The Reaper

by RuNyx

  Morana wondered how to respond as she stood up. She simply decided on a polite, “No, thank you.”

  The woman’s frown deepened. “Who are you waiting to see?”

  Morana remained quiet. The woman took a step inside the room. Sunlight hit her olive skin, making it glisten as tilting her head to the side. “Have we met before?”

  Morana blinked in confusion before realizing the other woman might have seen pictures of her. “I don’t believe so.”

  The woman studied her in a manner that should have been rude but was simply curious. And then her eyes flared with recognition. “Morana Vitalio.”

  Morana stayed still, her heart starting to pound. She was the enemy’s daughter and she was standing alone in the house of Lorenzo Maroni. How could she explain that if the situation worsened? To her surprise, the woman smiled slightly, walking deeper into the room, her arm extended. “I’m Nerea, Amara’s half-sister.”

  Surprised but still cautious, Morana took a step forward and held the woman’s hand in hers, giving it a firm shake. Up close, she could see Nerea was at least a decade older than her, fine lines, light freckles, and experience clear on her make-up free face.

  “Pleasure to meet you,” Morana said, keeping it polite, still unsure of how to read her.

  Nerea gave a small smile, as though comprehending her uncertainty. “Amara mentioned that you were coming.”

  It seemed like she had more to thank Amara for. Nerea glanced down at the sleek watch on her wrist. “I have to rush right now but if you need anything, you can come to me any time. Any friend of Amara’s is a friend of mine. She doesn’t have many in the first place.”

  “Thank you,” Morana said, grateful but still unsure.

  Nerea gave her a warm smile. “See you later.”

  She walked out of the room on those high heels just as quickly as she’d come in. How was Amara's half-sister a part of the mob if Amara was shunned and her mother a housekeeper? Minutes later, just as Morana was thinking upon that, a group of strange men wearing dark suits entered the room. Some looked at her curiously, some leered, some entirely ignored her. They all went to the back of the room and took their positions against the wall.

  Morana perused them all. They were eight in total, all of them in dark suits and matching shirts and ties, guns at their hips. They were all middle-aged, some tall, some stocky. One of them though, one with the leery eyes that creeped her out, was built like a heavy-weight wrestler. His huge frame matched Dante’s height with added bulk. The other man that stood out to her was the one who was ignoring her the hardest. He appeared to be the youngest in the lot. He looked straight ahead, his hands folded together at the front. What set the hair on the back of her neck buzzing though was the nasty scar going down the side of his face, from the corner of his left eye right down to his neck, disappearing inside his shirt. It looked like his flesh had been gouged out in slashes. His eyes were vacant.

  “Well, well, well,” a woman’s voice interrupted her perusal and had her focusing back at the door at the woman standing there. If Nerea had been stunning, this woman was stunning. Her dark red hair falling around her in gentle waves, a gorgeous navy dress (that Morana would have loved to have) falling to her knees. She had bright eyes that were a cross between green and gold, appearing liquid. Eyes that were examining Morana with a surprising amount of hostility.

  Morana stayed silent and kept her expression blank.

  The woman came forward, her eyes hardening, and spoke low enough that only she could hear. “I hear you’ve been creating quite the stir for my man, Miss Vitalio. Do you have any idea what you’ve put in motion?”

  Morana tilted her head even as her stomach clenched. Her man? Dante or Tristan Caine?

  And that was when Lorenzo Maroni entered the room.

  He was a distinguished-looking man, no doubt about that. He seemed to be aging gracefully, his salt-and-pepper hair cut stylishly, his trimmed beard holding certain gravity up close that she had not expected. The lines on his face were stark, a testament to a hard life, and his dark eyes were impassive. Those eyes came to the woman in front of her, the woman who had somehow shaken her steadiness.

  “Go to the back, Chiara,” Maroni ordered, his voice gravelly.

  Chiara? Chiara Mancini? The same Chiara Mancini who had been calling Tristan Caine the other night? Was he her man? Had she been completely wrong and Tristan Caine had a woman? This woman?

