The Reaper

by RuNyx

  Had she somehow stepped into another dimension? What the hell was going on?

  Shorty and Stocky returned, their arms empty, and picked up more of the boxes and went in again. Morana shook her head.

  “Not that I mind this, but shouldn’t you guys be patrolling?” she asked, completely confused. "Why are you helping me?"

  Pine grunted, just like Shorty had, but didn’t reply. Okay.

  After two more trips, when all her packages were upstairs, Morana looked at the three men. “Thanks.”

  Grunts.

  Men.

  They walked away just as quietly as they had come. Morana watched them go, puzzled, making a mental note to ask Dante about the entire episode. There had to be a reason they had suddenly decided to help her out because nobody helped anybody out of the goodness of their hearts. Especially not three men who just grunted.

  Moving to head inside, her eyes came to a halt at a lone building far in the distance on the other end of the property. The training center.

  She lingered there for a second, tempted to head in that direction but shook it off. There were multiple eyes on her - staff and guards and whoever else Maroni wanted to have her watched. So, with a last glance at the building, she returned to the beast.

  Darkness had fallen. It was a moonless night, the stars completely concealed behind clouds. The wind was chilly, drifting in her window that she’d left open. Morana glanced down the window at the manicured lawns. There were strings of beautiful lights on the trees that lined the property, lighting the entire area and leaving the lake and the house behind it in the shadows. Morana couldn’t see anything beyond the treeline no matter how hard she squinted.

  Due to the possibility of rain, the party was to be held in the hall at the back of the house, a part of the mansion Morana had never been in. Even though she was ready, something was twisting in her gut as she watched cars line up the driveway. Men of all ages in suits, women glittering on their arms like accessories, walked around the well-lit lawns to the back of the mansion, a bevy of staff guiding them through.

  Morana watched the who’s who of the mob, recognizing many faces, dangerous faces that smiled, baring teeth like baring fangs. The women, she observed closely. Some seemed happy enough to be where they were; some had clean faces and dead eyes. Morana took them all in from her room above, out of their line of sight, and prepared herself for whatever and whoever she would find. Throngs of people came in. The lights around the property glinted off the women's jewelry, gemstones shining in the dark. People had trussed up in their best for an invite by Maroni.

  Amongst the light crowd, her eyes caught sight of one man who strode up the driveway all alone, without any partner. There was something dangerous about the way he stalked up the gravel. Morana observed him closely, sensing something about him that reminded her a lot of Tristan. She couldn’t make out his height or strength from where she was but he seemed older somehow, at least mid-thirties, his stride confident and comfortable in a way she’d very rarely seen in their world. One of his hands pushed in his dark trouser pocket, everything about the man was dark.

  Palms clammy, Morana turned away from the window and walked to her mirror. She’d spent her entire afternoon arranging her new wardrobe that she freaking loved, and keeping an eye on her phone for an update. Her program was at sixty percent and her inbox empty of any new messages.

  Morana gazed at her reflection with a trained eye. Having dressed multiple times for her father’s dinners, Morana knew how to manipulate her looks to inspire whatever impression she wished the beholder to have. She thought of herself as a chameleon that way. An extra stroke of mascara for some innocence here, a floaty dress for softness there. She knew how to blend. She learned how to stand out. And she enjoyed having people underestimate her because that way she had the upper hand.

  That was one of the reasons people rarely remembered her at social events. If she wanted to, she simply flew under the radar. And that was what she wanted tonight. She had planned, initially, on wowing a particular someone and going all out tonight. But for some reason, this party was making her antsy and she was reverting to being invisible. It was safe being invisible. She needed to trust her instincts. Vanity could wait.

  It was one of the reasons she had chosen the most nondescript dress in her new arsenal. It was black, with a classy neckline that stopped just below her collarbone and sleeves that went to her wrists. The back wasn’t too deep either. The only thing that added something to the dress was the single split that went mid-thigh, only exposing her leg if she moved. Leaving her hair down and her makeup minimal, nothing extra to attract attention, Morana adorned her wrist with a simple gold bracelet that matched her earrings and strapped her only knife to her thigh. Her gold stilettos, though high and uncomfortable, were necessary. Because nothing attracted more attention at a party like this than a woman not wearing heels.

  That done, Morana took in a deep breath, and walked out the door, her phone in her hand. Locking the door behind her and nestling the key in her cleavage, Morana descended the stairs. Coming to a halt in the foyer on the ground floor, she asked one of the staff for directions to the room where the party was being held. Guided, Morana started down the corridor leading to the back.

  Since she was going through this part of the interior of the mansion for the first time, Morana kept her pace slow, letting her eyes float around, taking in every single detail. The corridor was empty except for an occasional staff or two passing her. It was lined with beautiful paintings, some of which she recognized as classics, some she didn’t recognize at all. Almost two minutes into her walk, one wall of the corridor broke into a black door. Morana looked at the door, wondering what lay behind it. She knew that there was no bedroom downstairs. It could be Maroni’s office. Or maybe something else.

