Page 4 of Silent Night With Adrian

I stare at the ceiling, taking in slow, even breaths as she shifts beside me, her fingers trailing along my abs. She wants more—a second round, a whisper of something that feels deeper. But there’s nothing deeper. Not with me.

“That was... intense,” she says, voice breathy, a light laugh following. “You sure know how to keep a girl satisfied.”

I smirk, giving her the practiced smile she expects—the charming playboy, here for a good time, nothing more. “Glad I could help,” I say smoothly, though there’s an edge beneath my words she doesn’t catch. She’s still lost in the afterglow, still buying into the illusion I create for all of them.

She leans in to kiss me, but I don’t let her. Instead, I slide out of bed, reaching for my pants, feeling her eyes on me, disappointment shadowing her expression. She doesn’t ask, but the question hangs in the air.Is that it?

I pull on my jeans and check my phone. Massimo’s name flashes on the screen, his third call in the last hour. Shit.

I’ve been dodging him since the hit on Marco Vitale. Two weeks of spiraling, burying myself in sex, alcohol—anything to numb the memory of the blood on my hands. But the distractions never last.

I’m about to hit ‘Ignore’ when I hear the door creak open.

“So, this is where you’ve been hiding.”

Fuck.

Massimo’s voice slices through the quiet, his silhouette sharp in the doorway. His gaze lands on the girl beside me, her eyes widening as she realizes she’s not meant to be here for whatever’s about to go down. He looks exhausted, worn down, like he hasn’t slept in days. There’s anger simmering beneath the surface, but mostly... he looks worried.

“Adrian,” he says, his voice carrying a dangerous edge. “We need to talk.”

I grab my shirt from the floor, pulling it over my head, my back to him. “Can it wait? I’m in the middle of something.”

Massimo’s eyes flick to the woman, who’s now trying to discreetly pull the sheet over herself, her face flushed with embarrassment. He ignores her completely, his focus locked on me.

“Don’t pretend this is about your latest hookup,” he says, his voice tight.

He’s right. This isn’t about her. Hell, I don’t even remember where I met her—some club, her body pressed against mine, her hand slipping into mine as we left without a word. She knew what I was offering—one night, no strings. They always know. They always follow.

But now, she’s lingering, and I don’t have the patience for it.

“You should go,” I say, not bothering to look at her. “Now.”

Her eyes flash with hurt, but she slips out of bed, pulling on her dress in silence. She pauses at the door like she wants to say something, glances at Massimo, then decides against it. She leaves without looking back.

The door clicks shut, and the room feels heavier, the tension between me and Massimo thickening in her absence.

“Whatever you’re here to say, I don’t want to talk about it,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair.

Massimo’s jaw tightens. “You don’t have a choice. This isn’t going away just because you fuck someone new every night.”

His words hit harder than I expected, exposing something raw inside me.

I open my mouth to argue, but he holds up a hand. “I’m not here to lecture you. I’m here because you’re my brother, and I can’t have you going off the rails like this. Not when there’s more coming. Not when the Vitales are still out there, and we’ve got unfinished business.”

“What are you talking about? I thought we were done with the Vitales.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he gives me that long, piercing look—the one that says he’s assessing how deep I’m drowning in my own mess. “You need to get your head on straight. You look like hell,” he says finally, his voice softer now. “Go shower, get your shit together. Then we’ll talk.”

I hesitate, but he’s right. I feel like hell. My body aches, stiff and weary from nights spent trying to fuck and drink away the image of Marco Vitale’s face in his final moments. It hasn’t worked. It never does.

Without another word, I head to the bathroom.

The scalding water pours over my skin, but it can’t wash away the weight pressing down on me. Marco Vitale’s death clings to me like a second skin, his final moments flashing behind my eyes every time I close them. It should feel like a victory—one less Vitale to deal with. But instead, it’s left something raw inside, something I can’t seem to shake.

And then, unbidden, her name drifts into my mind.

Mia Vitale.

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