  Her stomach bottomed out, a flare of anger pooling in her chest. The hostility wasn't one-sided anymore.

  Chiara gave her a small sneer, her stunning face contorting into something not beautiful. Though Morana simply raised an eyebrow outwardly, inside she felt worse. She had assumed just because he seemed like a man who wouldn’t two-time that he wasn’t. But this was the mob. Men cheated and were cheated on here even with the knowledge of their matrimony. The thought of him being someone else’s while he fucked her made her angry. But the thought, the mere thought of him being someone else’s while he kissed her the way he had, while he had taken her mouth and shared something real with her hurt. God, she’d been so sure of him. Had she been wrong?

  As though conjured from her thoughts, Tristan Caine strode slowly, almost lazily, at the back, coming to a stop at the entryway. Those magnificent blue eyes of his came to her, doing a quick check, not missing her hands that had instinctively gone to the weapons against her thighs. His lips twitched, just barely, just enough to have a family of butterflies start samba in her belly at the most inappropriate time. He leaned against the doorjamb, blocking the doorway, hands in his pockets, that shirt stretched taut across his chest, one ankle crossed over the other.

  And that was when he locked eyes with hers.

  Whatever he saw there had him go still. She witnessed every muscle in his body locked as his gaze penetrated hers with a singular focus, trying to read whatever he was seeing there. Morana deliberately looked away towards Chiara as the woman strolled up to him with a saccharine smile. “Tristan.”

  He didn’t reply. She tried to put her hands on him; he took a hold of her wrists and set her back, his eyes entirely on Morana the entire time. And then he shook his head at Morana, just once, dispelling whatever doubts had started to creep in. She needed to trust him. They had come this far on a certain honesty. She had to trust that. Especially here more than ever.

  Turning away, she saw Lorenzo Maroni take a seat on the large armchair. The sun glinted off his hair and crisp suit. His impassive eyes held a flicker of interest though when they finally came to her.

  With his men in a row behind him as he sat in that large chair, the scene looked intimidating as hell as she stood across from them. Good thing she had practice with her father. She knew how to swim with sharks without bleeding, and Lorenzo Maroni was a shark on top of the food chain.

  She kept her expression clean and her body relaxed, acutely aware of all the eyes watching her, especially the woman at the back who had not left the room. If looks could kill, Morana would’ve been dead ten times over. Her pulse raced as she waited for a cue from the Bloodhound, her palms sweating, the cool blades that had been a comfort now feeling sharp against her skin.

  Someone came to stand beside her. She didn’t turn to look but the familiar scent of cologne told her it was Dante. That relaxed her a bit more for some reason.

  “Father,” Morana heard Dante’s cool voice from beside her. “Allow me to introduce Morana Vitalio. Morana, Lorenzo Maroni.”

  Once done speaking, Dante remained standing exactly where he was beside her, surprising her yet again. The stance wasn’t lost on her and it certainly wasn’t lost on Maroni. His eyes narrowed slightly at his son’s blatant body language, before coming to her.

  “Morana,” the man spoke in that same gravel voice, raising the hair on her arms. “You have grown up beautifully. I saw you once when you were younger about...”

  “Twenty years ago,” Morana finished. His eyes sharpened on her.

  “Dante and Tri
stan informed me you were staying here as our guest for some time. Is that correct?”

  “Yes,” Morana nodded. “If you’re willing to extend your hospitality to me, of course,” she added with a sweet smile that fooled no one.

  Maroni saw through it. “Very well. You can understand how that would put me in an odd situation, yes?”

  “Of course,” she acknowledged.

  “As I said, father,” Dante interrupted. “She’s my guest. I have invited her as a friend and I am willing to extend all hospitality to her.”

  Lorenzo Maroni glanced at his son. “Even without my consent?”

  Dante remained silent for a few beats. “Yes.”

  It seemed as though Amara’s words had gotten to him. Morana wished the other woman could have seen this moment. She stayed silent.

  Maroni’s gaze flickered to where Tristan Caine was leaning against the threshold. “And you will support that I presume?”

