Back Again

**Elysia**

The heavy thud of the passenger door closing sealed me inside Tristan’s gleaming black Aston Martin. As he slid into the driver’s seat, the premium leather creaked beneath his weight. He hit the ignition, and the V12 engine roared to life with a deep, guttural vibration that hummed through the floorboards and traveled straight up my legs.

I sat there for a moment, letting the reality of the situation wash over me. It felt surreal. Growing up, cars were our shared obsession. We spent countless summer afternoons sitting on the sun-baked curb outside my old house, flipping through stolen car magazines. We used to memorize the engine specs, the horsepower, and the sleek aerodynamic lines of the ridiculous, overpriced machines we swore we would own one day. Tristan had always fixated on the Aston Martin, claiming the British engineering was unmatched. It was a pipedream for a couple of kids with empty pockets. Yet, here we were. The fantasy was real, wrapped in polished black metal and smelling of expensive leather and masculine cologne.

I shifted in my seat, turning my head to watch him. I could not deny the obvious truth—he looked undeniably sexy maneuvering the leather-wrapped steering wheel. The dim streetlights passing overhead cast sharp shadows across his strong jawline, highlighting the rugged transition from the boy I once knew to the man sitting beside me. A handsome man belonged in a machine like this.

“So, tell me, Tristan,” I said, breaking the comfortable silence as we cruised down the illuminated avenue. “How come you’re even attending this engagement party?”

We knew each other inside out back in the day, but years had passed. The Tristan I remembered always talked about leaving this place behind, buying a one-way ticket, and traveling the globe. Staying in town and attending a high-society event hosted by my estranged family did not fit his old narrative.

He did not miss a beat. He threw a quick glance my way before returning his focus to the dark asphalt ahead. “Ah, I forgot you don’t know,” he said, a casual smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

I frowned, my brow furrowing in confusion. “Know what?”

“I work for your father now.” He delivered the news while staring straight out the windshield, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather.

The words hung in the confined space of the sports car. My breath hitched. I shifted uncomfortably against the plush leather seat, a cold, heavy knot forming in the pit of my stomach. Working for my father was not a standard corporate job. It was a plunge into an underworld I had spent my life trying to escape.

“So,” I began, choosing my words with caution, unable to hide the deep unease trembling in my voice. “Does that mean you’re a part of the... family business?”

The phrase tasted metallic and wrong on my tongue. The mafia equated to pure danger. It meant blood on the streets, illicit backdoor deals, unmarked graves, and sudden, brutal violence. My family’s name carried a heavy, terrifying weight in this city. Why would Tristan, the boy with grand dreams of exploring the world and leaving this darkness behind, tie himself to a life where a rival's bullet could end it all tomorrow?

Tristan let out a low, rumbling chuckle. The sound vibrated in the tight cabin. “Family business, you say?” He shook his head, a smirk playing on his lips, dismissing my hesitation. “Is that what you call it? Don’t be so modest, Elysia. It’s just the mafia.”

He said it with such blatant nonchalance.

“Mafia,” I repeated out loud, the word feeling foreign and jagged. “You’re saying it like it’s a normal nine-to-five job. What happened to the dream of traveling the world?”

“Who said I don’t get to travel the world, *bellissima*?” he murmured, flashing a grin. “I get to travel around, and I get to make a massive amount of money. That’s a win-win situation for me.”

He laughed, the sound rich and deep. My stomach fluttered unexpectedly at the drop of the Italian word. *Bellissima*. It sent a sudden rush of heat straight to my chest.

I blinked, processing the linguistic slip. “You speak Italian now? Since when?”

My mother was Greek and my father was Italian. Growing up, I navigated a chaotic, bilingual household. I spent my early years listening to my father’s booming, authoritative Italian echoing through the halls, contrasted by my mother’s rapid, soothing Greek. English was our neutral ground, the only language we shared as a whole family. Hearing Tristan effortlessly speak my father’s native tongue was jarring. It blurred the lines between my innocent past and the criminal present.

“Well, you’re kind of forced to speak the language when you're constantly surrounded by Italian mobsters,” he explained, a dark amusement coloring his tone. “Gotta defend myself if someone is out there planning to shoot my white ass.”

He laughed out loud as if the constant threat of assassination was the punchline to a brilliant joke. I could not help but laugh with him, even though the reality of his words sent a chill down my spine.

“I guess you’re right about that,” I conceded.

“What about you?” Tristan asked, tossing another glance my way. “Still speak the language, or is it long forgotten?”

My brain went into immediate tactical overdrive. I was fully fluent in Italian. I knew the curses, the slang, and the subtle, dangerous nuances of the language. But Tristan did not need to know that. More importantly, no one in my father’s mansion needed to know that. Knowledge was power in a house full of vipers. If my father’s mobster associates believed I was ignorant of their native tongue, they would speak freely around me. I intended to use that secret to eavesdrop on every careless whisper. I needed to know exactly what they were planning behind my back.

