by RuNyx .
Before she knew it, her hand was crossing the space between them, taking hold of Amara's and squeezing softly. "I'm sorry."
Morana saw the surprise in the other woman's eyes at the gesture, even as she squeezed her hand back, her expression soft, grateful.
She shrugged. "I just miss home sometimes. That's why I get so happy when Tristan or Dante visit."
"You must have friends here," Morana mused.
"Not really," Amara looked down. "I'm here for work, mainly. Plus, it's not my city. I have limitations."
Morana wanted to tell her to give her a call sometime. She wanted to tell her she didn't have any friends either. She wanted to tell her she would love to be friends with her own brave self.
But she couldn't.
She had the words, on the tip of her tongue, ready to tumble out. She had that need, so, so deep inside her, to know someone, to have a friend, to share her life and stories with a person. But actions like that could have consequences, not only for her but for Amara too. She had been banished by her own city and sent here. Morana couldn't get her thrown out, or killed.
She bit her lip and pulled back her hand, clearing her throat, looking out from the glass wall inside her, reaching but unable to touch.
The sound of the elevator opening saved her from any awkward silence.
Morana turned again to see the newcomers, her eyes falling on Dante and Tristan Caine walking in, both tall, broad, incredibly handsome men. She saw Dante falter for a second as his eyes fell on Amara, but he continued approaching them, dressed in another sharp suit. The man beside him, on the other hand, strode in gracefully, drawing Morana's eyes. Again.
She could feel her stomach knot as her eyes locked with his, those sharp blue eyes looking magnificent in the sunlight, his tight, muscled body in a simple t-shirt and cargo pants, telling her wherever they had been, it had been informal enough for him to go casually.
"I see you've made yourself comfortable in my kitchen, Amara," he spoke, in that whiskeyed voice of his, to the woman behind her even as his eyes stayed on hers.
"Just in your kitchen," Amara responded, her voice soft but perky.
Dante walked to the glass walls, his hands in his pockets, and looked out at the view, completely ignoring everyone in the room. Morana observed the other man, sensing the tension between him and Amara. She'd sensed it before as well.
Curious, she looked back at Tristan Caine, only to find him rifling through his cabinets, his eyes coming to hers just as hers went to him.
He looked at her.
Her heart stuttered.
He looked away.
Her heart started.
Closing her eyes at her own stupid reactions, Morana cleared her throat, turning towards Dante, where he stood against the wall.
"Did you find anything at the warehouses?"
Dante didn't turn but spoke loudly. "Not at the one here. But there were certain... oddities at the ones in Tenebrae."
"Oddities?" Morana leaned forward, interested.
"That warehouse had been owned by one of our local competitors a long time ago," Dante informed her, his profile in the sun sharp. "Except for the equipment my men found belonged to another gang. We can't figure out who'd used it yet."
Morana narrowed her eyes, the wheels in her mind churning. "What would it mean for Mr. Caine if the codes were to be used and he was to be framed?"
Dante turned around, his eyes hard on hers. "It would mean his death, Morana."
So she could rule out Tristan Caine playing a mastermind game and framing himself. Unless the man was on a suicide mission.
"You'll know of any developments the moment they occur," Dante promised her, and Morana nodded, refusing to turn towards the other man.
Amara cleared her throat. "I'd actually just come to give these to you, Morana."
Morana looked at the counter, to find her car keys resting there. Her car, her baby, was fixed. Her eyes flew up to lock with Tristan Caine's. He wasn't looking at her.
Morana nodded, her heart accelerating, and jumped down from the high stool, hitching her handbag over her shoulder and grabbing her keys.
"I should leave now," she muttered, looking around once.
Dante gave her a polite nod, to which she nodded back, knowing they'd be in touch.
Amara smiled at her. "I hope we meet again, Morana."
Morana swallowed. "Me too."
And then she turned around, without a word to the owner of the penthouse, without a look in his direction, without an expression of the gratefulness she was feeling. She walked towards the elevator, with quick, sure steps, her eyes going to the view outside one last time, memorizing it, etching itself into her memory like the previous night had been etched on her soul.
No one spoke a word behind her. The tension caressed her back as she entered the elevator, her heart pounding, her palms sweating.
Taking a deep breath, she turned to press the button, and found her eyes locking, for one last time, with magnificent blue ones, where he stood in the kitchen, watching her.
Morana pressed the button, their gazes locked.
And the doors closed.
Something was wrong.
The moment she breezed through the mansion doors, the deep, deep sense of foreboding settled into her stomach.
She shouldn't have returned. She should have taken her fixed, amazing car and hightailed it to someplace other than this mansion. But she hadn't. Because Morana Vitalio was many things but she wasn't a coward. And if she was going to die, she was going to die knowing that.
Gritting her teeth, she parked the car in the spot and got out, her eyes roving over the new wheels. How had Tristan Caine gotten it repaired overnight, on a stormy night? Were his connections that good?
