alone, Tristan. You don’t have to walk me. Otherwise, it feels like my father is having me watched.”
“Your father asked me to see you home on days when there are disturbances in the city. He has enemies here, Daisy. This isn’t about control—it’s protection. So yes, I’ll make sure you get home safely.”
I stopped, exhaling hard. “Where exactly do you see disturbances?” I gestured at the peaceful city, gold with the setting sun.
“They’re not the kind you can point to. Gang members where they shouldn’t be. Signals you can’t see with the naked eye. So I’ll walk you—whether you want me to or not.”
At the restaurant, he’d been barely present—quiet, withdrawn. Now he spoke. Not much. Not personal. Just enough. The calm, measured way he chose what to say—never more than necessary—felt more honest than any smile.
“You’re persistent, you know that?” I said with a small smile.
Fifteen minutes later, we reached my house.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“You’ve got a nice place,” he said, glancing around.
“I hardly have any things yet. Most of my stuff is still in Cold Spring. What do you want? Soda, Coke, alcohol?”
“A Coke.”
“So—how did you meet my father?” I asked, handing him the can.
Tristan sat on the couch, legs spread, leaning back. “Long story. My parents were old friends of his. We knew each other when I was a kid. After they died, Franco practically adopted me.”
I frowned. “Their names?”
“Carlos and Amelia Bjanares.”
My mouth fell open. “You’re the child of the Bjanares?”
He nodded, took a drink.
“I remember them. But I never saw you.”
“They kept me away from anything tied to the Mafia.”
“How did they die? My father must’ve told me once, but I can’t recall.”
“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.
