by RuNyx .
The completely unruffled tone of voice did nothing to soothe her nerves. Why wasn’t he even slightly bothered by this? She could carve him open. Was she missing something?
Sweat broke out over her back, her wig itching on her scalp, but she focused on his back. Pulling out a second knife from her other thigh, she shoved it against his side, right against his kidney. His back tensed slightly more but his hands didn't waver, staying completely upright.
"What do you want?" he asked, the tone unwavering like his hands.
Morana inhaled deeply, gulped, and spoke. "The thumb drive Jackson gave you."
“Jackson, who?”
Morana dug her blades a fraction deeper in warning. “Don’t pretend you don’t know shit, Mr. Caine. I know everything about your dealings with Jackson Miller.”
His back stayed rigid, her knives a second away from breaking skin. “Now, where is the drive?”
There was silence for a few beats before he tilted his head towards the left. “My jacket. Inner pocket."
Morana blinked in surprise. She hadn't expected him to give it up so easily. Maybe he was actually a wuss under all that macho crap. Maybe the rumors and stories were all fabricated.
She looked at the black jacket, and it happened in the split second of her distraction.
Her back slammed into the wall beside the door, her right hand holding the knife up the wall, restrained by a tight grip. Her left hand with the knife came against her own throat, controlled by a much stronger, and much angrier Tristan Caine.
Morana blinked up into his eyes – his very blue, very pissed off eyes – stunned at the turn of events. She wasn’t prepared for this. Shit, she was so not prepared for this.
Morana gulped. The blade of her own knife clutched in her own hand was gripped by his, right against her neck. She felt the cool metal threaten her tan skin. His second hand, large, rough, held her other hand above her head, his fingers wrapped like manacles around her wrist. She felt his much larger, muscular body press into hers, his chest warm against her heaving breasts, the musky scent of his cologne invading her senses, his legs retraining hers, rendering her completely immobile.
Swallowing, she looked up into his eyes, straightening her spine. If she had to die, she wasn't going to die like a coward, especially not at the hands of someone like him.
He leaned closer, his face just inches from hers, his eyes cold and voice brutal as he spoke. "This spot, right here," he spoke quietly, pressing the tip of the knife against a spot right under her jaw on her tilted neck. "It's an easy spot. I nick you here, and you die before you can blink."
Her stomach churned but she grit her teeth, refusing to show fear, silently listening as he moved the knife to her fluttering pulse near the center of her neck. "This spot. You die but it won't be clean."
Her heart thundered with vengeance in her chest, her palms sweating at the look in his eyes. He moved the knife again to a spot near the base of her neck. "And this… You know what happens if I cut you here?"
Morana stayed silent, just watching him, his voice taunting, almost seductive with the temptation of death.
"You'll feel pain," he continued, undaunted. "Bleeding to death. You will feel every drop of blood that leaves your body.” His voice rolled over her skin. “Death will come, but much, much later. And the pain will be excruciating."
He held the knife steady to the spot, his voice suddenly chilling. "Now, if you don't want that, tell me who sent you and what drive you are talking about."
Morana blinked at him in confusion, before realization dawned. He didn't recognize her. Of course, he didn't. They had never really met, and as first meetings went, this one left a lot to be desired. He'd probably just seen her pictures in passing like she had his.
Wetting her dry lips, Morana whispered. "The drive is mine."
She saw his eyes narrow slightly. "Is it?"
Her own narrowed as well, the anger that had fled in the face of fear returning with a vengeance. "Yes, it is, you bastard. I worked my ass off on those codes and I'll be damned if I'll let you use it. Jackson stole it from me and I’ve traveled all the way from Shadow Port because I need it back."
There was a beat of silence, his eyes hovering over her features before surprise flared in them. "Morana Vitalio?"
Morana gave a sharp nod, careful of the blade at her throat. He looked her up and down, his eyes lingering on her wig and her lips, taking in every inch of her that he could before his gaze returned to hers.
"Well, well, well," he murmured, almost to himself as he pulled the blade away an inch, his scruffy jaw loosening now that he knew her identity.
She opened her mouth to ask him to take the knife away just as the door beside them banged loudly. Morana yelped a little in surprise and he let go of the hand above her head, putting his free hand over her mouth.
Seriously? What did he think she was going to do? Scream for help in the Outfit household?
"Tristan, have you seen anyone in the house? Someone knocked out Matteo downstairs," a heavy voice spoke from the other side, a slight accent deep in it.
Morana felt lead settle in her gut, her eyes widening as his gaze locked with hers, his right eyebrow rising as he answered back.
"No, I haven't." His eyes never moved from hers. "I'll be down in a few minutes."
Morana heard the steps shuffling away and after a few seconds, the hand from her mouth retreated. His body didn't.
"Would you mind removing the knife?" she asked quietly, her eyes pinning holes into him.
That raised eyebrow notched even higher before he leaned back in, the knife never moving an inch from the place. "You should know not to come into the house of the enemy, all alone, unprotected. And you should know never to sneak up on a predator. Once we catch the scent of your blood, it's a matter of the hunt."
Morana clenched her jaw, her palm itching to lay one on him and his patronizing attitude. "I want that drive back."
