by RuNyx .
Something in her told her it wasn't him. While he hated her, he was in her face about it. This wasn't like him. She didn't linger on when exactly she'd gotten to know the bastard. She just focused on the now.
It was someone else, just a few feet away, and someone willing to harm her. Her eyes glanced at the phone before coming back on the rear-view. She could call her security detail, but that would mean alerting her father to her meeting with the Outfit and the reasons for it, which just could not happen. The understanding between the two families was precarious at best. It could not be tested. Not like this. Not because of her own stupidity.
God, she should have let Amara drive her back.
She straightened her spine. No. No regrets. She'd done what she'd done and that was it.
Morana swallowed, taking a deep breath, her fingers hovering over the key in the ignition, and with a final look at the unmoving vehicle, she turned the ignition on.
The moment she did, the SUV whirred.
Heart in her throat, Morana gripped the steering wheel, and changed the gear, pulling out onto the road. The SUV pulled behind her, keeping a few feet between them, the threat of its speed evident. Goosebumps broke out over her skin, shivers crawling over her as she tried to speed up and slow down and drive haphazardly. She didn't lose the tail. At all.
Adrenaline buzzed through her body as her mind worked, trying to find a way out, her heart pounding frantically now. She would not be chased like a wild animal and murdered. No.
Gritting her teeth, she almost hit the accelerator again when a loud noise broke through the blood rushing in her ears. Morana glanced at the rearview mirror again, to see a bike careen on the road dangerously as the rider throttled. Morana pulled to the side, giving him the space to pass, to not involve an innocent stranger in whatever madness this was, and saw the SUV pull behind her too.
The bike got closer and closer to them, and the moment Morana thought it would pass, the most bizarre thing happened.
The bike swerved and inserted itself in the space between her car and the SUV.
What the hell?
She should just dub this entire night 'what the hell'.
Was the rider insane? This could be a catastrophe!
Morana pulled to the edge of the road again, just a few miles out of her property, and turned around to look at the disaster about to happen.
Except it didn't.
The rider pulled out a gun from his back with one hand while maintaining both the speed and balance with the other impressively. He did a total one-eighty completely on the empty road, facing the oncoming SUV. He raised his gun as Morana watched, enthralled, heart thundering, and pointed it to the front tire.
A shot fired and the SUV skidded, before braking suddenly.
The bike stopped too, facing away from her towards the beast of a vehicle like it was a beast in itself.
The rider kept his arm raised, pointed at the vehicle, his dark helmet on. Morana looked at the white shirt stretched taut across his muscular back and tucked into dark trousers. She looked at the sleeves rolled up sinews and muscles of his forearms with the hints of tattoos peeking out, the other free hand on the handle on the big bike.
Her neck started aching from being turned around but she didn't remove her eyes, didn't even blink, her heart racing at the scene.
Everything was still. The SUV. The bike. The rider. Completely. Almost as though in a silent duel, a showdown she didn't understand a thing of. But she could feel the tension rolling in the air, thick and heavy and ready to explode at a moment's notice.
Everything was still. Except for her heaving chest. Whoever the rider was, she was rooting for him. There was something dangerous about the way he'd held himself in motion, something even more dangerous about the way he held himself in this stillness.
The SUV whirred. The rider didn't twitch.
The vehicle reversed. Quickly. His back muscles tensed.
And with a bad tire, Morana saw, in complete and utter disbelief, as the vehicle turned and drove away at a breakneck speed.
If she had a dollar for every time she'd thought 'what the hell?'
The rider stayed still for a moment, until the SUV disappeared from sight, before revving his bike and turning it back towards her. Morana turned her neck back as he drove forward, stalling beside the car.
She looked up at the intimidating size of the bike and the man riding it, being cautious and never rolling the windows down. He might have interceded in between her would-be creepy maybe-murderer but she didn't know him. And she'd had enough ‘what the hell’ moments for one night.
The man raised his hand up to his helmet, and Morana's eyes moved to the ropes of muscles and veins running under his exposed forearms, the tattoo swirls familiar, something fluttery happening inside her stomach as she watched it flex, her chest slightly heaving.
He pulled up his helmet with one hand, the palm of which was wrapped in white gauze that she'd missed at the distance, and all fluttery feeling came to a crashing halt before a storm raged through her entire body.
She knew that bandaged hand. She knew those forearms. Fuck.
The helmet came down before him. Those magnetic blue eyes watched her through the glass, locked on hers, as he leaned back slightly, in a seemingly casual stance atop his beast of a bike, straddling it with the same grace with which he'd scaled her house walls. His finger tapped the comm on his ear once and a sudden vibration in the car startled her.
Barely containing her surprised yelp, Morana picked up her phone and looked at the caller id, before swinging her eyes back to him.
He was calling her, from less than a foot away, with glass between them, with him out in the open and her safe in her car. He was calling her. And she was letting it ring, never breaking their locked gaze, her heart thudding wildly in her chest as a bead of sweat rolled down her spine, tingling her skin.
