The Emperor (Dark Verse Book 3)

by RuNyx

  On Sundays, Dante had also taken to teaching her dance to help with her sense of balance. He would bring her to his studio and spend two hours playing music and leading her around the room, holding her upright when her knees shook, catching her if she fell, to the point she would literally close her eyes and trust him blindly, and he would always keep her safe.

  Her self-esteem got a bit better but it was still on shaky ground.

  “I don’t know why you’d spend time with me, Dante,” she’d told him one day. “I’m young and damaged and nobody. I have scars and a broken voice and my head isn’t right. You’re the heir to the Outfit and have your pick of people. Sometimes, I feel like you’ll open your eyes and see you have better choices and I’ll be left alone.” To that, Dante had dragged her close and kissed her hard, reassuring her that she was it for him.

  Things were getting better all around. Vin was recovered and initiated into the soldier ranks. Her mother had less of a workload because the Maroni’s had finally hired another housekeeper to split. Nerea was growing on her, with her devil-may-care attitude and kind smiles to Amara. Amara had actually begun to really like her, and respect her for being a lone woman in an Outfit of men.

  Just yesterday, her half-sister had come to her with a beautiful pair of boots.

  “What’s this for?” Amara had asked, smiling at the gift.

  Nerea had shrugged with a small grin. “I’ve never had a sister so let me spoil you, okay?”

  Yeah, she was growing on her, alright.

  The only people Amara had gone out of her way to avoid had been Mr. Maroni and his cousin, Leo.

  This was why when the messenger came calling her to Mr. Maroni’s office, it punched her in the chest.

  It was her birthday, and Mr. Maroni had called her to the mansion.

  Amara gulped as the messenger, a maid at the main house, left after giving her the message. She doubted he wanted her presence to wish her a happy adulthood day. In all the time she had lived on the compound, something like this – a messenger coming from the mansion to call someone from the staff quarters – had never happened.

  Palms clammy, Amara felt the beginnings of an anxiety attack, a pit opening in her stomach, and breathed out slowly, counting backward in her head as Dr. Das had told her. Straightening her dress, Amara wrapped a scarf around her neck and put on boots, before following the maid up the hill.

  “Did he say why he wanted to see me?” Amara asked, unable to contain her nerves.

  The maid looked back at her before continuing. “No. He just asked me to call you.”

  “By my name?” Amara asked, and had her voice been normal, it would have escalated to a high pitch.

  “Yeah,” the maid left her at the entrance. “He’s in his study.”

  Amara knew the room since she’d been in the mansion helping her mother many times. Taking a deep breath in, Amara headed into the mansion, turning right from the huge foyer, each step she took closer to the study sinking her stomach to her knees.

  The wooden door seemed foreboding as she stood before it, gathering the courage to knock.

  “Come in,” came the heavy voice as she rapped twice on the door.

  Pushing it open, Amara looked at the intimidating man sitting behind a huge desk, and older version of Dante, his dark eyes coming to her. His face slashed in a brief smile that Amara didn’t like, not one bit.

  “Ah, Amara,” he said as though he’d known her all his life. “Have a seat. And please close the door behind you.”

  With a sweaty palm, Amara closed the door, and quietly sat down in the chair before the desk.

  Mr. Maroni ran a thick hand through his prominent salt-and-pepper beard, and watching him closely, Amara could see where Dante got some of his features from. His mother must have been a beauty too.

  “How are you doing?” he asked pleasantly. Too pleasantly.

  “I’m fine, Mr. Maroni,” Amara spoke as evenly as she could, pinching the inside of her wrist to keep her nerves at bay.

  “Very good,” he nodded. “Your mother tells me you’ll get your graduation degree this month?”

  Amara nodded but stayed silent.

  “Have you thought about what you’d like to pursue as a career?” he asked, leaning his elbows on his desk, the picture of sincerity. God, he was good.

  “Psychology,” Amara informed him, her voice thankfully steady.

  “Any specialization?”

  Amara hesitated for a second before responding. “Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, specializing in trauma.”