Shaking her head, and shoving that baffling man out of her thoughts, Morana took in the beautiful, sunlit lawns, the gorgeous driveway and the stunning mansion.
And felt nothing but more foreboding.
She was going to leave. The moment the codes were found, she promised herself, she was going to run away and disappear, change her identity, make a life for herself, just like she wanted. She was going to go someplace far, far away and make friends without hesitation, meet men and have fun, and live without death dangling every day over her head.
The moment the codes were destroyed, she was leaving everything behind.
Feeling the strength seep into her with that decision, Morana started towards her wing, intending to head straight to her room, the eyes of her father's men following her, when she saw the man in question sitting outside in the gazebo, with two other old, gruff men, discussing business.
He saw her enter and motioned for her to come to him with his fingers, a gesture that irritated her to no extent. Morana would have loved to show him her own finger and stride up to her suite, but he was with other people, and she knew defiance like that, especially after last night, might push him too far.
So, gritting her teeth again in a handful of minutes, Morana walked over to where he sat, the large canopy of leaves overhead providing shade for everyone seated.
Her father looked up at her, his eyes completely neutral, not a flicker in them. "We are dining out tonight at Crimson. Dress accordingly."
Morana nodded and waited for him to say anything more. He raised his eyebrows and dismissed her with another flick of his fingers.
Hands clenched in fists, she turned away and walked up to her suite, locking the door firmly behind her.
Then, she sat down on her bed.
And thought.
This was off. She'd expected him to be angry or even taunting. She'd expected him to be indifferent like he had always been. But this... it almost seemed manipulative. His calm, after she'd spent the night out, was troublesome. It wasn't a good calm. And for some reason, her stomach was in knots, and not of the good kind. Not the knots she liked.
'Your independence is an illusion I've let you sustain.'
Taking a deep breath, Moran
a stood up and headed towards the bathroom, the knots only getting worse with each step.
Crimson.
Her lips were crimson. The blood rushing inside her body was crimson. The blood she wanted to see come out of the other man's nose would be crimson.
Clenching her jaw, Morana sat in the restaurant, on the table in the corner that was always reserved for her father, dressed appropriately in a black sleeveless, backless dress that flared out in a skirt from her waist. The only notable thing about it was the simple split on the side. Four other men sat around the table, excluding her father.
Her father had not spoken a word to her throughout the day, and while it wasn't out of the ordinary, it was out of the ordinary after the stunt she'd pulled. It hadn't been an ordinary day. Usually, she drove her own car to the dinners she attended. Tonight, her father had simply told her to get inside his town car. She'd almost protested when he'd given her a silencing look.
"It is important we arrive together," he'd told her.
Morana had bitten her tongue and gotten in the car.
And now she sat, realizing why her father had wanted them to arrive together. It wasn't just dinner. It was a humiliating dinner.
One of the men, a handsome man in his early thirties, sat beside Morana, trying for the third time to get his hand under the split in her dress. The first time she'd thought it had been an accidental brush. The second time she'd brushed his hand aside with a stern look in his direction. This time, though, her temper spiked.
She took a hold of his hand in her grip and bent his fingers backward.
"Touch me again, and I will break your fingers."
Silence fell upon the table at her words. Her father glanced at her, raising an eyebrow. She waited for him to reprimand her or the man. He just turned away, engaging the others back into the conversation, like a guy ten years her senior hadn’t tried to molest her under the table.
Morana threw the man's hand away from herself in disgust. She leaned back in her chair, taking a deep, controlled breath, anger invading her bones.
"The Outfit is here."
The words of one of the middle-aged men at the table broke through her crimson haze.
Her father nodded. "I know. Security is in place."
On cue, for the first time, Morana looked around the restaurant to realize her father was right. The place, the entire place, was crawling with security. Both theirs and the Outfit's. Men in plainclothes sat alert at tables, weapons concealed but obvious against their clothes, the threat of an outburst hanging violently in the air. Civilians, seemingly aware of whatever was going down, were tensed and finishing their meals as quickly as they could. The staff walked around on eggshells and nervousness dripped from every tray.
Morana let her eyes wander and take in everything, trying to locate the table of the Outfit, but unable to see the two men she recognized anywhere in the restaurant.
But her nape prickled.
She could feel eyes on her.
His eyes.
Hungry eyes.
Her breath hitched. She didn't know how she knew it was him. She didn't want to think about how she knew it was him. But she knew. It was the same gaze she'd seen in his territory. The same gaze she could feel in hers.
Picking up her glass of wine, she let her eyes roam covertly over the space again, trying to pin where he sat. She couldn't, which only meant their table was behind her.
She didn't turn. Turning would mean acknowledging not just him, but the Outfit, and with her father behaving the way he was, she stayed in position.