His hand never moved from his ear. The buzzing never stopped. The gaze never wavered. Blue on hazel. In the middle of an empty road.
He kept calling, sitting right beside her on his bike, and she kept ignoring it, gripping the steering wheel with her free hand, her knuckles white.
After long, long minutes of neither of them backing down, Morana touched the green button on her phone, bringing it to her ear.
She could hear him breathing on the line, and her own breaths quickened, her chest heaving as she looked at his expanding chest. He inhaled, stretching the shirt tight, and she watched the contractions as he exhaled, the sound clear over the phone. She'd never felt anyone's breaths before, never like this. It was almost distant. It was almost intimate. She wanted to break this, whatever this was. She could still feel that hatred for him fill her body, but she could not utter one word to break that heavy silence.
She had things to demand of him – so many questions. Why hadn't he stayed away from the meeting? Why had he done what he'd done just then? How had he known to come there? She had answers to find out. She had anger to unleash.
Yet, she could not break that gaze, could not remove her eyes from his, could not even hum.
Just breathe. Quick, shallow breaths slowly transforming to slow, deep breaths. Right in sync with his.
It disturbed her.
It disturbed her enough to blink and turn away.
It disturbed her enough to start the car and pull out.
It disturbed her enough to hit the red icon on her phone.
She didn't understand this. She didn't like this. So, she ran. Being alone with him, when he always pushed her off her game, made her vulnerable. She would never willingly expose her jugular to the man who'd made a name in going for it. Her brain had a habit of not functioning properly in his vicinity.
Her phone buzzed again and she looked in the rear-view, to see him right behind her, on her tail.
She picked up.
"I told you to never cut my calls," the whiskey voice rolled off, the tone harsh, intimidating.
It broke the spell even as it
weaved it.
"No point in staying on the line if all I get to hear is creepy breathing," she retorted, swallowing, grateful that her voice didn't sound as breathy as she felt.
Silence. But the line stayed open.
She wondered if she should thank him for intervening. That would be the polite thing to do. Screw polite.
"Who was in the SUV?" she asked quietly.
"I'll find out after I get back," he replied quietly, the sound of air loud in the background as he sped behind her.
Morana's eyes drifted to the rear-view again. "You don't have to escort me," she told him tartly.
His voice came back equally tart. "I told you I don't do that gentleman thing."
"Then what are you doing?" she demanded.
"Making sure the information in your little bag doesn't fall into the wrong hands."
Of course!
She'd completely forgotten about the evidence Dante had given her to look at. Things framing Tristan Caine. Of course, he'd want that safe. That explained so much. She cut the call again, that feeling of being connected to him unsettling and she'd had enough of that for a night.
She stayed silent the rest of the way, focusing on the road. The phone didn't buzz again, but he followed. Right till the mansion gates were in sight.
He stopped beside the car again as she paused.
She deliberately didn't look at him again, not wanting him to ensnare her, and felt the weight of his eyes on her as her nape prickled with awareness. Shaking her head, Morana drove forward and into the property as the gates opened. She saw him drive away and relaxed a little, going up the driveway and finally, after minutes of seeing the extensive lawns, parking in her regular spot.
She switched the car off, and sat inside silently, taking a few deep, relaxing breaths, just as her phone buzzed again.
She seriously needed to do more yoga.
She picked up. That husky, deep voice came on again, making her close her eyes.
"There was another reason why I followed you tonight."
The air stuck in her throat and her chest tightened, her heart pattering.
"What?"
There was silence for a few seconds, before the words came on, the dead tone in them, the rigid hatred in them turning her stomach.
"No one else gets to kill you, Ms. Vitalio," he spoke quietly. "The last face you see before you die will be mine. When it comes to death, you're mine."
And then, for the first time, he cut the call.
Two guards stood beside the huge double doors of the house, their eyes passively watching her approach.
Morana kept her spine straight and chin up, her legs gratefully not wobbling on the heels, the pounding headache the only reminder of her drugged state. Moonlight and ground lights mingled in an erotic combination of white and gold, making the path in front of her feet seem almost ethereal. Had she been some stranger walking the same path at the moment, she would have thought of fairy lights and enchanted tales, of long walks under the pure moon, of warmth against the chill in the wind.
But she wasn't a stranger. She knew these stones that seemed ethereal were nothing but an illusion created to hide the blood and gore than ran under, nothing but a mirage created to charm and impress the outsiders and remind the insiders of how deep things could be buried if they had to be. Secrets were the stones that paved these roads. Threats were the truths that lay in this ground, morbid tales of lost men never to be seen again ringing around in the wind.
Morana walked that path to the place she slept in, the place she'd been sleeping in for decades. She was more attached to her appendix than she was to this house.
One of the guards raised his hand and clicked the comm in his ear, holding the other up to halt her in her tracks.
"Boss?" he spoke in an even tone, listening to whatever command he was being given before he turned to her.
"Your father is waiting for you in the study."
Oh jolly.
