TRISTAN'S POV
Giovanni’s departure had left a lingering hollowness in me, a gnawing dissatisfaction that echoed the unfinished intimacy. His hand had brushed mine, a fleeting, tantalizing touch that had ignited a slow burn within me. I’d felt myself succumbing to the heat, the promise of something more, only for him to be ripped away by Dmitri’s summons, by the urgent whispers of the mafia business.
Now, I slumped against the cool, empty expanse of Giovanni’s king-sized bed, the sheets still faintly warm from his presence, a cruel reminder of what had been so abruptly stolen.
My gaze drifted to the window, a portal to the darkening night. A convoy of sleek, black cars, their headlights cutting through the gloom, was led by Giovanni’s distinctive vehicle. I watched, a knot tightening in my chest, as the taillights receded, swallowed by the inky blackness, taking with them the warmth, the anticipation, the hope of a shared night.
A quick, lukewarm shower did little to wash away the lin
