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“Shhh,” he soothed, sitting down next to me and pulling me into his embrace. His touch was tentative at first, as if he were afraid I might shatter completely, but when I didn’t pull away, he held me tighter. He couldn’t tell me it was going to be okay, it was probably not going to be okay, it would never be okay.
But I was safe in his arms, and there, I cried for everything that had happened, for everything that could never be. Just a moment, despite the danger, despite the chaos of our lives, I let myself believe that everything would be okay.
Until I pulled away from Tristan and looked into his blue eyes. “You were right,” I said.
His brow furrowed. “About what?”
“About killing my dad,” I replied. “You need to kill him. Because if you don’t, he’s going to kill you first.”
Chapter Twenty-Four: Tristan
Istepped out onto the balcony, the brisk Boston air a sharp slap against my skin. The city sprawled below me, indifferent to the chaos it cradled in its concrete arms. Adriana’s words echoed in my head: I was going to have to kill her dad. The weight of it settled like lead in my chest.
Shaking off the cold that has nothing to do with the weather, I fished my phone from my pocket, thumbing through the contacts until I found the one I needed. “Get a car to the beach,” I barked into the receiver when Ray’s line picked up. “Kieran needs a ride.”
“Got it, boss,” he said.
I called Kieran after that. He answered after only one ring. “You done with Vinny?” There was a moment’s silence, and then a grunt of confirmation. “Good. Clean it up quick.”
I hung up without another word.
Turning back to the room, I watched Adriana. She was curled up by the fire, the flames casting a warm glow over her delicate features. Her dark hair fell in waves around her shoulders, and for a moment, I let myself forget the blood that taints both our hands. She looked so peaceful, so damn beautiful, and I hated that I’d pulled her deeper into this world of violence and shadows.
I pushed the door open and stepped back inside, the warmth of the room wrapping around me. But it did little to chase away the chill in my bones. It wasn’t supposed to be like this—us against the world, love entwined with death. Yet here we were, and as I looked at her, all I could think about was how much I love her.
“Adriana,” I called softly, not wanting to startle her. She looked up, her eyes meeting mine, and there was a fear there that cut me deep. I wanted to take it away, to make things right, even though I knew some stains wouldn’t wash out.
“Let’s eat something, yeah?” I suggested, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “It’ll help.”
There was no guarantee in those words, but maybe if we went through the motions, pretended normalcy, we could fool ourselves for just a little while longer.
She nodded, a small smile pulling at the corners of her mouth, and I could see the effort it took her. We were both playing roles now, trying to keep the darkness at bay with every mundane act, every slice of normal life we could mimic. But I would do it, over and over, if it meant keeping her safe, keeping her with me.
I moved to the tiny kitchen with her and rummaged through her sparse cabinets, looking for something, anything to feed us.
The cupboards are as bare as our current situation, and I can’t help but feel responsible for the emptiness around us. But then, nestled behind a box of pasta, I found a bag of potatoes. It was not much, but it would do.
“Jacket potatoes okay?” I asked Adriana, holding up my find.
“Sure,” she said, her voice small. “I’ve never had one before.”
“It’s just baked potatoes. You’ve never had one?” I was genuinely surprised. It was a staple back home. Comfort in an edible form, if you will.
“Never,” she confirmed with a shrug. “I mean, as a side. Never as a meal.”
“Then you’re in for a treat.” I tried to inject some warmth into my voice as I pierced the potatoes with a fork and popped them into the microwave. It hummed to life, a simple tune in the background.
As the potatoes cooked, I gathered cheese, sour cream, and butter—luxuries in a time like this—and set them on the counter. When the microwave dinged, I pulled out the hot potatoes, sliced them open, and dressed them with the toppings. I handed one to Adriana, watching as she took her first bite. Her eyes lit up, and for a moment, the shadows lifted from her face.
“It’s good,” she said, a hint of surprise coloring her tone.
“It’s cheese and butter and salt,” I replied. “Of course it’s good.”
She nodded. “Right.”
“Mom used to make them all the time,” I said, nostalgia lacing my words. “Simple, but fills you up.”
Adriana fell silent after that, her gaze lost in the flickering flames of the fire. There was something on her mind; I could see it weighing her down. I couldn’t stand to see her troubled. Not if I could help it.