  “Ah,” he smiled, his white teeth gleaming against his beard. “Turning your experience into something positive. Very inspiring for a girl your age. I actually called you here because I feel responsible for what happened years ago. You live on my property and it was very wrong.”

  God, he almost convinced her of that bullshit.

  Amara simply stared at him, waiting for him to continue. Her silence made people uncomfortable, but Lorenzo Maroni simply measured her with those sharp eyes.

  Standing up, he went to the wet bar at the corner. “The University of Shadow Port has an excellent Department of Psychology. They also have an accelerated program that allows students to finish credits and get their degrees in two years instead of four. Hard work, but plausible,” he said, pouring himself some whiskey from the crystal decanter, before turning to her. “I have an offer for you, Amara. I’ll pay for your entire education at one of the best universities in the country. In return, you simply stay there after your graduation and cut all ties with my son.”

  Amara blinked at the man, her heart starting to pound – not at the offer but the fact that he wanted her out of Dante’s life.

  She swallowed, fear infiltrating her system, making her breathing choppy as she slowly stood up. “With all due respect, Mr. Maroni,” she rasped out quietly, “I’ll decline.”

  She turned to leave the room when his voice stopped her in her tracks. “Or your mother dies, Amara.”

  She spun around on the spot, looking at him in shock.

  He gazed back at her calmly. “This is for your own good, girl. My son might fancy you for now but in a month, a year, a few years at the max? He won’t. He’ll fuck you and he’ll be done. And one day, he will marry someone who fits him and take over the entire Outfit.” His voice almost gentled as every word hit her chest like a bullet. “I’m giving you a chance to choose a future for yourself, make a life for yourself, a clean slate.”

  “And if I don’t make the choice you want,” Amara huffed in disbelieving laughter, “you kill my mother.”

  “Yes,” he stated, with no remorse. “Take the weekend to think about it. I’ll book your tickets for the night of your graduation. You’ll have an apartment, a car, everything you need waiting for you. Except for your mother, who will stay here as insurance.”

  Amara felt her eyes burn.

  “Oh, and don’t think of telling my son,” Mr. Maroni continued, taking a sip of his drink, his face a mask of kindness. “You know his brother? He’s in a mental home. Dante loves him. You tell Dante and his brother will disappear and that, my dear, will be on you.”

  Amara had thought she’d seen the worst of humanity when they had taken her. Looking at Lorenzo Maroni, she realized she hadn’t. True evil was like air pollution, inhaled without thought, seeping into the lungs, rotting from the inside out. It was invisible. Insidious. Sadistic. And Lorenzo Maroni was true evil.

  Amara pushed her tongue to the roof of her mouth to keep her tears contained. Leaving the room, she walked out of the mansion into the bright day, her entire life changed in the span of a few minutes.

  Amara looked at her mother across the kitchen island, gripping her hands. Her mother’s eyes reflected the same pain and rage she felt inside her bones.

  “We can leave, Mumu,” her mother squeezed her hands. “Start somewhere fresh. We have enough savings.”

  Amara shook her head, wiping her tear across her cheek. “The threat is for y
our life, Ma. It won’t matter where we go.”

  A tear slid down her mother’s aging face. “You love him.”

  Amara felt her own eyes water. “Yes,” she whispered softly, a secret just shared between the two of them.

  “You always loved him,” her mother stated.

  “Not like this,” Amara looked down at their joined hands, hers softer, younger, her mother’s rougher, more wrinkled. “He always had a bit of my heart, but I’m not that girl anymore. My heart isn’t the same anymore. This new heart, it doesn’t just love him, Ma. It beats for him.” Tears streamed down her face. “He came into this new heart to help me rebuild it, day after day, and he just never left.”

  Her mother came around the counter to her side, wrapping Amara in her arms, cocooning her in that feeling of safety that always came with her, pressing kisses to her head. Amara broke down, knowing she had no choice. Her mother’s life, his brother’s life, they were precious. She couldn’t be selfish.

  “You need to tell him, Mumu,” her mother spoke into her hair.

