by RuNyx
Vin headed to the door on silent feet. Taking that as her cue, she turned to the two men - Dante giving her a reassuring look, Tristan Caine still stoic - and gave them a little nod. Wanting to quickly get away from the escalating tension in the room, she hurried to where Vin was standing. As soon as she was a few steps away, he started to walk again, leading them out the entryway and up the stairs.
Morana looked around the impressive staircase that she hadn’t had the chance to admire the first time around. The chandelier glimmered in the sunlight pouring in from the large windows, sparkles dancing over it. The colored reflections danced around the floor, creating an ethereal atmosphere. She could almost forget for a second where she was. Large paintings of vistas were arranged artfully along the walls of the staircase. She examined them all, following the silent man on two floors. On the second floor landing, Vin turned right down a corridor.
“Are there others on this floor?” she asked, initiating conversation and breaking silence.
“No,” he responded, his tone curt.
“So, what’s on this floor?”
“Guest rooms.”
Okay. “Are there other guests at the moment?”
“Some.”
Morana sighed. The man was a boatload of information. Following him down the corridor and past several doors, she observed the way he was walking, a slight limp in his left step and wondered what had happened to him. Before she could think more, they came to a stop on the third door that he opened for her. She was about to enter when he pushed his hand in front of her, stopping her.
She looked up at him, suddenly aware that she was unarmed with a strange man on a floor where no one would hear her scream. Muscles tensing, she took a step back as he bent down and quickly removed a small knife from his sock. Without a word, he stood up and held the knife out to her.
Morana looked his scarred left hand and the knife that sat on it, stunned.
Hesitant, not understanding what and why he was doing, she took the knife. “Why?”
The man whispered. “You’re with vultures now. They feed off the dead.”
A shiver went down her spine, her grip tightening on the knife.
Vin pulled his hand away and gestured for her to enter. “They will be activating the ears in this room soon. Stay sharp.”
With that piece of information, he turned on his heel and walked away with that limp, leaving Morana reeling from the entire interaction. Nevertheless, she felt better knowing she had some sort of a weapon. Closing the door behind her, she looked around the spacious room, checking the walls and ceiling for cameras. She couldn’t see any but she was certain there were some.
The door locked, she walked deeper in the opulent room done in cream and blues. A Caine-sized bed took the center space, a small sitting area across it, a dresser and a chest of drawers in oak wood gracing the other corner of the room. Large windows with a comfortable seat looked out into the sprawling green land behind the mansion. She looked out, seeing the treeline behind which she knew the other wings were, spotting the blue waters of the lake off at the distance.
Had she just exchanged one cage for another? Granted, this one looked less sterile but there was, under a roof she did not feel safe in, planning to sleep with a knife under her pillow at night and keeping the doors locked. There she was, ready to go to dinner that night with a table full of strangers again. There she was, all alone, again.
The vibration of her phone broke through her thoughts. She took the phone out of her bag and opened the new message.
Tristan: Were you wet?
Morana looked at the grounds, a small smile forming on her lips.
Morana: You'll never find out.
Tristan: Yes, I will.
She snorted.
Morana: I can see the lake from my window.
Tristan: I can see your window from mine.
Heart suddenly beating harder, Morana looked out the window, trying to see where his place was. She saw several buildings spread out behind the treeline and then she remembered what Dante had told her.
“His wing is the smallest, area wise. It is also the farthest from the main house and the other wings. He lives there alone.”
Heart in her throat, Morana squinted and tried to find the one building that stood away from the others. And she found it. Right by the lake. Where the other wings were spread out over the west side of the compound, that one lone building stood alone in the east, surrounded by green on one side and water on the other. Half-wild, half-tamed. Just like the man. She couldn't see anything inside because of the distance but just knowing he could see her, that he was still watching her despite Maroni's effort to take her away filled her with a warmth she was unfamiliar with.
He could see her.
Morana realized, watching that little building in the distance, that she'd been wrong.
She wasn't alone.
Not anymore.
It was almost time for dinner.
A lady in her mid-forties, clearly a member of the staff, had come to the room almost an hour ago with a dress draped on her arm. She hadn’t spoken a word, simply handed the dress to Morana when she opened the door and had gone on her way. Baffling as that had been, Morana was more curious as to why Maroni would have sent her a dress and if she should wear it. Sadly, she didn’t really have an option. She hadn't packed her own wardrobe when she left her house and all she had on her was borrowed stuff from Amara’s closet that was more casual than the dinner demanded.
Staring at the dress - a long, silky number in forest green with full sleeves, a modest neckline and simple back, and a scandalous slit on one side right to her upper thigh - Morana shook her head and took off her bathrobe, freshly showered and clean, and donned the dress. It fit like a glove and that was disturbing, especially because Maroni had sent it to her. She just knew it. The fact that he had stared at her long enough to get a measure of her sizes made the hair on the back of her neck rise and not in a good way. Fighting off a shudder, Morana smoothed the fabric out and debated whether to strap the knife to herself. While keeping it on her would make her feel safer, she didn’t have any other weapon and was she searched again, she would lose it. As much as it pained her, she would have to leave it hidden in the room itself.
