The Reaper

by RuNyx

  Morana raised her eyebrows. “Yours alone?”

  A lopsided smile curled his mouth. “Being the oldest son has its perks.”

  Morana shook her head. Men.

  His face grew serious again. “I have my staff in that wing. My cousins visit sometimes, and you’d be more than welcome to stay there if you like. It has its own security detail as well.”

  Morana nodded her thanks, touched by the genuine offer, soaking in all the information. “And the fourth wing?”

  “Is Tristan’s.”

  Of course, it was.

  Dante went on, unperturbed. “His wing is the smallest, area wise. It’s a cottage, to be honest. It is also the farthest from the main house and the other wings, right by the lake. He lives there alone.”

  Alone.

  Like an outcast.

  Morana felt her heart clench at the thought of this, at his reality, as the enormity of his life day after day dawned upon her. He’d lived on the compound but the periphery. He’d lived with people but as a pariah. They hadn’t accepted him and they hadn’t let him go.

  Hands fisting on her thighs, Morana blew out a breath through clenched teeth at the fury she could feel invading her bones. Another monster rose inside her – a monster she was familiar with, a monster that had made her kill in cold blood to exact her revenge.

  She wanted to destroy, to decimate.

  The depth of her own emotions staggered her.

  Inhaling deeply, she tried to get it under control.

  “Go on,” she urged Dante, needing to know more.

  Dante cracked his neck, stretching his legs, his gargantuan body seeming to take up the entire space. “The main house is where my father lives with his siblings and their spouses.”

  Morana frowned. “And what about the other sentinels or whatever you guys call them?”

  “They all have houses outside the compound but right near the edges. Why exactly do you think Tristan is considered such an anomaly?” Dante prodded her to think.

  “Because he’s the only outsider in the Outfit to live with the high family,” Morana murmured, catching on quickly.

  Dante nodded. “Exactly. It’s made him a target for many people on the outside looking in, men who’ve been in the business longer than he’s been born but never given the privilege of living with the family.”

  Morana shook her head, confused. “But why does your father even keep him there? Why not let him live outside like the others?”

  Dante chuckled darkly, the sound icy. “My father,” he sneered the word, leaving no doubt in her mind as to his own feelings for the man, “prizes one thing above all else - control. Control over his empire, control over his puppets, control over his family. And you know the one person he’s never been able to control?”

  ‘You try to leash me, I’ll fucking strangle you with it.’

  Amara’s words of a fourteen-year-old boy came back to her.

  “Tristan Caine,” she whispered, stumped all over again by the sheer brazenness of him.

  Dante’s lips twisted. “Tristan Caine.”

  Morana could hear the same awe she felt in Dante’s voice, the fact that a fourteen-year-old boy had told that boss of an entire mob that he wouldn’t yield…

  “I’ve seen men, grown men, lick my father’s boot to remain in his favor, Morana. By the time I was eighteen, I thought there was not a single soul on this earth who could stand up to him. And then Tristan happened.”

  His eyes closed as he inhaled deeply, evidently remembering. “That’s the reason I started sticking with him in the first place – he was fearless. He truly didn’t give a fuck at what my father did. In fact, the first common ground we both found was pissing the old man off.”

  Morana slumped back in the chair, her chest filling with something.

  “And your father keeps him on the compound because…?”

  “Because though he would never admit it, my father fears Tristan,” Dante stated, a smidgen of respect in his voice.

  Lorenzo Maroni. Feared. Tristan Caine?

  What the what?

  Her thoughts were evident on her face because Dante explained quietly.

  “He fears Tristan because Tristan is a wild card. He does what he does, even living under the great Lorenzo Maroni’s eye. Every time Tristan disregards my father, it’s a very public slap on his face. And he fears what Tristan would do if he left his watch. He’s already an unknown. My father fears he’d become truly rogue if he left and take away what he prizes most.”

  “His power,” Morana completed, pieces falling into place. “Wait, so he doesn’t want him to become the heir?”

  “Fuck, no!” Dante responded vehemently. “That’s a rumor started by people on the outside who think Tristan lives on the inside because he’s being groomed to take over. My father entertained the rumor only to save his face. Because refuting it meant admitting to the truth, which would make him look weak.”

  Oh boy.

  She had to ask. “Why not just kill him, if he’s so much trouble?”

  The thought left her bitter.

  Dante shrugged. “Pride. Power. Who knows? Because Tristan is his most valuable asset? Because it would be admitting defeat if he couldn’t control him alive? I don’t know.”

  God.

  “Morana,” Dante paused for a beat. “For years my father has tried to break Tristan, to get even some semblance of control over him. Torture, blackmail, you name it, he’s done it. But it’s never worked. No matter what he subjected Tristan to, it always hit a wall.”

  Her heart ached even as the rage filled her, against a man she’d not even met.

  “My father,” Dante continued, “is going to hate you. And use you.”

  Morana swallowed, a part of her afraid, another part daring the evil man to even try.

  “I don’t have any control over him,” she reminded Dante, her fingers balling into fists.

  Dante agreed. “You know that. Tristan knows that. But to anyone standing on the outside? You don’t have control, Morana. You have something better.”