But she felt those eyes caress every inch of her exposed back, felt her nape prickle in awareness as her body buzzed with sensation, imagining him, sitting somewhere, devouring her with those blue, blue eyes. He would be in a suit, like the ones she'd seen him in. A suit that would hide his scars and tattoos, and highlight his muscles. Morana swallowed, keeping her eyes down, her entire body rushing with heat just thinking about him.
She shouldn't be thinking about him.
But god help her, she couldn't stop.
Closing her eyes, inhaling softly, she quickly brought her phone on her lap and opened a window, typing a message, her hand hovering on the 'send' button.
He could see her. He was seeing her. And she was at a disadvantage. Nodding, on the tail of that thought, she hit 'send'.
Her heart started to pound, indecision warring with grit, unable to understand why she'd sent him that message.
Stop staring.
Her inbox glowed with a new message. Heart hammering, Morana pressed on it.
Tristan Caine: No.
No. Just no? How eloquent.
Me: Your funeral. My father might see and kill you.
A message came back almost immediately.
Tristan Caine: I highly doubt it.
Me: And why is that?
Tristan Caine: He barely raised a finger at the dick pawing you. He won't kill me for staring.
Morana felt her face flush, humiliated anger washing over her, anger that turned into fury as she realized the truth in that statement. She was just a piece of property that one man could touch and others could watch to her father. Her body almost trembled but she grit her teeth.
Me: He's a guest. You're not.
There was a pause before the reply came.
Tristan Caine: So he can touch you and I cannot?
Her heart stopped. Before pounding with a vengeance. He'd never spoken to her like that.
Me: This conversation is over.
She locked her phone. And unlocked it again.
New message. She swallowed.
Tristan Caine: Chicken.
Morana stopped, blinking at the screen for a second before anger infused her again. Chicken? Who the fuck did he think he was? He was clearly baiting her, and she’d be damned if she took it.
Before she could lock her phone, he was typing again.
Tristan Caine: I dare you.
Don’t. Don’t take the bait, Morana kept on repeating.
Me: To do what?
Long pause. Heart thundering, she waited, careful not to seem too engrossed.
Tristan Caine: To show him even half the wildcat you are.
Morana locked her phone away. She wouldn't rise to the bait. She absolutely was not going to fall for that. She was a grown woman and not a toddler. There were men with weapons ready to rain bullets on everyone and she could not trigger them.
But she could feel that stare on her back, zinging across her skin.
She wasn't going to rise to the bait. She wasn't going to rise to the bait. She wasn't going to rise to the bait.
And the asshole groped her thigh again.
Everything she'd been feeling all day, all the confusion, the anger, the frustration, the heat - everything mingled together. Her fingers were wrapped around the man's hand before she knew it, and she snapped his wrist back hard, not enough to break a bone but enough to give him a serious sprain.
"You bitch!"
He cried out loud, cradling the hand to his chest, his handsome face twisted in agony as the entire restaurant went silent. Morana felt multiple eyes on her, felt a few weapons pointed at her. She ignored them all, rising from the table.
"Morana," her father ground out, his voice hard.
"I warned him to keep his hands off," she told him aloud, every inch of her body aware of the climbing tension. "He refused."
The tension climbed. No one spoke.
"She's got fire, Gabriel," one of the men on the table hooted, his eyes crawling over her exposed skin. "I wouldn't mind getting burned."
"You're welcome to die," Morana spit back at him.
Her father didn't address the man, but her. "Go cool yourself down."
Disgust plastered all over her face, she picked up her clutch and turned towards the corridor that led to the washrooms, not sparing anyone a single glance, her body trembling with rage.
She'd almost turned the corridor when her eyes locked with his.
Entering the restroom, she placed her hands on the clean granite counter, watching her own self in the mirror, the cubicles at the other end empty.
What was she doing there? In the restaurant, in her life? Why was she even doing anything? Her father didn't care one wink about her. Nobody did. And it made her angry.
She was angry because a strange man had groped her right in front of her father and he hadn't said a word. She was angry because she'd messaged the man she hated and he'd prodded her to act rather than anyone else. She was angry because she'd left that glass wall and rainy night and yet something inside her completely refused to leave it.
She was angry.
And she could see it. On her flushed face, on her trembling body, on her heated skin.
She was angry. God, she was so angry.
The door to the restroom opened, and Morana looked down, hiding her eyes from whoever had entered. The last thing she wanted was a casual chitchat with some clueless woman.
She washed her hands and pressed the cool water on her cheeks, waiting for some sound behind her as the other woman moved about. There was no sound.
Stilling, her body alert, she looked up slowly, to find her eyes ensnared with blue, blue ones.
He was there, in the ladies' room, in a restaurant filled with men and women of both their families and guns and weapons ready to be fired. Was he insane?
Morana turned on her heels, heading towards the door, the rage inside her kindling, only to find him blocking her path.
"Get out of my way," she spit out, in no mood to deal with him.