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His eyes held mine for a moment, sparking with an emotion I couldn’t name, then he nodded slowly, looking around at the mess we still had to deal with. “Okay,” he agreed, his voice low, laced with the day’s exhaustion.
And so we cleaned. We moved around each other in comfortable silence, picking up discarded napkins and plastic cups that guests had left behind. Every now and then Tristan would glance my way, his gaze intense and questioning but he kept silent. I did too. It seemed right, somehow, letting the night lend us its tranquility as we worked side-by-side.
By the time we finished, the first light of dawn was peeking through the large windows of the mansion. The fabricated glamour from the wake had been stripped away, leaving behind a bareness that was disquietingly peaceful. Malachy didn’t have taste, he had money. Everything was bland and expensive, including the grand crystal chandeliers and thick Persian rugs. Yet, in the quiet aftermath and with the morning’s soft radiance filtering through, a strange sense of home had begun to settle in.
“There’s something beautiful about this place when it’s empty,” I said, looking around the immaculate room that now bore no trace of the night’s events. “In a cold, distant kind of way.”
“I think you just described my dad,” Tristan said, his voice surprisingly quiet. “Or maybe you just described me.”
“I don’t think you’re like Malachy.”
Tristan chewed on his lower lip. “Yeah. Not yet.”
I watched as he moved to the bar, his shoulders hunched in a way that made my heart ache. He poured himself a glass of some amber liquid - probably an expensive whiskey - and took a long, slow sip.
“Tristan,” I started, but he held up a hand, stopping me.
“I’m okay, Adriana,” He said, though the hollow look in his eyes betrayed his words. “Just...a lot to process. I’m sorry you can’t drink this, by the way. If it makes you feel any better, it’s disgusting.”
“It looks great.”
“No, it’s amazing actually. I just didn’t want you to feel like you were missing out.”
I laughed. “Typical,” I teased, playing along. “You’re just saying that to make me jealous.”
He shrugged, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips as he took another sip. “Maybe.”
We lapsed into another comfortable silence. As the sun climbed higher, the mansion started to come to life again. I could hear the distant hum of kitchen appliances, the clatter of dishes being washed, and the faint rustle of house staff moving about.
“Do you want to get some breakfast?” Tristan finally asked, his gaze resting on me. The shadows under his eyes revealed that he hadn’t managed any sleep, but a fresh set of clothes and a quick wash had done wonders for his appearance.
“Is this that date you were talking about?” I replied.
“The first one of many,” he said.
We ended up at a small, upscale restaurant that seemed to be a favorite of Tristan’s. The staff greeted him by name, the warm welcome a stark contrast to the icy reserve that permeated the mafia world we were both part of.
Over a breakfast of designer omelets and fresh fruit, we talked, almost like any other couple would. Almost like we weren’t products of rival Mafia families. Almost like Tristan wasn’t the son of Malachy Callahan and I wasn’t Adriana Orsini, daughter of Silvio Orsini. Almost like we didn’t have an unborn child who stood to inherit the bloody empire that was being built on deception and fear.
Still, it felt...nice. Normal even, in an entirely abnormal way. I found myself relaxing into him, my earlier worries slipping away with each shared smile and moment of eye contact. Despite everything, we were still us. And in the moment, sitting across from him with sunlight streaming into the restaurant and watching the shadows play upon his hair, I could almost believe in the version of us that we could be.
“I could get used to this,” I said, my fingers resting lightly on my rounded belly.
His gaze softened, flickering down to where my hand rested. “So could I,” he said quietly. There was a depth of emotion in his words, a vulnerability he rarely showed. “How have you been feeling, by the way?”
“Really tired, but okay.”
“Good, good,” he murmured, his gaze still trained on my belly. His fingers twitched in his lap, like he wanted to reach out and touch it. For a moment, I thought he would, but then he pulled back, stuffing his hands into his pockets.
“Should we get going?” He asked, standing up and throwing a few bills onto the table when we had finished our meal. I blinked up at him, taken aback by the sudden change.
“Yeah... sure,” I stammered, pushing myself up from the chair. A hand at my elbow steadied me; Tristan was always steadying me.
The ride back to his mansion was quiet - peaceful. The sun was high in the sky now, casting deep shadows in its wake. The city bustled around us as we drove through familiar and unfamiliar streets. I watched as stores and restaurants passed by in quick succession - a blur of colors and shapes that made my head spin.
“I need to go through my dad’s things and call his lawyer to figure out his estate,” Tristan said. “But you really need to sleep. I’ll probably be in his bedroom for a while. You can use my childhood bedroom.”
“Oh, what am I going to find there?” I said.
