Page 78 of Bloody Vows
“Maybe. Maybe not.” He pauses as the waiter comes by, glancing at me. “Red or white?” he asks me, and I pause, surprised he’s bothering to get my opinion.
“Red,” I say finally, and he nods to the waiter.
“I’ll take the sommelier’s recommendation. Your best bottle of red.”
He looks at me, across the flickering candles between us. “What do you want to know about me, Simone?”
“Nothing,” I reply tartly, but it’s lost a bit of its bite. Whether I like it or not, he’s piqued my curiosity. And I think he knows that, from the way he’s looking at me with that tilt at the corners of his mouth.
“Did you ever want siblings, Simone?”
The change in topic startles me. “No,” I reply, just as quickly. “But I think my father was always disappointed that he didn’t have a son.”
“Why didn’t he marry again?” Tristan asks curiously. “Most mafia dons wouldn’t be content to not pass on their name.”
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “We never talked about it. We didn’t talk much, honestly. He had his expectations for me, and he’d ask me about how I was progressing in school, music lessons, that sort of thing over meals. But we never talked about anything… personal.”
“I see.” Tristan’s gaze holds mine, and I curl my lip with irritation.
“See what?”
“Why it’s so hard for you to relax. To open up.”
“Because you’re such afountof personal warmth,” I snap back, and he grins.
“Ask me something. Anything.”
I let out a breath through my teeth, but for some reason, I’m inclined to humor him. I can’t really figure out why, but for once, I don’t want to fight him on something so simple. “How many siblings do you have?” I ask finally, and he smiles.
“See how easy that was? Two,” he adds. “A brother and a sister. I’m in between the two of them. The middle child.”
“That explainssomuch.”
Tristan chuckles, pausing again as the waiter returns with the wine. It’s rich and dry and smells earthy, and I breathe in the scent, savoring it.
“My father taught us that strength was more important than anything else,” he says a moment later, taking a sip of his wine. “Me and my brother, at least. My sister was taught sweetness and compliance. My father is old-fashioned. He believes in tradition, in rules, in hierarchy. I’ve been raised with those beliefs all my life. Had them drilled into me from a young age.” He lets out a slow breath. “My entire life, I’ve wanted to prove to him that I’m more than just a second son. More than just a spare heir and the child in between the two he can use for his benefit. I always wanted toimpresshim. And it’s always felt like a Sisyphean task, like rolling the boulder up the hill only to need to start all over again.”
I take another sip, setting my glass down gently. “And that should make me… what? Sympathize with how you took over everything my father built? Understand why you’ve treated me the way you have?”
Tristan lets out a slow breath. “I don’t expect sympathy from you, Simone. But I would like to work toward understanding. It doesn’t have to be like this—how it’s been between us. None of it does.”
“Why should it be different?” I raise my glass to my lips again. “Maybe I don’t want to make it easy on you.”
“MaybeIwant it to be easier onyou,” he counters. “Did it ever occur to you that I don’t hate you the way you hate me?”
I scoff. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Doyou even really hate me?” Tristan looks at me keenly, his green gaze holding mine. “Or do you hate the situation? The fact that all of this wasn’t your choice?”
I narrow my eyes. “Don’t try to act like it’s different.You’rethe reason I’m in this situation.You arethe situation.”
“No,” Tristan says calmly. “Your father is the reason you’re in this situation. I merely took what was offered to me.”
My anger surges back up, bright and hot. “I didn’t offer it to you.”
“No,” he agrees, and I see a flicker of emotion in his eyes, something that startles me. “No, you didn’t.”
The waiter comes back to get our appetizer orders—a kale salad for me and the calamari for Tristan—and Tristan refills our wine glasses.
