Tristan kept his eyes on the couple, picking up his bag and taking slow steps backward. He was watching the TV again, his eyes rapt with anticipation.
He was a sucker for romance.
Marie tilted her head down to the glove hand of her husband, sniffing slightly. Her lips betrayed the slightest smile before she scoffed, turning her head away as she accepted the sweet-smelling token, "You're so cheap. We have so many of these roses."
Henry grunted, "Aw woman, gimme a break." He chuckled softly, leaning over the counter and giving Marie a kiss on the cheek, causing her to giggle as if it was their 5th anniversary twenty-five years ago.
It took everything single fiber of his being not to cheer as Tristan watched the scene unfold. His heart swelled, and he quickly left before his heart grew too big for his lean chest.
Maybe they could have a chocolate shop. Ira would like that. He could make her what she loved every day. He could try new flavors of truffles to see that tiny toothy smile and watch those voluptuous lips take a slow bite, the chocolate melting against that pink tongue...
... He was getting ahead of himself. "You are a cheesy romantic," He murmured softly to himself, imagining those words in Ira’s voice. He chuckled, acknowledging that fact as he walked away. He hummed softly, enjoying the warm caress of the sun on his skin.
He finished his errands and bought the perfect bouquet of roses for his fiery date for their special night. All he needed was a change of clothes.
Nothing could go wrong.
… Shit.
He stopped, grimacing as that cliche immediately cursed him.
A pair of large men, using the hood of their sweatshirts to hide their faces, walked past him. Their shoulders hunched upwards as they headed towards the flower shop, their dark, loose clothing clashing with the heat of the day.
Tristan took a side step into a small alley, his eyes narrowing as those men jerked their heads side to side before the larger one lifted his leg and slammed the sole of his boot against the door. Tristan flinched, grinding his teeth, “Give me a break...” He looked around before sighing, hearing the screams coming from the shop. He looked down at roses, giving a little wistful smile before his eyes narrowed, and he nodded, “I’ve got time.”
He whistled as he casually strolled back to the flower shop. He paused when he made it to the door, quietly sneaking it, stepping over the glass as his blue eyes pierced into the back of the heads of the two punks.
One dressed with too many gold chains held a knife to Henry’s neck, the old man’s arm nearly breaking behind him, “I heard you two haven’t been paying Don Dante a cent! We’re here to collect.”
The old man grunted, trying to struggle his way out, “We have nothing to do with them! What the hell are you talking about?!”
“Shut up, old man!” That raspy, nasal tone came from the smaller of the two, his eyes shifting back and forth, holding a large knife to Marie, “Just give us all you got, and we won’t tell them a thing! You know how the Don can be.”
Tristan grimaced, hearing that name. Dante. Of course, of all the names to use, it would be that one. Though racketeering was one of the many lists of crimes connected to that family, he doubted that holding a small floral shop hostage would at the same level. He smirked, lowering himself a bit against the shelves of lilies before setting the bouquet on that shelf, slowly letting out a low whistle.
“What the fuck?” Was the exclamation from the one holding Henry hostage before a large bag of fruit, bread, meats, and cheeses (would’ve been an excellent lunch) slammed into his face. With that sudden surprise, the old gardener was free, immediately running towards his wife, “Marie!”
Tristan cursed, seeing the young man turn, pulling his knife back to stab the older, slower man. Tristan sprinted, taking the roses with him, pushing the heavier criminal against the shelves, before shoving his arm in front of Henry to shield him from the knife. He hissed, feeling the knife cut him, a little grimace on his face, “Ow...”
The smaller punk jumped back in surprise, “Who the fuck are you?”
Tristan ignored the pain as much as he could, unleashing a dashing smile, “Just a satisfied customer.” He held up the bouquet with a grin, “Their roses are absolutely stunning.” His grin faded, and he leveled a cold, stormy glare, “Are you sure ‘Don’ Dante would want lowlife assholes like you tossing around a name like that.”
“Shut up, prick!” The skinnier punk lunged at him. Tristan dodged it, tossing the roses to blind the man before jumping up and level a solid kick into his gut. He turned to Marie, holding up his hand, “Hide behind there!” He then turned his attention to the old gardener struggling to get up, “Henry! Run and get help-”
A solid punch to the head quieted him. He hissed in pain, remembering the bigger man he shoved out of the way. His knees almost buckled, but he held his ground, giving a little smirk, “Forgot about you there.”
The larger man covered in chains growled, his right hand back into a first and his left hand out with his knife, “Ain’t looking so pretty now, pretty boy.”
Tristan spat out a bit of blood before beaming, “I think your girlfriend would beg to differ, ugly.”
It was a low blow, meant to distract and anger.
It worked.
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