by RuNyx .
The dress itself was something she'd never worn before. It had been a birthday gift she'd bought for herself, not really knowing when, if ever, she would wear it. Tonight seemed perfect for the occasion.
The soft fabric of the strapless dress clung to her torso, shaping her breasts perfectly, the material cinching together tightly right under them, before flaring out in shades of shadowed green, the waves of the skirt stopping just above the knee in an uneven hem. The back was deep but simple, and black block heels adorned her feet. She had never dressed like this. But then, she'd never really been to a club either.
She read the message on the phone again, checking the time.
Cyanide was an Outfit club in her father’s city. She didn’t get it.
Her side and the Outfit had apparently been allies once, long ago, from what people said. But something had changed, and the enmity had been born. And even though now the two sides hated each other with ferocity, they both had businesses in each other's territory, and it was a silent understanding that while the businesses wouldn't be harmed, any hint of hostility would take all bets off.
She was surprised to be invited, to say the least. She'd half expected another abandoned construction site with a bunch of eagles flying overhead. But that was apparently the location for murderous meetings. She supposed she should be relieved.
While the little girl inside her bubbled with excitement, the woman she'd become stayed wary. It was a public place, where she doubted anyone would try anything, but it was still their club.
Turning away from her reflection, she picked up her black clutch – which held a small Beretta – and her phone, and walked out of her room, closing the door behind her. Heading down the stairs, Morana felt her palms sweat slightly as nervousness assaulted her, her wing of the house empty except for a few guards here and there. Useless guards, given how easily they'd been thwarted two nights ago.
Shaking her head before she could let herself go down that road, she exited the house and headed for her car standing in the drive, the lawns beyond it shrouded in darkness, as her phone rang.
It was her father.
"Take the guards," his curt, clipped command came over the phone as soon as she picked up.
She stiffened, stopping in her tracks, her eyes swinging up towards the other wing where she knew his study was. No 'where are you going' or 'when will you be back' or 'be careful'.
"No," she replied in the same flat voice she'd been using with him for years, stopping the twinge before it could pinch. She disconnected the call before he could say anything, not that he would have, and walked briskly to her car. No. Her father didn't discuss and argue matters. He simply decided. Which meant she was going to have a tail.
Getting behind the wheel, she started the ignition and turned out of the drive, her darling baby purring under her control as she steered the car out from the gigantic gates. Leaving the house behind, her eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. Just as she'd suspected, she saw a black muscle vehicle pull out behind her.
Something akin to exasperation filled her veins. She'd been doing this for years, refusing protection and ditching the guards. She was an expert by now, and yet her father never stopped trying to get her under his watch.
Switching lanes expertly as soon as she hit the traffic, Morana pressed the accelerator to the floor and felt the speed crawl over her as she zipped past other vehicles. Bikes and cars honked around her, the cool conditioned air in the car keeping the sweat from beading on her skin even as a shot of adrenaline filled her. She knew her father's men would try to catch up. She also knew they would fail, because catching Morana Vitalio when she didn't want to be caught was something a very rare few could do.
And that was also a reason why she hated him.
Because he'd somehow always put her at a disadvantage when she hadn't wanted to be, put her in positions that had underlined just how much control he'd had over their bodies while she had floundered for it.
Morana grit her teeth as her mind, unwittingly, drifted to Tristan Caine. Again.
She'd pushed the entire episode from two nights ago out of her mind, vowing not to think about it ever again. Because the mess who'd been standing in her room with his blood on her hand, the confused mass of limbs who hadn't dared breathe because everything had been so baffling - that wasn't her. Morana Vitalio did not behave like a pathetic little girl being thrown a bone. Morana Vitalio did not show vulnerabilities to anyone but herself. Morana Vitalio did not expose the jugular to a man who went straight for it.
She'd been raised around sharks. And she'd learned not to bleed.
But she hated him because he had bled. Because he'd thrown her off guard. Because he'd done something she'd never believed he would do. Because he made her react not like Morana Vitalio but someone else. And she loathed admitting that the relief she'd thought she'd feel at her simple condition had been obliterated by drops of blood, and she had no idea why. She didn't even want to examine why. That was one episode of her life she'd gladly put behind her.
Taking a left towards the club, Morana shook her head and pushed all the thoughts out, focusing only on the meeting and on enjoying her first experience in a club as much as possible. Not that she wanted to get drunk or dirty dance with some random douchebag. No, she just wanted to feel those lights slide over her skin, feel the music pulse in her throat, feel the scents wash over her body.
A few miles of secluded road ahead, she saw a tall, grey warehouse rise towards the sky. A huge, ice blue sign glowed on top of the building, telling her she was in the right place. Parking the car outside in a spot as a valet came to her, she got out, declining his offer but nodding her thanks. The chill in the wind sent shivers crawling over her bare back as she hurried towards the building, the muted noise getting louder with each step she took towards the tall metal doors.
A muscled bouncer almost thrice her size looked her up and down as she approached, his hand on the knob, the scar covering the right half of his face hidden half behind dark glasses. She never understood why people wore dark shades at night.
