The Reaper (Dark Verse 2)

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.