He stayed silent for one long second, before stepping back, releasing her arms but swiping the knives from her, checking them.
"Coming here was foolish, Miss Vitalio," he spoke quietly, looking at her. "Had my people found you, you’d be dead. If your people found out, you'd be dead. Did you want to start a war?"
Hypocrite much? Morana took a step closer to him, inches of space between their frames, glaring. "I'll be dead anyway, so it doesn't seem foolish. Do you have any idea what the contents of that drive can do? This hypothetical war you are accusing me of starting- imagine that but ten times worse." She inhaled deeply, trying to reason with him. "Look, just give me the codes so I'll destroy them and be on my merry way."
There was a heavy silence for long minutes, his eyes contemplating her, making her squirm a bit under the scrutiny. Handing her the knife after minutes that seemed to stretch, he spoke. "Under the stairs, there is a door. It'll lead you to the gates. Get out of here before someone sees you and chaos breaks. I'm having a quiet night after months and the last thing I want to do is clean up your blood."
Morana inhaled deeply, taking the knives from him. "Please."
For the first time, Morana saw something else flicker in his eyes. He just crossed his arms over his chest, tilting his head to look at her.
"Take the door."
Sighing, she knew she was beaten. There was nothing else she could do. And going back home meant telling her father. Which meant either death or exile. Fuck.
Nodding, accepting the sour taste in her mouth, she turned on her heel, hand going to the knob on the door, feeling his eyes on her back.
"Miss Vitalio?"
She turned her neck to look back at him, to see his eyes glittering with something that made her heart skip and stomach flutter. He pinned her with the look for a long moment, before speaking.
"You owe me."
Morana blinked in surprise, not understanding. “Excuse me?”
His gaze got even more intense, his blue eyes searing her. “You owe me,” he repeated.
Her lips twisted. "What the hell for?"
“For your life,” he stated. "Anyone but me and you would not have been breathing."
Morana frowned in confusion and saw his lips twitch at that, even as his eyes stared at her with that look she couldn’t explain.
"I'm no gentleman to give you a free pass," he spoke quietly. "You are in my debt."
And then, he closed the space between them. Morana swallowed, her hand tightening on the doorknob even as her heart pounded, and she tilted her head back to keep their eyes locked. He stared down at her for long moments, before leaning in, their gazes never moving, and whispered, his breath ghosting over her face, his musky scent acute in her nose.
"And I will collect it one day."
Morana felt her breath hitch.
And then she ran out of the room.
God, she was seriously not supposed to be here.
It could be the title of her autobiography, given how she kept finding herself in these situations. If she ever were to write one, she was pretty sure a lot of people would be interested in reading it. After all, how many genius mob daughters lay their lives out in print for mass public consumption? It could even be a bestseller if she actually lived long enough to write it. With the way things were going through, she doubted she was even going to make it back home safely.
Dread was settling in the pit of her stomach like a heavy weight, threatening to buckle her knees as she walked on shaky legs towards the abandoned building. She was a genius but god, she was an idiot. A world-class, stupid idiot. An idiot who didn't block her cheating ex-boyfriend's number from her phone. An idiot who had let the said jackass ex-boyfriend leave a message for her. An idiot who, for some stupid reason, had listened to it.
She had been sitting in her room, working on her laptop, trying to undo the disastrous effects of her code when Jackson had left a message for her.
She could still hear the panic in his voice, as he'd whispered the words out in a rush. She could still feel the whispered words making her skin claw. She could still recall the entire message, word for word because she had listened to it ten times. No, not out of any lost love whatsoever, but because she had been debating her course of action.
She was an idiot.
His frantic voice was stamped on her brain.
"Morana! Morana, please you have to listen to me. I need your help. It's life or death. The codes... the codes are... I'm so sorry. Please meet me at Huntington and the 8th. There is a construction site there. 6 PM. I'll be hiding in the building, waiting for you. I promise I'll explain everything, just come alone. Please. I swear they’ll kill me. Please, I beg you. The codes are..."
And the message had gone blank.
Morana had sat for an hour, staring at her phone, debating the possibilities. The possibilities being very simple.
Possibility One - It was a trap.
Possibility Two - It wasn't a trap.
Simple, yet utterly confounding. Jackson was a snake of the highest order, she knew. There was a possibility that he had been paid to make the call, just as he had been paid to spy on her. He had faked his affection for her for weeks. What was a panicked phone call of mere seconds in the light of that? He had fooled her once. But was he trying to fool her again? Could this be a trap?
But that was what trumped her. Who would lay a trap for her? The Outfit? She had just been in their lair last week. She had gone into the den of the lion, had a face-to-face with the notorious Predator, and come out unscathed. She knew they didn't want to start a mob war at all, or Tristan Caine would have exposed her little stunt that night itself. But he hadn't. He'd let her go. It didn't make sense for them to lay any trap for her.
But if not the Outfit, then who would want to have Jackson fake a frantic phone call to her? Was it even a trap? Could it be possible that she was being overcautious? Was he really scared or faking it?
Morana, unfortunately, didn't have the luxury of not taking a chance. Because if he was scared, and if he really knew something about the codes, then she had to meet him. She had to let him talk. She had to get the codes back, by hook or by crook.