Rolling her eyes, Morana walked around the bulky man and into the house, her heels clicking loudly on the marble floors. The lights in the house were dim since it was already way past midnight, the lights in the corridor leading to her father's wing getting dimmer and dimmer through the endless space, artwork adorning both the walls as she kept walking forward, the door to her father's study in sight. Her breathing remained even, not a bead of sweat popped up anywhere, not a knot twisted in her stomach. The headache throbbed under her temples but was otherwise manageable.
After the night she'd had, she doubted there could be anything her father could do that would make her say 'what the hell' again.
Finally reaching the door, not an ounce of fear in her system, she knocked.
"Enter," her father's baritone answered immediately.
Pushing open the door, Morana entered the spacious study, not sparing a glance towards the floor to ceiling columns he had for books, or towards the beautiful French windows on the extreme right that opened into the lawns, or towards the gun that lay openly on his organized desk. No. She entered and glued her eyes to him, his own dark eyes watching her carefully, and she walked to the chair across from his and sat down.
Silence.
Morana stayed silent, adept at the mind games he played, even with his own daughter, and being the genius that she was, she'd learned them very, very early. The wind whistled outside the closed windows. The huge aquarium on the left wall bubbled. The large clock near the bookshelf ticked, one ominous second after the other.
Tick. Tock.
Tick. Tock.
Silence.
He watched her. She watched him.
He leaned back in his chair. She kept her face blank, her heart rate completely even.
And finally, he drew in a deep breath.
"You were at Cyanide tonight."
Morana just raised her eyebrows.
He studied her for another second, before speaking, his voice old and rough from too much use with his men. Only his men. She could count the words he'd spoken to her over the years on her hands.
"What were you doing at Cyanide?"
Morana played dumb. "Why do you want to know?"
He leaned forward, his jaw clenching, accenting his French-cut beard. "It's an Outfit club."
Morana felt amusement wash over her. "And?"
"You know we don't go into their property directly. They don't come into ours," his steely voice brooked no arguments. "And you wouldn't have made it home. Not unless someone had invited you."
Morana stayed silent, just watching him back neutrally.
"I want a name," he demanded.
Morana kept her face blank. He cursed loudly, smashing his fist on the table, his dark eyes flaring in fury. "You have a name, a reputation as my daughter. No child of mine forfeits that name. And this is the Outfit. I want to know who you've been pimping your name with."
Morana's jaw clenched, her hands fisting as fury filled her body. Her hands shook as she gripped them together, keeping her torso and her gaze still. Shark. Her father was a shark and she could not bleed. Not a single drop. But in learning not to bleed, she'd also learned how to draw blood.
Staying still, keeping her mask in place, a small sneer curling her lips, she spoke.
"Your men couldn't get within a mile of the place, could they?"
She saw the lines around his eyes tighten as his lips pressed together. "You are to remain chaste until your marriage. That's how this works, that's what I've always told you. If you deliberately set out to disobey me..."
Morana laughed. "You will what?"
"I choose your husband, Morana," he told her in an icy voice. "Remember that."
Morana grit her teeth and bit her tongue. She'd hit this stone wall and bruised herself so many times she'd lost count. She detested this world. She detested the way every man thought himself a self-entitled jackass. She hated how every woman either had to bend to their will or suffer for life. She despised this world. And yet, it was the only semblance of a home
she'd ever known. She wondered sometimes why she hadn't run away. She had the money, she had the skills, she had it all. And she'd stayed for some reason she couldn't find anymore. And now, with the codes in the wind, she had to stay.
"Is that all you wanted to speak to me about?" she asked stiffly, keeping her voice as calm as she could.
"This conversation is not over."
"Yes, it is."
"I want a name."
"And I won't give you one."
They stared each other down, her head pounding dully, exhaustion seeping into her bones but she didn't even twitch. Morana stood up and turned to leave.
"More men will be on your tail from now on," her father's voice stopped her. "I've ordered them to detain you if you slip the leash."
Her body almost quivered in her rage before she locked it in place. Leash? She wasn't a fucking dog. She sure as hell wasn't a fucking daughter.
'When it comes to death, you're mine.'
As the words from minutes ago came to her, the wheels in her mind started to churn. She inhaled deeply. "Send your men after me at their own risk, father," she informed him coolly. "Any one of them lays a finger on me and I will shoot."
Her father paused, before speaking. "They will shoot back."
She remembered the blue eyes of the man who'd claimed his right to kill her. Nobody else would be killing her. She knew he'd been serious.
She shrugged. "Then they will die."
Before her father could utter another word, Morana walked out of the study and towards her own wing, quickening her steps once she was out on her own. She hurried up to her room and once inside, she locked the door. Undressing and freshening up, she took the drive out of the clutch and placed it in her bedside drawer. Then, tired and numb, she slid into her soft brown sheets, settling into her pillows and sighing as she stared out the window.
Not for the first time in her life, it hit her how truly, truly alone she was.
Her father wanted a puppet he could control and parade around to his whims. She knew he'd been serious about the marriage. And she knew that she would never marry someone like that. She wondered sometimes what would have been better - having had his love before he turned cold, leaving her with some childhood memories, or this aloofness that had existed between them forever.