  There was no verbal response but something if the tightening of Maroni’s lips was anything to go by. In a beat, those lips eased. “Very well. Were you checked for weapons before you entered the compound?” he asked her.

  She shook her head, her heart starting to pound relentlessly as the knives strapped to her thigh became heavier. Maroni smiled, his lips curling. He was pleased, the bastard. Without a word, he raised his arm, his elbow on the seat, and gestured at his men. The wrestler in the suit stepped up.

  “Check her,” Maroni ordered.

  Morana’s pulse started to rattle. The wrestler moved towards her, his eyes gleaming, his lips twisted in a slight grin.

  “Seriously, father?” Dante snorted, his voice tight. “Kids walk around here with weapons, for god’s sake.”

  “They are not the spawn of Gabriel Vitalio now, are they?” Maroni replied, his unwavering gaze on her. “I hope you don’t mind, dear Morana. Until I can trust you to be on the compound with my family, you are not to be armed.”

  That wouldn’t do. Absolutely not.

  The wrestler guy stopped in front of her, extending his large hand straight towards her breast. Morana braced herself, gritting her teeth, years of being touched at her father’s table giving her the strength not to slit the man’s throat and make him choke on his own tongue. He watched her with those creepy eyes, looking far too excited for a simple body search. His hand was almost on her when, out of nowhere, fingers enclosed around his wrist.

  Even though Morana knew the other hand like the back of her own, she turned her neck. Her eyes followed the strong grip, the sinews on his forearms, the hint of his tattoo, the veins and the roped muscles, right up to his face. Tristan Caine’s eyes were steady and grip firm on wrestler guy who glared back at him, animosity pouring off him in waves. Morana frowned, sensing some old history between the two.

  The wrestler guy pulled on his arm; Tristan Caine’s grip flexed but didn’t loosen, the strength of it astounding her. It was a big man he was holding, a big man who seemed to be exerting considerable effort to get loose.

  “Touch her without permission again,” Tristan Caine stated so quietly the impact hit her harder, that voice of whiskey and sin sending shivers of a completely different kind over her spine, “and I will break you.”

  The room went utterly silent. Morana looked at the other goons to see most of them with their hands on their guns, then at Maroni who was watching Tristan Caine with rapt attention.

  “Interesting,” he murmured, a smile coming on to his face she did not like one bit.

  Tristan Caine let the wrestler guy go and turned to face her, giving Maroni and his goons his back in a move that showed both his complete confidence in their inability to harm him and his trust in Dante to watch his back. This was unexpected. She hadn’t thought he would come anywhere near her where Maroni could watch, for obvious reasons. That he was not only close but was almost flaunting it in the older man’s face caught her unaware.

  Morana swallowed, tilting her head back, caught by those blue, blue eyes. He raised his hands in silent question and she nodded, granting him permission. Without removing his eyes from hers, he settled his hands on her shoulders, touching her for the first time. Her chest heaved with an inhale. He kept his touch light as he slid his hand around to her back, running it down her spine. Her body arched, breasts brushing against his torso before she could control the reaction, aware of the many eyes on them.

  Once done with her torso, he went down on one knee. Biting the inside of her cheek, she looked down. His large hands traced over her hips, making her heart hammer everywhere in her body. His hands went down and touched her ankle under the hem of her long skirt. Her breath hitched as she fisted her hands to keep them from touching his scruff, her mouth tingling with the remembered sensation of it burning her skin as he kissed her. She saw the responding heat in his eyes as his hands traveled up her calves, his rough fingers caressing her skin for the first time in a room full of mobsters. But it fit given their first time had been in a mob restaurant with mobsters outside the door.

  His hands paused on her knee, his eyes molten. She took a deep breath in. He knew exactly where her knives were, had known since he had entered the room. He could have checked her from over her skirt. Yet, he had gotten on a knee and placed his hands directly on her skin without once raising the hem of her skirt from the floor. It wasn’t lost on her what he was doing. It was a statement to all the men in the room, to the woman who had tried to claim him, and to Morana herself. It was a statement loud and clear. She was his.