Brushing her hair out, she carefully applied concealer to cover up the few bruises left behind from the night in the cemetery. That done, she applied her mascara and painted her lips blood red. She’d made the mistake of being in the mansion unprepared once, she wouldn’t do it again. She didn’t like the insecurity that bopped its head upon seeing the beautiful women, especially when one of them had her sights on her man.
Her man?
The hand holding the lipstick stopped suddenly, hovering in the air as she stared at herself in the mirror, her heart pounding hard.
Her man.
Where the hell did that even come from?
They did not have that kind of a relationship and she doubted they ever would. Even though she had been his long before she even knew him. Even though he had all but claimed her in small, subtle ways over the two weeks. Even though he had touched her for the first time as a mark of her belonging to him (as archaic as that sounded). Her eyes fluttered shut, remembering the sensation of his rough, calloused fingers going up her thighs. Exhale. Her skin pebbled, a delicious shiver coursing down her spine. She was his. By now, probably everyone in the mob knew. She knew. But was he her man?
She inhaled again and got back to her lips, carefully scrutinizing her own face. She was pretty enough, definitely. Though not as visually stunning as Chiara Mancini. But did that even matter? It never had, not to her. She had always been comfortable in her skin, mostly because she had loved her intelligence and her repressed wit that had been waiting for the right person to repartee with. Which was also why she didn’t think it mattered to him either. She remembered the way he had simply given her that tight head-shake when Chiara had been all over him, and her lips turned up in a smile.
&n
bsp; Fuck yes, he was hers. For however long, damaged and asshole-d, and however he was, he was hers. And good luck to anyone who tried to come between that.
Feeling the strength of that acceptance seep into her pores, Morana gave her hair a final brush with her fingers, stepped into her one pair of golden heels, and opened the door, only to come face-to-face with the she-devil. Chiara Mancini.
Interesting.
The other woman, stunning in a red wrap dress that showed her cleavage just the right amount, gave Morana a smile as false as her eyelashes. Morana didn’t even bother.
“I hope you’re settling in well,” Chiara asked, her voice low and soft. Morana could understand why men who didn’t look beneath the surface would fall head-over-ass for this woman. Thankfully, she lacked the requisite body parts to be a shallow dick.
“I’m sure you haven’t come up here to ask me about how I’m doing, Mrs. Mancini,” Morana said in her most dry voice. “Oh, it is Mrs, isn’t it?” she blinked innocently, knowing she’d hit the nail on the head when the other woman’s face tightened.
“Yes, I’m married to Lorenzo’s first cousin,” she gritted out quietly. “Not the most ideal marriage. But then, when does the mob listen when a woman accuses her husband of rape?”
She wasn’t lying. Morana saw it in her eyes and her heart, as hard as it had been, softened. “I’m sorry.” What else could she even say? Some men got the license to be monsters.
Chiara visibly shook off whatever thought had plagued her and focused on Morana again. “I don’t want your sympathy. What I want is for you to keep your distance from Dante and Tristan.”
Morana tilted her head to the side, hardening herself again, even as the compassion lingered. “And why would I do anything you want?”
Chiara took a step forward, her hand slamming once on the door, her eyes angry at her. “Because they’re the good ones and they don’t deserve the shit storm you have created, princess. Neither of them. Especially Tristan.”
Morana felt her stomach tighten. “What do you know about what he deserves?”
Chiara smiled. “I know he’s fucked me on the regular for almost two years and Tristan doesn’t do regular.”
Fire.
There was no other word for whatever was spreading through her chest, eating away at her insides. She could feel the burn crawl up her neck, over her cheeks and finally mist in her eyes. But she couldn’t let it show, couldn’t let it affect her. And that hurt. Really hurt. Not that he’d slept with this woman but the fact that he’d done it regularly. Because that implied she meant something to him. Emotionally. And that fucking burned.
Years of practice coming in handy, Morana kept her composure, not even allowing her fingers to curl into her palms, and smiled at the other woman. “Fucked. Past tense, Mrs. Mancini. But I’m the present and the foreseeable future.”
Chiara’s smile faltered. “He will come back to me.”
“Maybe,” Morana shrugged. And then she leaned in closer. “Or maybe, I will destroy him for anyone else.”
Before the other woman could say another thing, Morana took a step outside. “Now, you’ve done your due diligence and warned me. I’ve not heeded it. We both know where we stand and we both know neither will nudge. Either way, I’m hungry so excuse me.”
Without another word, Morana locked the door behind her and walked away, not looking back at the woman who had poured gasoline over what had only been a small spark. It was a blaze now, a blaze which wanted to destroy. Him. She would destroy him for anyone else.
For the first time in their convoluted relationship, she took out her phone and texted him first.
Morana: My vagina just became off-limits to you.
His reply came almost immediately.
Tristan: ?
Question mark. He’d sent her a damn question mark. She was seething.
Morana: Not that it matters. Your regular would be more than happy to welcome you in her bed, I’m sure.
No immediate reply. Of course. Morana walked down the stairs, barely looking at the paintings on the walls, watching her step as that knot of fire coiled tighter in her belly. Her phone vibrated with the incoming message.