  “What?” Morana whispered.

  “Influence,” Dante stated. “To anyone who’s looking at you two, it will be apparent you influence him. Which means it’s his choice. That, Morana, is going to make my father very, very upset. Because after everything he thinks he’s done, Tristan chose to let a girl influence him - that too the daughter of Vitalio. They have history.”

  Uh oh.

  “You need to watch your back with him at all times,” Dante cautioned, the weight in his voice making her breath hitch. “He will try to manipulate you, use you to get to Tristan. I don’t know how but you need to be very, very careful. It will not be easy.”

  Morana remained silent, swallowing down the bout of nerves trying to attack her.

  “And not because he wants Tristan to be the heir. Oh no, that pleasure will be all mine,” Dante sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, sarcasm heavy in his tone.

  Morana took in his weariness, her heart squeezing in sympathy. “What did you want to be?” the question slipped out of her before she could stop herself.

  She waited as Dante looked up at her, his tie loose around his neck, hair disheveled.

  He laughed, the sound not reaching his dark eyes. “Truly?”

  Morana nodded, curious.

  “A sculptor.”

  Morana blinked in surprise at the answer. Dante saw and smiled, a genuine smile.

  “My mother had been a painter,” he explained, his voice soft, eyes lost in memory. “One of the fondest memories of my childhood is of sculpting with clay while she painted in the same room. She always used to hum this melody and my hands…”

  He let his words trail off, shaking himself out of the memory, his eyes hardening again as he breathed deeply.

  Morana noted his use of past tense.

  Her heart clenched, the urge to take his hand and give it a squeeze acute. But she refrained, knowing somehow that he wouldn’t appreciate it
.

  “As I told you once, Morana,” he spoke quietly, “you’re lucky to be following your dream.”

  She was.

  Sitting there in front of Dante, while discussing the history of a man more damaged than she’d even imagined, thinking of the friend she’d left behind - the girl who’d been abducted and tortured for days for information, one who still carried the mar of that around her throat, thinking of the lost girls from years ago, of Luna Caine - of where she could be, how she could be if she was even alive - Morana felt truly lucky to be just breathing. Her past was filled only with loneliness and not true horrors, not deep scars, not lifeless agony.

  “Do you want a hug?” that voice of whiskey and sin penetrated the space around them.

  Morana’s gaze flew to Tristan Caine standing beside the door, not a crease on the fabric of his clothes, nothing to indicate he’d been asleep, his face a stoic mask, which did not fit with his words. Surprise filled her at the fact that she’d missed him entering the area. Usually, she never did, her body aware of him in ways she couldn’t hope to understand.

  She saw Dante’s lips curl into a smile. “Fuck off, asshole.”

  God, they were such guys.

  There was something incredibly normal about that.

  Dante turned to her as the other man pranced to the bar, getting himself a glass of whiskey on the rocks, his blue shirt hugging the muscles on his torso as he moved about, before leaning against the wall and facing them.

  “Anyhow,” Dante began, drawing Morana’s attention again. “Just remember one thing - you’ll be Lorenzo Maroni’s guest. That means a lot of pretending.”

  Morana nodded. “I’m good at pretending.”

  She saw Tristan Caine raise a single brow in the periphery but ignored him.

  Dante turned around to pin the other man with his gaze. “All done?”

  Tristan Caine gave a curt nod as the captain’s voice filled the cabin, informing them to put on their seat belts, as they would be landing soon.

  Heart suddenly racing, Morana turned in the seat and hooked on the belt, aware of Tristan Caine taking the seat beside hers, not touching her anywhere but his presence searing her.

  Closing her eyes, she tilted her head back and focused on her breathing.

  The next hour seemed to fly by.

  It all seemed surreal - them landing safely, the wind whipping her hair around in her ponytail as she exited the plane, her thanking the crew, then getting into a town car that waited for them near the strip along with two other cars.

  Morana took it all in - the men, the bulge of the guns under their jackets, the beautiful sunshine, the wind, everything as she looked out the backseat of the car to the passing city, absorbing it in a way she hadn’t before.

  She wondered through it all if he had a bike here as well. If he had a sacred space in his bedroom. If his territory was a reflection of him.

  She wondered where she would be staying - at the main house as Maroni’s guest or with him.

  She wondered about a lot many things as everything seemed to happen in fast forward.

  And then the cars stopped.

  Morana peeked out from behind the glass, her heart drumming painfully in her chest as she saw the huge wrought iron gate that manned the beginning of the property, lush green grass rolling out far into the edge of a forested area. That beast of an almost-castle loomed farther up ahead the drive

  almost ominously, another building farther behind that to the left but nothing else to be seen from this vantage.

  The iron gates opened smoothly, four armed men standing near the control room.

  Her nerves were shot.

  The car went in motion again, moving forward, entering the premises.

  Morana felt her heart thundering in her chest as she gazed upon that beast of a house, where everything had been put in motion twenty years ago, where everything had changed course a few weeks ago.

  That house had changed her life twice.

  And the magnitude of that reality settled upon her like a heavy cloud.

  The car slithered closer and closer to the beast.