"Invitation only," he spoke in a gruff voice, not budging a single inch.
Morana raised her eyebrows. "Morana Vitalio. Guest of Dante Maroni."
The man's dark face betrayed no expression, but he opened the door, the sudden noise exploding in her ears, and let her pass. Taking a deep breath, Morana stepped into the club, aware of the door closing behind her. A small, wary part of her reminded her that she was the daughter of the enemy in an Outfit club, alone and without security, making her heart race as a sliver of fear traveled down her spine. Jerking out of it, she stood right at the entrance, taking in the entire area.
Done in chrome and ice blue, with blue lights dimming and flaring alternatively with the heavy beats of music that pumped from the DJ’s booth on her extreme left, the entire converted warehouse floor was the dance area. The bar lined up the right, and bartenders catered to the heavy crowd. Bouncers littered the corners of the space inconspicuously, observing the bodies sliding against each other.
Watching the crowd, Morana did not feel underdressed at all. In fact, she was pretty sure the fabric of her dress could cover up at least five women there.
Eyebrows in her hairline even as a grin chased her lips, the sheer joy of being away from her house, from her life, so, so precious, even for a second. She breathed in the mixed scents of cologne and perfumes and sweat and alcohol. She tilted her head to the side as the music beat against her eardrums. She felt her heeled feet tap with the rhythm.
It was all a novelty.
She looked up to see Dante Maroni making his way towards her, dressed in a dark, casual button-up and trousers that screamed 'rich and loaded', his lips in a polite smile, his huge body moving with grace even as his dark eyes measured her. Morana looked around to make sure he'd come alone, as she'd demanded. He had. But that didn't relax her, despite the inviting smile on his handsome face.
Pointing to an area behind the bar, whic
h she guessed was the VIP section, he gestured for her to follow him. She slowly did, taking note of his arm behind her, keeping the dancing crowd away from her moving body. As much as she didn’t want to, she appreciated the gesture, especially as the dancing crowd pressed into her, and a few stray hands tried to cop a feel, making her want to gag.
By the time they reached the bar, her heart was pounding faster than the beats of the music, adrenaline spiking her system. Swallowing, she followed Dante to a secluded section separated by the bar, where the music wasn't so loud for some reason. Plush burgundy couches came into view, lining the walls, the dimmer lights creating intimate seating areas.
Morana entered the section he indicated, taking in the space, and suddenly came to a stop, her body stiffening.
Sitting on one of the couches towards her right was Tristan Caine, dressed in a suit jacket and a crisp white shirt that shone blue under the lights, with an open collar and no tie. There was nothing of the man from two nights ago in him. Her eyes drifted to the white gauze wrapped around his hand, a swift reminder that he was very much the same man. The same primitive being cloaked in civilization.
A woman sat beside him - a tall, raven-haired, absolutely stunning woman in a silver dress that was poured on her, her open body language a clear indication that she was friends with the man beside her.
Morana looked away before she could stare at either of them.
Dante led her towards the left, the opposite side, where the area was relatively empty, and motioned for her to take a seat. She deliberately took a seat facing the wall, with her back towards the other man, and saw Dante fold his huge body in the seat in front of her.
She waited for her nape to prickle with an awareness of his eyes on her, for the goosebumps to break out over her flesh, but neither happened. He wasn't burning a hole in her back with his eyes. Good.
"It's a coincidence he is here,” Dante began. “I know you requested he not be present, so I did not tell him where we were meeting. He just came a few minutes ago with Amara." His tone was slightly apologetic even as his brown eyes moved behind her, a shadow flickering across his face as he watched whatever was happening in somber silence. Was the shadow because of his blood brother or because of the woman?
Morana cleared her throat, bringing his dark eyes back to her. The shadows cleared as his eyes shuttered, his expression one of polite interest, one she was sure he'd been donning for a long time. "Can we focus on the codes?"
"Of course," he nodded, leaning back against the cushions as a server brought up some appetizers. "Would you like anything to drink?"
Morana shook her head, crossing her ankles and folding her hands primly in her lap, slightly uncomfortable with the whole situation. A frisson of awareness slithered down her spine.
His eyes were on her.
Taking a deep breath, Morana stilled her body, not betraying any movements.
"Let me be honest with you, Morana," Dante spoke, stretching one arm over the back of the couch, his shirt pulling taut across his well-built chest. "I have nothing personal against you, so as long as you don't threaten or hurt me or my people, we can work along just fine."
Morana narrowed her eyes and nodded. "Same goes for you."
"Good," he nodded, the dark hair on his head catching the blue lights, his eyes flickering again to the scene behind her momentarily before coming back. And in that one flicker, Morana knew it was the woman – Amara – who had his attention. She had a feeling there was a lot more to his distraction than a hot woman in a great dress. Ignoring the twinge of compassion it elicited, she bit her lip.
"Mr. Maroni, as I told Mr. Caine," Morana grit out, still aware that the man was behind her, watching her sporadically, "I am at a loss. I created the codes and before I could install a failsafe in place, Jackson stole them. I don't have any hopes of finding it like this, much less destroying it without actually having it."