  Knowing this wasn’t the time to appease her curiosity, especially since she was certain the room was under surveillance, she kept moving forward, her skin crawling with sudden dread. Unable to explain any of it, she wondered if she should just forget the entire party and simply go to Dante’s house and stay there. She was certain he wouldn’t mind. But something also told her she needed to keep going.

  Preparing herself as much as she could, Morana finally came to a stop as the corridor ended, opening to two large mahogany double doors. She observed the door, the ornate carvings in the wood and the polished brass knobs. Whatever Maroni was, he had classy tastes and not in the flashy way of her father. His entire house screamed of good, refined taste.

  Gathering her courage, hoping she would see either Dante or Tristan inside, Morana twisted the knob on the door and pushed it open just slightly, only wide enough for her to slip inside without attracting too much attention. She succeeded. Nobody spared her a glance as she quickly walked to a shadowed corner of the room by a pillar, picking up a glass one of the many waiters had on a tray and leaned against the corner. It was the perfect spot for some surveillance of her own.

  Her heart was beating swiftly for some reason she could not understand. Keeping the small tremble in her hand contained, Morana took a little sip of the champagne and let her eyes rove around the place.

  The room was monstrous. She could see at least fifty people already inside and more guests coming in through the door that opened in the lawns and yet it felt empty. Much to her surprise, the guests coming in stopped beside the door, handing their weapons over to the staff at the threshold. Astonished, Morana realized it was a weaponless party of sorts. She didn't even know such a thing existed, especially in their world.

  And she had a knife strapped to her thigh.

  An orchestra played soft music unobtrusively in the background from one corner of the hall, the corner opposite hers. A small clear area, evidently the dance floor, was right in front of the musicians. Waiters milled about with glasses and appetizers held perfectly balanced on silver platters. At the end of the hall, a long table sat, adorned with dishes and servers and seating space. It was a buffet. Love
ly.

  The decor of the room, like the rest of the house, was tasteful. The high ceiling was adorned with a chandelier that wasn’t turned on. Instead, low lights high on the pillars cast an intimate glow all around the room. It felt medieval - the lighting, the people, the ambiance.

  Lorenzo Maroni stood near the entrance door, sipping what looked like scotch from a glass tumbler. Morana watched him from her spot, wanting to see the man interact with his people. She watched, with amazement, as grown men went up to Maroni, who stood in his spot like an emperor. Then, they proceeded to take his hand, kissing his fingers. Maroni, in turn, bestowed them with a smile and a few words she couldn’t make out. He also took the hands of the ladies with the men and kissed their fingers, like a true gentleman.

  Watching him like that, Morana could understand why men and women alike were taken by him. He was charming, wealthy, and powerful. A combination that, when interspersed with danger, swayed people in his direction. This man was the leader of one of the biggest mob organizations in the world. This man reeked with the security of his authority. This man was the Bloodhound whose reputation preceded him.

  And then the most fascinating thing happened.

  The Predator walked in the door.

  For once, Morana forced herself not to become entranced by the man but instead notice everyone else’s reaction to him.

  The energy in the room crackled. It buzzed over the people, who turned to watch him. Men straightened, women inhaled.

  And Lorenzo ‘Bloodhound’ Maroni lost the security of his authority. The man kissing his fingers had stopped in the middle to watch The Predator stride instead. And Maroni stiffened, an emperor feeling the challenge to his throne pulsing through the room.

  It was fascinating.

  Morana didn’t know if the occupants of the room reacted to him the way they did because he was the rumored heir or because he was the anomaly. Or simply because it was him. But one thing was for sure, he incited a reaction. And the best part, he neither thrived on it nor shunned it. It just was.

  She finally let her eyes drift to him, watching as he stepped with that confidence he wore like his skin, his body encased in a black suit, black shirt, and no tie. Everyone was wearing a tie. Morana felt a small smile lift her lips at his blatant act of rebellion, her gaze lingering on the skin of his neck and chest exposed by the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. Damn, he wore a suit well.

  He didn’t stop at the door to hand over any weapons and she didn’t know if that was because he wasn’t carrying any or because he was confident enough that no one would dare check him. This wasn’t the man who had left her at her door last night and high-tailed it out of there as quickly as possible. This wasn’t even the man who had slammed her against the wall and left her with swollen lips. No, this was the man who had followed her into the bathroom of his enemy's restaurant and fucked her with his hand over her mouth. This was the man who had touched her against the wall of her father’s house. This was the man whose eyes spoke death and trailed life across her skin.

  And he got her wet. Both sides of him - the lone boy she had glimpsed yesterday, the intimidating man she observed currently.

  Taking another sip to cool down her rapidly heating skin, Morana observed as he headed to where Maroni stood and said something to him that made Maroni harden even more. The older man dismissed the other people around him and said something to Tristan. Tristan took out his phone and typed something, nodding back at Maroni.

  And then, as though feeling her gaze, he froze.

  His eyes roved around the room before coming right to her in her shadowed corner.

  She expected him to take her in, to let his gaze linger on her like she had become used to, to trail those magnificent eyes across her skin and set it on fire.

  He didn’t do any of it. Instead, seeing her there and seeing she was the one whose stare he'd felt, he simply looked back down at his phone, nothing about his posture changing.

