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I poured cream into a ceramic pitcher and set out three mugs, each with its own story. Mine was chipped at the edge from when I’d dropped it during an argument with Tristan; his was oversized and dark blue, just like his eyes; and the one I chose for my mother was an elegant porcelain piece, with a delicate rose painted near the rim. She’d given it to me when I moved in with Tristan, a reminder, she’d said, that no matter where I was, a part of her would always be with me.
The irony of it wasn’t lost on me.
“Ade?” Tristan’s voice broke through my thoughts, his heavy footsteps growing louder as he approached the kitchen.
“Yes,” I called out, working to keep my voice steady. He appeared in the doorway, his once crisp white shirt now stained with specks of red that refused to fade.
“Need a hand?” he asked.
I turned to look at him, noticing the way the morning light streaming in through the kitchen window highlighted the weariness in his eyes. There was a drawn quality to his face that tugged at my heart.
“No, I got it,” I replied, forcing a smile as I turned to face him. His eyes, those deep blue gems, scanned my face for any sign of distress. God, even in the midst of all this, he was still worried about me.
“Are you sure?” He asked, his voice barely above a whisper. His gaze was locked on mine, with so much concern it made my heart ache.
“I’m sure,” I said firmly. But as he lingered in the doorway, I felt my walls crumbling. “Actually...” I murmured, hesitating for a moment before finally stepping aside to let him help.
“Thank you,” he mumbled as he joined me by the counter. The tension eased somewhat and we worked in companionable silence for a few minutes.
“Your mother is a lot,” he said.
“Absolutely. Sorry about that,” I replied. “But she’s very good at cleaning.”
“I noticed that,” he said.
As he chuckled, I watched his shoulders slump slightly as if a small weight had been lifted off them. His laughter was brittle, short-lived, but it was there. And despite the situation we found ourselves in, I found solace in it. Tristan, my Tristan, still had the capability to laugh in the face of adversity. That thought alone helped me continue with our macabre task.
After finishing up in the kitchen, we joined my mother back in the living room. The sight that met us was drastically different from when we left just a few minutes ago. What had once been a crime scene was now just another room. The blood stains were gone, replaced by the faint scent of bleach and lemon, and the eerie silence was punctuated only by the hum of the vacuum cleaner my mother was currently handling.
She turned the vacuum cleaner off before she spoke to Tristan. “You’ll need to handle the body,” she said. “For now, I put a tarp under him so he doesn’t keep bleeding on your floor”
Tristan nodded, his eyes hardening at her words. He looked away for a moment before glancing back to me. I could see the fear etched in his features, but he was doing his best to mask it. For a moment we just stood there, our gazes locked, before he finally broke away, turning back to my mother.
“Mama,” I began hesitantly, “We need to talk.”
Her sharp gaze was on me instantly. She crossed her arms over her chest, an indication she was preparing for a serious conversation.
I swallowed hard, casting a quick glance at Tristan who was now focused on his hands. His silence during this moment wasn’t helping. My mind raced as I tried to piece together what I wanted to say.
“You didn’t have to come here,” I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper.
Her eyes softened slightly at my words, but she remained quiet, waiting for me to continue.
“You’re my daughter, Adriana,” her voice choked with emotion. “And Tristan...” she glanced next to me where he sat, still silent but listening attentively, “he’s practically my son-in-law. This is our fight too. This was my fight well before the two of you got together. There’s a reason I’m married to your father, love.”
“Mama, we don’t want you to get hurt,” I blurted out, my frustration bleeding into my words. “This is our mess, let us handle it.”
The room fell silent as my words hung heavily in the air. Tristan’s eyes found mine and he tried for a smile.
My mother simply studied me for a moment, her cool gaze never wavering. Finally, she let out a long sigh and unfolded her arms, her shoulders slumping slightly in defeat.
“I know what you’re trying to do, Adriana,” she said, her tone soft but firm. “But understand this - your father and I were in this business long before you were born. We’ve seen things that would turn your blood cold.” Her gaze flickered over to Tristan briefly before returning to me. “We are not as fragile as you think.”
My throat tightened at her words, the hard truth of them stabbing at me like a knife.
“Yes, Mama,” I managed to reply, a knot forming in my throat. I knew she was right - they were not fragile. They were hardened by years of dealing with the ruthless world of the Mafia. But they were also my parents, and the thought of them getting hurt because of our mistakes was a burden too heavy to bear.
Tristan finally found his voice again, “We just don’t want you to bear our burdens, Alessia.”