  Amara pulled back. “I can’t risk his brother’s life.”

  The older woman cupped her face, looking down at her firmly. “Dante is not a boy, Amara,” her mother said, using her given name, conveying her seriousness. “He’s been playing this game for a long time. He knows his father better than you do. Tell him the truth, tell him everything, and let him handle it.”

  Amara bit her lip, so, so tempted. “But his brother-”

  “Trust him,” her mother interrupted her. “He has been here for you, for years. That boy loves you. Don’t deny him the chance to handle this.”

  Maybe her mother was right. Maybe he could do something about it.

  Nodding, she hiccupped, deciding to talk to him about it soon.

  Vin came to her soon after sunset, his body tall and strong and nothing like his old chubby self, holding a package in his hands.

  “Have you been crying?” he asked, his eyes knowing her too well.

  “I’m aging now,” Amara rolled her eyes, taking the package from him. “What’s this?”

  Vin smiled, shaking his head. “Just get dressed. I have orders to get you out in 30 minutes.”

  Amara frowned at that, taking the package to her room, tearing it open. It was a dress, a gorgeous dress. Quickly stripping down to her underwear, Amara slipped into the dress, looking at her reflection in the full-length mirror. The dress was forest color, shimmering in greens if she turned one way and metallic if she twisted another. It had a high neck and full sleeves, coming down to her wrists, the hem falling down to her ankles, with one slit on the right that came mid-thigh.

  Taking a deep breath, she tied her hair in a high ponytail that would show off the shape of her neck without showing off the skin and swiped a little red lipstick over her mouth.

  She couldn’t see a single of her scars in the dress. Just like that, she looked like a genetically blessed woman with slightly heavy breasts and ass that was balanced out by her height. She looked beautiful. And for one night, she could pretend.

  Sliding her feet into flats that didn’t really go with the entire outfit, she exited the room to see her mother and Vin look up. Vin grinned, giving her a little whistle that boosted her shaky confidence. Her mother tried to smile, her eyes still pained from what she’d told her.

  No. Tonight she would pretend.

  Giving her ma a little kiss on her cheek, Amara smiled and let Vin escort her up to the waiting car.

  “Thanks for the dress,” she told him as they neared the car.

  Vin chuckled. “Not my gift.”

  Amara frowned. “What do you mean?”

  He just chuckled and got in the car. Amara buckled herself in as they drove out of the property towards the city. “Where are we going?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  Accepting that he wouldn’t say anything else, Amara let herself enjoy the ride, watching the lights of the city as they twinkled closer and closer. The possibility of having to leave that place, of losing the city she had come to love had Amara drinking in the sights even more.

  Not tonight.

  Vin drove to a deserted street, towards an empty multi-story building near Dr. Das’s house, stopping the car right outside the entrance.

  “He’s waiting for you.”

  Amara looked at her friend, her heart starting to pound as it dawned on her.

  Dante.

  “He asked you to drive me here?” she asked, her voice low, slightly rough.

  He nodded. “For your safety. Go up to the top floor. Happy birthday, ‘Mara.”

  Amara leaned across the console to hug him tightly, her chest heavy. “I love you, Vinnie.”

  Vin pat her back. “Love you too, ‘Mara. Though if you tell anyone I got mushy, we’re gonna have a problem.”

  She choked on a laugh and jumped out of the car. Inhaling deeply, she entered the dark building, spotting the elevator on the right, and took it to the top floor, her stomach in knots. No music came on and Amara exhaled.

  “Relax,” she told herself softly. “It’s just Dante.”

  After moments, the elevator dinged and the door parted to reveal a huge, open, dimly lit space. Amara took a step inside, looking around the single, huge room, seeing beautiful sculptures displayed around the room. She spotted different variations – from mythology-inspired sculptures to custom art she had never seen before.

  As her eyes took in everything in the room, she felt him at her back.

  Amara stilled, the new-found instinct inside flooding panic into her system with a presence at her back, flashbacks lingering on the fringes of her mind, waiting for her to open the floodgates.