“Nah, it’s mostly forgotten,” I lied smoothly, shifting my body to face the windshield so he could not read my eyes. “I still know a few words here and there, but nothing major. It’s just me and mom these days, so there really isn’t any need to speak Italian.”

I bit the inside of my lip, hoping he did not catch the deception in my voice.

Tristan turned his head slightly and flashed another beautiful, devastating smile. His ocean-blue eyes twinkled under the passing streetlights. He was a striking man, and looking into those eyes made me nervous. I had to force myself to look away before I got caught staring.

“Yeah, I get that,” Tristan said, totally unaware of my tactical lie. He tilted his chin up, puffing his chest out in a mock display of duty. “No need to worry. I’ll be your personal translator during your stay.”

I let out a genuine chuckle at the sight of him. He looked so proud of himself. “Funny how the tables have turned, huh? It used to be me translating stuff for you.”

He grinned widely, snapping his attention back to the road as we took a sharp turn.

The massive, imposing iron gates of my father’s grand estate loomed ahead in the darkness, flanked by high stone walls topped with security cameras. Two heavily armed guards in tailored black suits stood post at the entrance, their eyes scanning the vehicle. Tristan rolled down his window, flashed a laminated pass, and gave a sharp nod. The heavy metal gates groaned open, revealing the sprawling, manicured grounds of the lion's den. As the Aston Martin crept up the long, winding cobblestone driveway, a tight knot of nervousness expanded in my chest, squeezing the air from my lungs.

“We’re here!” Tristan announced in a singing, mocking tone.

Ready or not.

He pulled the car up to the lavish, brightly lit entrance of the mansion and killed the engine. I reached for my seatbelt, desperate to get moving and burn off the anxious energy coursing through my veins.

“Hold on a second,” Tristan commanded smoothly.

He slipped out of the driver’s seat and rushed around the hood of the car with purposeful strides. Acting the perfect gentleman, he pulled my door open and offered a strong, warm hand to help me out.

I looked up at him, flashing a small smile of gratitude. “Thank you.”

I placed my hand in his, gripping his rough fingers as I tried to execute a graceful, elegant exit. It was a massive miscalculation. I stepped out with my right foot first. The black silk of my dress caught the movement, and the long, daring slit rode up dangerously high. The fabric parted, fully exposing my bare, tanned leg to the cool night air.

Tristan’s ocean-blue eyes snapped down. They locked instantly onto the exposed skin. A knowing, heated smirk spread across his lips. A fierce rush of heat shot straight up my neck and flooded my cheeks. The air between us cracked with heavy tension.

Before I could pull the silk down and regain my composure, Tristan’s gaze dropped even lower. He focused intently on the silver aquamarine pendant resting flush against the bare skin of my chest.

“Still wearing the necklace, I see,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave.

He did not step back. Instead, he reached out. The back of his fingers lightly brushed against the gemstone, sending a jolt of electricity skipping across my skin.

I forced a sweet, innocent smile, trying to ignore the frantic beating of my heart. “Of course. Nono gave it to me. This way, he’s always with me. I never take it off unless I’m getting wet.”

The second the words left my mouth, the gentlemanly facade shattered into a million pieces.

Tristan’s hand dropped to his side. A wicked, predatory smirk took over his handsome features, sharpening the angles of his jaw and transforming his face into something dangerous. He leaned in close, invading my personal space. The rich scent of cedar, mint, and expensive cologne wrapped around me, intoxicating my senses. His broad chest hovered mere inches from mine, trapping me in his magnetic pull. His ocean-blue eyes darkened to the shade of a midnight storm, locking deeply onto mine with raw, undeniable hunger.

“Yeah?” he asked. His voice was a low, husky rumble, dripping with heavy, overtly sexual intent. He held my gaze, refusing to let me look away. “Exactly how often are you wet, then?”

My mind short-circuited. My heart hammered a frantic, erratic rhythm against my ribs, beating so hard I swore he could hear it echoing in the quiet night. My face burned a brilliant, fiery crimson. The sheer boldness of his question, the unfiltered, raw sexual weight behind it, left me breathless. I was trapped in his dangerous proximity, the heat radiating off his solid body suffocating me in the best, most terrifying way possible. Every nerve ending in my body was awake, reacting to the filthy, vivid image his words provoked.

I smacked his solid arm lightly, using the movement to break the paralyzing spell, and took a quick step sideways to escape his overwhelming presence.

“Shut up!” I hissed, flustered and refusing to meet his scorching gaze. I pointedly looked down at the small gift box clutched in my hands. “You know what I mean. C’mon, let’s go inside. I don’t want to be late.”

Tristan let out a smooth, deep laugh that vibrated through the crisp night air. He stepped right beside me, closing the distance once again. He reached out and plucked the small gift box from my trembling fingers, holding it effortlessly in one hand. With his other hand, he reached around and placed a warm, guiding palm flat against my lower back.

“Ready?” he asked softly.

I gave a small, resolute nod. I squeezed my eyes shut for a brief second and took a massive, steadying breath, bracing myself for the mafia chaos waiting inside.

Together, we stepped toward the massive double doors of the mansion.