  And then, finally, it came to a stop.

  Her heart stopped.

  Her eyes locked with his in the rear-view mirror, her inhale stuck in her throat.

  “Breathe,” he mouthed.

  Morana breathed.

  They had arrived.

  She was alone.

  Sitting in the monstrous living room inside the mansion, Morana was still reeling over how easy it had been to get inside. The sun had been bright when they had emerged from the car. There had been guards all around but no one had reacted to seeing her with the two men. That had surprised her. She had expected to be greeted at the large doors by Maroni and his goons. She had expected guns being pointed and arguments being raised. She had half-expected being told to get lost or to die. What she had not expected was to get out of the car with Dante and Tristan Caine, have the guards greet them with nods of respect, and simply stroll inside the house. What she hadn’t expected furthermore was to be escorted by Dante into the living room, have him give her a reassuring nod, and then for both men to disappear. Not that she wanted to be in their company the entire time. She just hadn’t anticipated being on her own in the den of the enemy right in the first hour.

  It had been twenty minutes since she’d seen the men walk deeper into the house to meet Maroni, she presumed. In those twenty minutes, Morana had taken stock of the room - and there was a lot to take stock of. Lush Persian rugs scattered around the monstrous space that was decorated with polished mahogany wood furniture and plush cushions. The walls reflected the same rock-cut exterior of the outside of the house. The room was a cross between rustic and royal - grey rocks and ornate gold, wood, and silk somehow coming together in a way that somehow pleased the senses while sending a chill down her spine. Maroni’s decorator had hit the target for the guests - get them comfortable but not enough to let them forget where they were.

  She had also taken note of the cameras mounted at the corner of the ceiling, pointed right at her. Whoever was on the other side definitely got a good look at her leg when she had taken out her knives from her bag and strapped them to her thigh. They were the same knives she had stupidly tried to kill Tristan Caine with - the knives that had been collecting dust in her bag since the night she had gone back to his penthouse. She had never, for some reason, felt the need to bring them out there. That in itself was confounding considering she’d slept with weapons under her pillow every single night under her father’s roof for years. Not once in the penthouse though, not even that first night, not on any night since then.

  The realization stunned her. Sitting in this living room, on edge being surrounded by unknown danger, she realized just how safe she had begun to feel in the penthouse now that it was gone. She had let her guards down, a little bit at a time when she thought no one was looking. On paper, she should be shaken for finding safety in the territory of a man who had hated her for twenty years. But paper castles were burned in her world every day. Since the night in the cemetery, she had stopped fighting what she felt and accepted it completely. Her acceptance was going to pave their way. They had enough blockages as it was.

  The cool blade pressed against her skin in a way that reassured her. She wondered what it said about her, the fact that she found the lethal weapon comforting. Could that be why Tristan Caine somehow comforted her too? She knew herself enough to admit that. His presence, hell the mere knowledge of his existence, gave her more comfort than anything in her life had.

  Her stomach grumbled slightly, breaking her musings. And then she realized something else - no one had come to serve her. From what she knew of the Maroni household, they had an abundance of staff and one of their duties was to greet guests. Yet, she’d been sitting there for over twenty minutes and not seen a soul. It was quiet, too quiet.

  Heart starting to race, Morana leaned back deeper into the cushions, crossing one leg over the othe
r. It pressed the blade against her thigh as she tried to appear relaxed for the sake of the cameras. A few days ago, she would have entertained the thought that this was a trap, that the Outfit men had suckered her into believing them and brought her here for whatever nefarious reasons. Now, even as the thought briefly flickered through her mind, she discarded it. With everything they had been through, everything that was still unknown, every single reaction she had seen in the two men, she knew they hadn’t tricked her.

  She did have questions though. From everything Dante had told her on the plane, she had no idea how Lorenzo Maroni would respond to her presence. Moreover, she had no clue as to how Tristan Caine would respond to Maroni’s response to her presence. The man was a ticking bomb and only he knew when he would explode from what Dante had told her. She was curious to see them interact, to see for herself the infamous boss of the Outfit and his rumored protegee come face to face. She also wondered if there were people on the compound who cared for him, perhaps without his knowledge, like Dante and Amara did. But most importantly, she was curious about where she would be staying. She knew where she wanted to stay but two things were blocking that - one, it was Tristan Caine’s home, his actual home, and he had to invite her; two, Maroni had to be okay with it because for all intents and purposes, she was his guest and she was the daughter of the Shadow Port boss.

  The sound of high heels clicking on the marble floors had her eyes going to the doorway. A stunning dark-haired woman came into vision, her tan silk blouse flowing against her curves, tucked into dark straight pants that fell straight to the floor, her long tresses pulled back into a high ponytail. Her beautiful attire made Morana conscious of her simple black and white skirt, matching top and flats, all that she had borrowed from Amara. She needed to go shopping as soon as possible, especially if there were more gorgeous women prancing around the place.

  What surprised Morana though was the small gun holstered to her side, in clear view. The woman stopped as her bright green eyes came to Morana, a slight frown between her brows. “Can I help you?” the woman asked, her voice strong but quiet.