  She locked it shut tight, exhaling, urging her mind to feel safe. Dante was behind her. Dante, not anyone else. Her Dante, who would never hurt her. She trusted him.

  But it wouldn’t leave, that feeling of being invaded. He didn’t know, or he’d never do it. And she couldn’t tell him, not without wanting to curl up into that ball of shame, even though she knew logically it wasn’t her fault. Sadly, emotion didn’t leave space for logic.

  Swallowing, she simply stepped away from him, seemingly casual as she walked to one of the art pieces, a grey bowl with veins of gold running beautifully through it.

  “That’s the ancient art of kintsugi,” his voice, that warm, husky, masculine voice of sinful chocolate and twisted sheets can from her side. “It’s the art of putting cracked or broken pieces of pottery together, repairing them with gold, and making a stronger, more stunning piece than the one before.”

  Amara stared at the bowl, seeing the splendor of it. What she had thought artful veins of gold were, in fact, cracks where the bowl had broken. It was highlighting the cracks instead of hiding them.

  “What place is this?” she asked him softly. She wasn’t entirely comfortable using her voice with him yet, but over the last few months, she had begun talking to him.

  “It’s an art gallery. I’m going to buy it one day,” he replied in a tone that matched hers, his hot presence at her side. Feeling nothing behind her back had her relaxing a fraction more.

  “And why are we here?” she moved her eyes from the bowl to look at him, surprised to see him dressed in a tux, holding a medium-sized box in his hands.

  He looked down at her, the look in his eyes making her heart begin to pound for a different reason. The light from the outside fell on one side of his face, and her palms itched to trace the line of his jaw, to feel if it was as smooth as it looked or rough against her skin.

  Surprising the hell out of her, he went down on one knee beside her.

  What the hell was he doing?

  Amara bit her lip as he opened the box, his eyes on hers, and revealed a pair of beautiful golden stilettos. They were gorgeous, with an ankle strap that crossed over the top, the thin heel a solid three inches.

  She gulped. “It’s beautiful... but... I can’t wear heels,” she lilted through the words, explaining it to h
im.

  “Trust me,” his eyes stayed on hers, fierce yet somehow soft.

  Wiping her palms on the dress, she nodded.

  He took the shoes out, placing the box to the side, and held her right ankle. Amara felt a current shoot up from the spot to her core, tingling her body in a way she had only felt with him before. He placed her foot on this knee, the slit of her dress gaping open, exposing her entire leg to him.

  Amara saw his eyes rove over the exposed skin, before coming to hers, the heat in them knocking her breath out of her lungs.

  “Ask me to kiss you,” he told her, his voice rough, grating over her skin in the most delicious friction.

  Her toes curled on his thigh in reaction, her throat dry. God, she loved him and right then, she wanted him to take his fill, to touch, to devour. Every sexual fantasy she’d harbored for him in secret came to the fore of her mind. She didn’t know where he would kiss her if she asked, kneeling as he was, but she wanted it. She wanted him.

  “Kiss me,” she whispered in the space between them, her heart racing.

  His fingers tightened around her ankle fractionally, his eyes breaking their gaze to trace the line of her leg, stopping at the single, small scar from the knife in the middle of her thigh. He leaned forward, his mouth pressing to the spot, and Amara felt her head tip back, her breath coming out in a rush as all the blood in her body rushed to the spot to greet his lips. She tightened her grip on his shoulder, feeling his tongue softly lick the little scar. Her heart stuttered, the action causing wetness to pool between her legs, the significance of it causing her eyes to burn.

  He pulled back, squeezing her ankle to get her eyes on his, his gaze so hot, so hungry it created a riot erupt her insides, his face so, so close to her mound she knew could scent her arousal.

  “Ask me to kiss you,” he uttered again, his Adam’s apple bobbing over his collar, his jaw clenching once. She knew what he was asking. She knew exactly where his mouth would go if she asked him again, and though she should stop this madness, she couldn’t. Her body, while still hers, followed his commands.