"Tristan told me," the man said, his voice suddenly extremely serious, the air of responsibility around him so strong it made her realize he was the older son of the Outfit. "Whatever hostility exists between our families, fact is that the code is lethal for both our sides, and we cannot afford any war between ourselves with the outside forces looking for a way in."
"Could it have been someone on the outside?" Morana asked, voicing her own apprehensions as she settled back into the cushions, her nape tingling.
Dante shook his head. "I don't believe so. Only someone who had known your family could have known what you were doing." He paused for a second. "I'm not entirely sure it's not someone from our side, framing Tristan for the fall."
"Why would anyone on your side frame him?" she asked, curious.
The man before her shrugged even as his face remained grave. "There can be many reasons. Jealousy over his skills, over my father's preference for him. Hell, he has enough enemies inside the Outfit that anyone could want retribution."
Morana's gut clenched as she remembered how smoothly the man in question had lied to his blood brother. She wasn't sure it wasn't him, faking his own accusations.
"We traced the transactions from Jackson," Dante's voice broke into her thoughts, making her frown.
"I told you, they all lead to Mr. Caine."
"They do, but there were anomalies when we looked at them carefully," he informed her. "We're running traces on them now, but since this is your area of expertise, perhaps you could hurry it up?"
It felt weird, this alliance. But she nodded regardless, holding her palm out for the flash drive he put there.
"Everything we've been able to gather so far, all the information, is here."
She placed the drive carefully in her clutch and stood up, as did he. Since he was being amicable so far, Morana quietly said, "I'll let you know if I get something."
Dante Maroni tilted his head slightly, eyes sharp on her. "May I ask why you refused to work with Tristan?"
Morana raised an eyebrow. "May I ask what's going on between you and Amara?"
The amicable man before her suddenly stiffened, anger flashing over his face before he donned the polite mask, his lips pursing, making her realize yet again that he was no wallflower. He was the actual blood of Bloodhound Maroni. He glared at her slightly, his eyes flickering to the woman in question, before swinging his eyes to her again, a grudging smile on his lips.
"Courage takes only a second to become foolishness," he said quietly, his dark eyes alert. "Keep that in mind."
Morana smiled. So, she'd found a nerve, had she?
"Heed your own advice," she replied in the same tone, before turning on her heels and heading towards the bar, looking absolutely straight ahead, not sparing a glance on either side but aware of Tristan Caine's eyes on her. Her throat worked, a bead of sweat rolling down her cleavage, her muscles stiff in her body.
Parched, she reached the counter, the music louder outside, and leaned over, trying to catch the attention of one of the bartenders.
A man in his late thirties, in a black t-shirt, looked over at her, his eyes cooling as he looked her up and down. Morana frowned at the reaction, not understanding.
"What can I get you?" he asked, his voice loud over the music.
She watched his eyes, the blandness in them, and felt a shiver go over her spine. Yeah, she wasn’t taking alcohol from him. "Just some orange juice."
He turned away and Morana furrowed her brows, trying to remember if she'd ever met him before. She hadn't. But then maybe he knew she was the daughter of the enemy family.
Sighing, she took the glass of juice he pushed towards her and turned to face the dance floor, gulping down the cooling drink, quenching her thirst, her eyes on the mass of bodies moving to the beat in front of her.
"Anton, one JD, on the rocks."
The voice of whiskey and sin carried over from her left. Morana swallowed, but she refused to turn, refused to acknowledge him, clenching her teeth, her hand gripping the clutch and the glass as her eyes stayed glued to the gyrating bodies
.
His eyes came to her. She was aware. But she didn't turn. Slowly sipping the leftover juice, she stood still, aware of his presence beside her, aware that he stood just inches away, all coiled muscles and strength, but not really acknowledging her. And that was absolutely fine.
She should have moved away. She should have put her glass on the counter and walked out the entrance, without a word, without a glance, without anything. But for some unfathomable reason, at that moment, it almost became as wrecking as a staring contest where neither of them blinked first. It became a collision of wills, where moving away, running away, at that moment would've been equivalent to blinking, and she'd be damned if she caved first.
The music wrapped around her, almost ensconcing her in a bubble where nothing but her pounding heart and her racing pulse existed. She kept standing there, mindlessly watching the dancers, her entire body just so aware of the presence beside her, a presence that neither left not moved nor did anything. He was just present and that, for some reason, was enough.
"Morana Vitalio?"
The moment was broken. Closing her eyes as the heaviness lifted, Morana turned to her other side at the feminine voice, to see the woman who'd been sitting next to Tristan Caine looking back at her with the oddest green eyes she had ever seen, the shade something close to a forest at midnight, her curvaceous body gorgeous in that sleek, little dress, her dark curls wild and free on her head. Amara.
"Yes," Morana said, cautious and confused as to why this woman wanted to talk to her.
Something akin to pity filled the woman's green eyes as she looked at her. Before she could utter a word though, her gaze flitted to where Morana knew Tristan Caine stood and she shook her head, pivoting on her heel. Completely confounded by the odd, abrupt meeting, Morana stood there, blinking at where the woman had been. What the hell had that been about?