  Her chest tight, she watched him, his eyes, aware of every man in the room but completely unaware of any other man, feeling his hand slowly drift up to the inside of her thighs in a move so intimate like they had done it a thousand times before. She felt his hands find her blades and felt him remove them with adept skill, the same knife she had held to his back in this very house that first night.

  The air between them thickened. Her core pulsed.

  An inch higher and he would feel how wet she was, right in the middle of this room, just for him. He could do it too. No one would see or notice.

  Her thighs started to tremble even as she tried to keep her face blank, the ache in her belly growing heavier, clawing lower and lower towards his hands. She could feel her muscles naturally straining towards those fingers, her walls clenching with the need to be filled, to be filled by him. He had never touched her there, not with that gentleness with which he was holding her flesh now. She craved it. She craved those fingers inside her, moving as his lips kissed her neck and his scent filled her nose and his breaths deepened in her ears. She wanted her senses to be filled by him. She ached for it.

  And he read all that in her eyes, saw the naked desire painting her eyes. His fingers tightened infinitesimally on her skin. Just a few inches. Just a little.

  Her chest heaved. His hand flexed.

  She shivered. His jaw tightened.

  Swiftly, he got up, the knives in his hands, and turned to face the room, leaving tremors in her body. Besides Dante, everyone was staring. Morana breathed deeply to keep the flush from her cheeks. Tristan Caine took his position beside her, pocketing her blades and pointing his even stare at Maroni.

  “I do believe I will enjoy having Morana for a guest, Tristan,” Maroni said with the smile that quickly simmered her heat down. Dante had been right. She would have to be careful, very careful with this man. Tristan Caine did not react. Not outwardly at least. She knew enough about the man to discern there was a lot more going on inside than anyone realized.

  “How did you meet my son and Tristan, Morana?” Maroni demanded rather than asked. “Tell me, I am curious.”

  Morana tamped down her emotions and imitated Maroni’s smile. “It’s a long story.”

  Maroni’s lips pursed. Then, he turned to one of the goons. “Have Antria prepare the guest room.”

  “No need,” Tristan Caine spoke for the first time in a while. “She stays with me.”

  Maroni shook his head, crossing one leg o
ver the other, settling in. “No, she doesn’t.”

  Tristan Caine didn’t say a word, just stared the man down. Maroni stared back. Now she knew what Dante had been talking about.

  “Tristan, honey,” Chiara spoke up from the back, making Morana’s jaw clench at the sudden need to do something violent. “Until Lorenzo has spoken to the right people, he cannot allow her to live that far off the main compound. She has to earn his trust. Till then, she will be a welcome guest at the main house, won’t she, Lorenzo?”

  “Of course,” Maroni agreed, never taking his eyes off the younger man.

  Morana looked up at Tristan Caine to see his face completely void of any tell - no clenching of the jaw, no expression in his eyes, no tic in his cheek. Nothing. Seeing him like that suddenly made her realize she hadn’t been the only one letting her guards down. He did that too, only when she was watching or with Dante and Amara.

  “She stays with me,” he stated again.

  “Not possible,” Maroni refuted immediately.

  Just as he opened his mouth to speak, Dante took over. “If she stays at the main house, you give your word no harm would come to her?”

  Tristan Caine cut a sharp look at Dante; Dante just shook his head, silent communication between the two men.

  Maroni watched the interaction with interest. “As long as she doesn’t harm anyone.”

  Even though part of her was getting furious about being talked about like she wasn’t there, she tamped it down, knowing this wasn’t the time or the place.

  “I’ll stay at the main house,” she spoke before the situation could spiral out of control, which it was close to doing because she knew the stubborn men won’t relent. She was his bone and he had slapped that in Maroni’s face; Maroni wanted to take the bone away to make him pay. It didn’t take a genius to figure that one. They needed to ride it out.

  “Wonderful,” Maroni smiled. “Vin,” he pointed to the scarred man with the empty eyes, “will escort you to your room. You can meet everyone tonight at dinner.”

  Morana nodded politely. “Thank you.”