Not that the last time she'd taken that approach had worked out so well.
It still stunned her that she had been at Tristan Caine's mercy. The Tristan Caine. The man notorious for his ruthlessness. He'd had her pinned against the wall with her own knives at her throat. And he had let her go. In fact, he had directed her to the door to her freedom, her undiscovered escape from the beast of the Maroni house, smack in the middle of a party.
She remembered the disbelief she had felt hitching a ride back to the hotel. Disbelief at her own guts. Disbelief at her failed attempt. Disbelief at how close she'd come. Disbelief at Tristan Caine.
The meeting, though fleeting, had been pulsating with something that had left Tenebrae with her. It had been a week since her return home, a week since she'd infiltrated the Maroni premises, a week since her failure of retrieving the drive. A week of keeping the truth from her father. If he found out, when he found out, there'd be hell to pay...
Shaking off the distracting thoughts, Morana squared her shoulders, feeling the reassuring cool of the metal against her waistband where she'd tucked in her small Beretta and covered it with a simple yellow top. Besides the keys to her red convertible Mustang, she carried nothing, keeping her hands free and her phone in the pocket of her loose black trousers.
After the last week, she’d dyed her previously blonde hair to chestnut, trying to shake off the grim remnants of the meeting. She did that often – change her hair color. With so much in her life she couldn’t seem to control, she liked calling the shots when it came to her appearance. Her new dark locks were bound in a high ponytail and her glasses were perched on her nose. She’d even worn ballet flats in case she needed to run.
Having told her father she was going to the city to shop, she’d left before her father's goons could catch up with her. She'd done it enough times in the past to garner nothing but admonishing looks from him.
With her father, it was less about her safety and more about his control. His control of his men, of her movements, of controlling the enemy's bargaining chip. They both had stopped pretending like they didn't know the truth a long time ago. She'd stopped feeling the disappointment a long time ago. It had left her somewhere between fearless and reckless.
Coming here was smack in the middle of that territory.
Stepping onto the construction site, inside the wrought iron gates that manned the single, incomplete building from the abandoned street, Morana looked around, taking the area in. The sun hung low in the sky, ready to jump below the horizon at a moment's notice, throwing just enough light to let the building cast long, creepy shadows on the ground, the sky slowly burnishing itself from purple to a cold grey as the moon waited to come out.
Morana could feel the wind cooling against her skin, making a small shiver travel down her bare arms in the chill, goosebumps erupting across her skin like small soldiers readying themselves for battle. But it was something else that truly creeped her out.
Eagles. Dozens of them. Circling the building, again and again, calling to each other, the cacophony of their voices lost in the flap of their wings against the wind.
Dusk was setting in, and they kept circling the tall building, telling Morana one thing about the structure. It was no ordinary construction site. Somewhere on the premises was a corpse – she looked up at the birds, at their number – more than one corpse.
She should so not be here.
Tamping down the sudden attack of nerves, Morana looked down at her watch.
6 P.M. It was time.
Where the hell was Jackson?
The sudden buzzing of her phone in her pocket startled her. Exhaling to calm her racing heart, she quickly pulled it out and looked down at the number. Jackson. Putting it to her ear, she accepted the call.
"Morana?" she heard Jackson's familiar voice whisper into the phone and frowned. Why was he whisperin
g?
"Where are you?" she asked quietly, glancing around, looking for anything unusual. Anything unusual except the damn eagles, that is.
"Did you come alone?" Jackson asked.
Morana scowled, her senses on alert. "Yes. Now, will you tell me what's going on?"
She saw Jackson's head peek out from behind the building's door. He waved her forward. "Come inside quickly," she heard on the phone.
Morana's eyes wandered to the unfinished building, rising high up in the sky like a dilapidated monster surrounded by birds of death. She would have been laughing her ass off at the clichéd obviousness of the setting had this been a movie she'd been watching. The last thing she felt like doing now was laugh. This was some really creepy shit. And something was totally off.
"I'm not moving an inch till you tell me what this is about," Morana stated firmly, standing her ground outside the building, watching Jackson peek around the door again.
"Damn it, Morana!" Jackson cursed loudly for the first time, agitation evident in his tone. "She won't come in!"
Morana stilled, hearing Jackson shout to someone behind him, and the certainty of his second betrayal settled itself in her gut. The fucking asshole! He'd set a trap for her.
Without waiting for another second, she crouched down on the ground behind some rubble and pulled the gun out from her waistband. Readying it, straightening her arms, she got ready to aim and fire at the drop of a hat. Her heart thundered in her chest, her breathing laborious as adrenaline surged through her bloodstream, everything but the sound of her own breathing too quiet. Except for the eagles. They kept making their own noises, right above her head in the sky, surrounding the building that reeked of death.
She had to get back to her car.
Eyes darting to the gate, she gauged the distance between the stack of rubble and realized it was a few hundred feet away. Damn. There was no way she could run through the open space without being shot if someone was aiming for her already.
Think. She had to think.
"Morana!"
She stayed down, listening to Jackson calling out her name, his voice coming from the direction of the building.