The Reaper (Dark Verse 2)

ately threatened by any other woman. Smarter, prettier, doesn't matter. And anyway, if there was any woman who was a constant in Tristan’s life, it was you, even in your absence.”

That, in a twisted way, warmed her. She let out a breath of relief. Hearing her exhale, Amara continued in a firm tone.

“Don’t let her or anyone else get to you, Morana. I meant what I said. I have never seen Tristan as alive as I do with you. I truly believe you both have the possibility of building something good. Don’t let anything ruin that, especially in that place. That house is crawling with people who would love nothing more than to see Tristan burn. So, be strong for both your sake.”

Morana took a deep breath. “I will. Thank you, Amara.”

“As I said, anytime,” Amara replied in her soft, husky voice. “You need any inside information, or just to talk girl talk, I’m here. I’d like for us to continue this friendship, regardless of what happens with Tristan or Dante.”

Morana picked at her top, smiling. “So would I.”

“Good. I’m going to go now but we’ll talk later, okay?”

“Okay,” Morana looked up at the sky, a weight lifted off her chest. After saying their goodbyes and planning another call, Morana kept her phone aside and watched the clouds dancing in the blue sky, the grays and whites merging, creating something magical. And she marveled at it. She marveled at everything and everyone she had gained in a few weeks. In the span of such a short time, she had friends, relationships. She had people who would give a shit if something happened to her and she had people she wanted to protect.

It was such an odd thing, this new emotion inside her chest. She grabbed on to it, held on to it, cherished it.

It mattered.

Morana silently thanked Amara, once again, for telling her the truth. The fact that Tristan had not been with that woman for long as she’d wanted Morana to believe made her relax. She had been the only constant in his life, even though they were entwined by traumatic pasts. But they did have the possibility of something beautiful. She had sensed it, felt it, tasted it.

On that happy note, she munched on some salad Zia had quietly left for her while she’d been talking to Amara, and finally switched to work mode. The codes needed to be traced. More importantly, any damage that they had already done or could do needed to be contained. She quickly worked on writing another set of codes, as she’d told Dante she would do days ago. These new codes would alert her as soon as the original codes were used and contain any damage they wanted to do. Along with that, she was also customizing it to backtrack and trace any unique elements of the original codes so that even if it was used separately by anyone, anywhere, she would know. As the person had some knowledge of computers, she didn’t want to take any risk.

It took her hours of focused, concentrated work. She had her earphones in, her soothing instrumental playlist on, her glasses sticking to her nose. Zia came and left, not disturbing her once and always shutting the door behind her. Her phone buzzed once but she didn’t check. But hours and stiff fingers later, she finally had all the new codes up and running, her trap set. There was only one limitation to her genius - whoever had the codes needed to use them or her program wouldn’t be triggered. It would be running for years if that didn’t happen. But she was relying on the culprit to use them. Or why else would someone go through the elaborate scheme of having Jackson woo her, steal them from her, and frame Tristan to take the fall for it? They had to use it at some point in time, right? Or what was the point of stealing it at all?

Tired after spending hours intent on the task, Morana stretched, her spine stiff, and cracked her neck, looking out the window. It was already dark, time being flown by at rapid speed while she worked, undisturbed. It was some of the best work she had done.

She picked up her phone to check the message that had come in and saw her father’s name.

Father: Are you seriously in Tenebrae?

Morana looked at the message for a long time, wondering if she should reply at all, then decided against it. Fuck him and fuck his agenda. She didn’t owe him anything. For the first time in her life, she had something good, even in the middle of chaos. She wasn’t going to let him taint that. Never again.

Disgusted, she threw the phone on the cushion to her side and put her feet up on the table, crossing her ankles. Pulling her laptop up on her lap, Morana minimized the programs she’d initialized and opened another window. Seeing her father’s name had reminded her of something she had been meaning to look up after she’d eavesdropped on Dante and Tristan’s conversation the night of the Choice, as she liked to think of it. Yes, with a capital C. Dante had mentioned something about Tristan Caine going into her father’s territory when she’d been missing. And Morana was crazy curious to know what had happened.

Which was why she was pulling up the cameras in her father’s study/office that she had installed years ago. He didn’t even know that they were there. Morana, as out of the loop as she had been back then, had wanted to be in the loop. And what better way to be in the loop than rig the boss’ office. Seeing and listening to conversations not just kept her informed but also allowed her to build ammunition of files against many, many men of their world. Most importantly, her father. She knew of most of the dirty things he was involved in, had made note of conversations and meetings, and filed them away for a rainy day.

Her failsafe.

Closing her eyes at the disappointment and pain he caused her, Morana shook it off and concentrated on the more important matter at hand. Quickly typing in the multiple passwords, she logged into the system and put in the date of the day she wanted the record of. She put in the time after what had been her last text to him and pressed 'enter'.

The screen lit up from the feed of the camera in the upper right corner of the office, showing the inside of her father’s study. It was empty. Fast-forwarding a few minutes, Morana pressed ‘play’ when her father entered, his steps agitated. He picked up his office phone and spoke into the receiver, his voice hard and grainy in her earphones.

“Is it done?”

She knew he was talking about her car, her beloved car, being blown up. Whatever the other person on the line said did not make him very happy. He sat down on his chair and put his hand to his forehead.

“What do you mean the men aren’t answering? Call them! I need to know if she’s taken care of.”

'Taken care of'. Nice.

Morana just observed impassively. Her father put the phone down and stared out the window for a long time. Morana would’ve liked to think there was a hint of remorse, a hint of sadness inside him after what he’d just done to his only daughter, but she didn’t think there was. A man who let his child fall down the stairs, who ordered her to be blown up, was not capable of remorse. The only reason he was contacting her now was that Maroni had informed him of her presence and she was ruffling his feathers.

She watched as something outside the window drew his attention. Her heart started to beat faster.

Leaning forward without realizing it, Morana watched, stunned, as Tristan blew into her father’s office like a raging storm. No warning, no explanation. He simply strode in like he owned the place, not even glancing at the three men behind him with their guns on his figure, his entire frame coiled tight to spring any second. He was a bomb and he was ticking.

“He just broke in,” one of the men panted, explaining. “We tried to stop him but he knocked two guys out.”