  What the hell?

  Morana felt her body locking down as her eyes drilled holes into him, fury replacing the electricity, infusing into her blood. She was there, at a party in a place where she didn’t know anyone, and he wasn’t even giving her his eyes. Morana hadn’t realized how much she had come to rely on them, not until he deliberately withheld them from her. His eyes were the one thing he'd never held back from her. Even in their most vulnerable, brutal moments, she'd always had his eyes.

  Whatever his reasons for avoiding her, she didn’t care anymore. She had exposed herself to him yesterday and then given him space. This behavior angered her. She knew he wasn’t rejecting her, just taking his time processing whatever but it still pissed her off as irrational as it was.

  Stewing at him and herself for giving him that kind of power, Morana didn’t realize someone had joined her until she felt the presence of a warm body beside her. Stilling, her entire body locking, Morana turned to find the man she’d seen from her window, the man who had come alone, standing beside her while looking out at the room.

  “We meet again, Ms. Vitalio,” the grave, masculine voice spoke from beside her.

  Morana was about to turn to look at the man when he told her, “Don’t turn. It’s a matter of life and death.”

  “Life and death?” Morana asked, sensing something dangerous.

  “Yours, Ms. Vitalio,” he returned simply.

  Morana looked at him in the periphery, seeing nothing but shadows. “The man from the airport.”

  “Your new best friend indeed, Morana,” the man kept his voice steady. “There is something you need to know.”

  Morana considered, highly intrigued but wary of him. “Stop talking in riddles.”

  “Very well,” he muttered under his breath.

  “Before your boyfriend looks at you and sees me,” the man remarked, slight amusement tinging his voice.

  Morana almost turned at that. “You know Tristan?”

  “It’s my business to know things.”

  “What did you mean by being my new best friend?” Morana cut through the chase, getting straight to the point.

  “The enemy of your enemy, Morana,” the man spoke quietly. The song changed to another melody. “We share common interests.”

  “And what would that be?” Morana inquired, keeping her gaze on the swaying couples.

  “End of Alliance.”

  Morana froze at his words. Heart pounding hard, Morana whispered in his direction, “What do you mean?”

  The man didn’t miss a beat of the music. Morana couldn’t feel anyone watching them, mostly because they were in the corner, shielded from the rest of the room, but her heart was racing.

  “I mean I’m interested in finding out what happened twenty years ago in this city,” the man said calmly right above her ear.

  “Why?” Morana asked.

  The man stayed silent for a beat. “Personal reasons. You were one of the missing girls and you are looking for the same thing. I have information.”

  Morana processed what he was telling her. “How can I trust you?”

  “You cannot. And you shouldn’t,” the man stated clearly. “But you’re not in my way so you're safe from me.”

  Morana tilted her head back up and took the measure of him. She couldn’t tell if he was lying or not. Morana deliberated.

  She felt his lips at her ear. “As a gesture of good faith, let me give you a piece of information I came across,” he said so discreetly she could barely make the words out over the music. “Someone at the party is going to try to kill you tonight.”

  Morana inhaled sharply. The man continued without pausing. “And no, I have not set that up to gain your trust. I simply intercepted the information and I came to the party to warn you.”

  “Wait, you came here to warm me? Why?” Morana questioned, confused.

  “Because I need the truth and you can help me get to it.”

  She gulped. He nodded. "Live tonight. Find me tomorrow. 459."

  “That’s your
number?”

  “Who are you talking to?” whiskey and sin interrupted the man.

  Morana turned to see the spot beside her empty. She felt familiar hands go over her hips, pulling her flush against a hard, male body. Morana turned her attention back to the man holding her hips, her mind still reeling from her previous encounter.

  “Did you see the man beside me?” Morana interrogated him.

  In response, he tugged her hard into his body. The song changed to a familiar tune, a version of Wicked Games that she liked. Appropriate.

  The hands on her hips held her steady. Morana slowly returned to the present, her own arms going around his neck as they started to move, completely flush against each other.

  “What man?” Tristan whispered in her ear, just like the other man had. Except for this time, it sent delicious shivers down her spine, right to her core, that voice of whiskey and sin pouring down her body.

  Clearing her throat, Morana informed him. “A man. He just told me there was someone in this room who would try to kill me tonight.”

  It was fascinating to feel the reaction of his body to the news instead of just seeing it. Morana felt the way the muscles in his body clenched, one after the other, first his hands, then his arms, then his chest and shoulders until he was utterly still for a second. She had seen it happen on multiple occasions but feeling it was different. More intimate.

  Suddenly remembering she was pissed at him, Morana took a step away. Or at least tried to, only to be brought right back into his body, his hands going low on her hips in a gesture nobody would miss. He started to move again, their bodies fitting like pieces of a puzzle together.

  Morana could feel the multiple eyes on her this time as he moved her around, not expertly but in a raw rhythm that her body somehow followed. Nobody would have called him a beautiful dancer but fuck, he was sexy. With his hips rolling into hers, mimicking a more intimate action, his thigh spreading her legs for a second, grazing against her core before coming back into place, he was sensuality.