Tristan Caine: Jealous?
God, he had to be the stupidest man on the face of the earth. One did not ask a woman who was jealous as hell if she was jealous. Just no.
Morana: I’ll ask you the same after I find myself a hot stud from the buffet in this mansion.
He didn’t reply.
Morana shook her head, trying to shake off the weird cloud over her head and get back that happy mojo. It didn’t work too well.
She finally came to the ground floor, the landing almost empty except for two staff members doing their chores. Morana ignored them as they ignored her, walking in the direction of the dining area (that she remembered from breaking in a few weeks ago). Her steps were muffled by the thick carpet lining the foyer and the corridor. The lights were perched on both sides of the corridor like fire- torches, adding an ancient aesthetic to the place. In that warm glow, Morana finally entered the dining room and stopped.
It was empty, except for one lady in the housekeeper’s uniform positioning cutlery on the table. Morana looked at that table - long, wooden, and able to sit at least thirty people - wondering if this was the same table she’d been put on as a toddler or if it was another table in another room. That part of the story she didn’t know about. And if this was indeed the same table in the same room where twenty years ago a young, innocent boy had been scarred for life, Morana wondered what it took out of him to come into this room regularly and eat on the table where his father’s blood had splattered.
It was there, standing in that room full of demons, that the full extent of his torture hit Morana over the head, making her stumble. She caught the edge of the window she was standing beside, her heart shattering for him. To have to sit with people who tortured and trained him, to see them laugh and crack jokes, to quietly get sustenance where your life went to hell… how did someone ever heal from that?
She turned her back on the room and looked out the window, trying to center herself even as she wanted to weep from the pain she felt for him, for her, for them. Were they truly doomed? What was she even trying to do? What was she doing thinking a man that badly damaged could ever heal enough to be with her? They had ended even before they had begun. And that was a depressing, depressing thought. The conflict inside her ensued, one part of her tugging her to the evidence of two weeks, the other part showing her the impact of twenty years.
Letting out a breath, she watched the endless green ground surrounding the house, ending with the shadow of woods. The moon, a beautiful crescent in the dark sky, played hide and seek with the clouds. A few men patrolled the property on foot with weapons while a few others in suits were gathered around a small bonfire, talking.
“Good evening.”
Morana turned around to see a handsome older man walk into the room, dressed in a sharp suit like the rest of them.
“Good evening,” she replied quietly.
“I’m Leo Mancini,” the man said, smiling. Morana looked him up and down, her eyes narrowing.
“Are you the Mancini who likes to rape his wife or is that a poorer relation of yours?”
The man, who had been smiling until that point, lost his manners. Morana braced herself, standing tall, not looking away.
"Be very careful, Ms. Vitalio," he threatened. The tension in the room escalated, broken only with the sound of people coming in. Morana looked away to the entrance, seeing a bunch of strange men and women, adults and teens, enter the room. She only recognized three faces.
Lorenzo Maroni saw her standing near the window and smiled the smile that made ants crawl up her arms. Morana looked away deliberately, to see Dante enter under the arch, wearing a white t-shirt and jeans, a gun tucked in his belt, his hair wet and slicked back from his strong face. It was the first time she was seeing him so casual. He saw her, gave her a small sm
ile which she returned, glad to have a friend in this strange place.
And then Tristan Caine entered, dressed similar to Dante, his t-shirt black and jeans faded, no gun in sight. She didn’t know if that was ballsy or stupid or both. Either way, she couldn’t help but admire that kind of confidence. Watching the two men in a crowd of people dressed to the nines, Morana didn’t know if this was how they always dressed for dinner or if this was a giant “fuck you” to Maroni and his system. Judging by the disapproving look on the man’s face, she would place her bets on the latter.
She was aware of the curious gazes on her as she walked to the seat Lorenzo indicated for her to take. The staff was bringing out the food as everyone took their seats in choreography that spoke of years of practice. She pulled out her chair, strategically placed between a teen boy with dark hair and an older man she didn’t know. Her eyes sought out the two people she did know, to see them opposite her side but closer to the head of the table where Lorenzo sat like a self-proclaimed emperor.
“Are you family?” the teenager asked her curiously.
She shook her head. The boy opened his mouth to ask something when a shadow fell over them. Morana looked up to see Tristan Caine standing behind the boy, his face wiped of all emotions, his eyes on her.
He addressed the boy. “Wanna sit with your cousin?”
The boy’s eyes widened. “But I’m not allowed up the table.”
“You are now. Scoot.”
The boy didn’t need to be told twice. He was out the seat and beside Dante in all his youthful exuberance. Morana saw Tristan Caine take the seat beside hers, hyper-aware of all the eyes on them, hyper-aware of his big, solid form warm just inches away from her. She swallowed, focusing on her breathing, donning the mask of carefully crafted indifference like this wasn’t a big deal at all. Nope. No big deal. Tristan Caine changing years of seating arrangements and sitting beside her in front of everyone - no big deal. She could smell that musky scent that was all him, feel the air every time he inhaled and exhaled softly, feel the sheer force of his presence caress her all over.