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His words were a balm to my frayed nerves, offering a glimmer of hope in the shadowed corners of my mind. I knew that the path ahead would not be easy, that the choices I made could alter the course of our lives forever. But in that moment, within the safety of the confessional, I allowed myself to believe that redemption was still within reach.
Maybe…maybe even for Tristan.
“Thank you, Father,” I said. We finished confession and he told me to go in peace, which didn’t seem possible as soon as I stepped out of the confessional and back into my world, though this time with renewed resolve.
Now that the service was over, everyone was mulling around before leaving the church. This was an Orsini and Callahan crossover service, a real exclusive type, and Irish and Italian mobsters talked to each other as if they were all friends who hadn’t been killing each other’s families.
Another one of Tristan’s show of forces.
This one, at least, felt a lot nicer than the little he’d told me about what had happened at the warehouse.
The stained glass windows cast a kaleidoscope of colors across the church’s stone floor, but I barely noticed. My gaze was fixated on Tristan as he stood among our friends, his tall frame tensed like a coiled spring. There was a tightness around his eyes that didn’t sit well with me.
“Hey,” I said, nudging my way to his side, “you okay?”
“Fine,” he replied curtly, not meeting my eyes. His jaw clenched when Killian, one of his closest friends since childhood, clapped him on the shoulder. The gesture meant to be comforting seemed to spark irritation instead.
“Tristan, you look like you’re about to start a fight right here in the house of God,” Killian joked, but his laughter faltered when Tristan shrugged off his hand and stepped back.
“Later,” Tristan muttered to me under his breath, his tone clipped.
“Is something wrong?” Concern laced my voice as I watched him. Even his blue eyes, usually so clear and commanding, seemed clouded over, like a stormy sea.
“Ade, not now.” He looked around at the crowd dispersing from the church service before focusing back on me. “We’ll talk later.”
I nodded, understanding the weight behind his words. Mafia life was never simple; it was a tapestry woven with threads of loyalty, power, and secrets—too many secrets. And it was clear Tristan was entangled in them now more than ever.
“Okay,” I acquiesced, touching his arm lightly to reassure us both. “Later then.”
As people milled around us, offering prayers and farewells, I couldn’t help but feel a shiver run down my spine. Whatever was brewing in Tristan’s world, whatever had him cutting conversations short and pushing friends away, it involved me too. We were in this tangled life together, for better or worse.
“Let’s go home,” he said quietly, the softness in his voice a stark contrast to his earlier demeanor. As we walked out, hand in hand, I knew that whatever lay ahead, we’d face it side by side. But for now, the silence between us spoke volumes, and the questions burning in my mind would have to wait until ‘later’ became ‘now.’
“Home? You mean back to my parents house?”
Tristan rubbed his temple. “Fuck. Right. I forgot all about that brunch. There’s no way to get out of it, is there?”
“Not unless you want my dad to kill you,” I said.
He shook his head. “No, no. We’ll meet my brothers there, I guess.”
“Okay,” I said. “And don’t worry. Unless you do anything egregious, my father won’t kill you.”
He smiled at me. “Is getting his daughter pregnant egregious enough?”
I didn’t smile back. “Yes,” I said. “But only if you don’t marry me.”
Chapter Thirteen: Tristan
The Orsini estate’s dining room was a battlefield disguised as a place of peace. The long table, set with fine china and crystal, held more than just the lavish spread of brunch items; it held the glances and subtle exchanges of a family well-versed in the art of war. I sat beside Adriana, whose tense shoulders spoke volumes about her comfort level in this setting.
My brothers looked even more ill-at-ease than I felt, which was some comfort. Not much, obviously, but at least it was funny.
“Tristan,” Silvio’s voice broke the silence that had settled over us like morning fog. “Adriana, have you two come any closer to setting a date for the wedding?”
I glanced at Adriana, who straightened her back, the dark strands of her hair framing her face like a shield. She met her father’s gaze with one that matched his own - firm and unyielding. “Not yet, Daddy.”
“What’s the hold up?” Silvio asked. “You’re showing. And glowing, obviously, but…”
