But she wasn't a stranger. She knew these stones that seemed ethereal were nothing but an illusion created to hide the blood and gore than ran under, nothing but a mirage created to charm and impress the outsiders and remind the insiders of how deep things could be buried if they had to be. Secrets were the stones that paved these roads. Threats were the truths that lay in this ground, morbid tales of lost men never to be seen again ringing around in the wind.
Morana walked that path to the place she slept in, the place she'd been sleeping in for decades. She was more attached to her appendix than she was to this house.
One of the guards raised his hand and clicked the comm in his ear, holding the other up to halt her in her tracks.
"Boss?" he spoke in an even tone, listening to whatever command he was being given before he turned to her.
"Your father is waiting for you in the study."
Oh jolly.
Rolling her eyes, Morana walked around the bulky man and into the house, her heels clicking loudly on the marble floors. The lights in the house were dim since it was already way past midnight, the lights in the corridor leading to her father's wing getting dimmer and dimmer through the endless space, artwork adorning both the walls as she kept walking forward, the door to her father's study in sight. Her breathing remained even, not a bead of sweat popped up anywhere, not a knot twisted in her stomach. The headache throbbed under her temples but was otherwise manageable.
After the night she'd had, she doubted there could be anything her father could do that would make her say 'what the hell' again.
Finally reaching the door, not an ounce of fear in her system, she knocked.
"Enter," her father's baritone answered immediately.
Pushing open the door, Morana entered the spacious study, not sparing a glance towards the floor to ceiling columns he had for books, or towards the beautiful French windows on the extreme right that opened into the lawns, or towards the gun that lay openly on his organized desk. No. She entered and glued her eyes to him, his own dark eyes watching her carefully, and she walked to the chair across from his and sat down.
Silence.
Morana stayed silent, adept at the mind games he played, even with his own daughter, and being the genius that she was, she'd learned them very, very early. The wind whistled outside the closed windows. The huge aquarium on the left wall bubbled. The large clock near the bookshelf ticked, one ominous second after the other.
Tick. Tock.
Tick. Tock.
Silence.
He watched her. She watched him.
He leaned back in his chair. She kept her face blank, her heart rate completely even.
And finally, he drew in a deep breath.
"You were at Cyanide tonight."
Morana just raised her eyebrows.
He studied her for another second, before speaking, his voice old and rough from too much use with his men. Only his men. She could count the words he'd spoken to her over the years on her hands.
"What were you doing at Cyanide?"
Morana played dumb. "Why do you want to know?"
He leaned forward, his jaw clenching, accenting his French-cut beard. "It's an Outfit club."
Morana felt amusement wash over her. "And?"
"You know we don't go into their property directly. They don't come into ours," his steely voice brooked no arguments. "And you wouldn't have made it home. Not unless someone had invited you."
Morana stayed silent, just watching him back neutrally.
"I want a name," he demanded.
Morana kept her face blank. He cursed loudly, smashing his fist on the table, his dark eyes flaring in fury. "You have a name, a reputation as my daughter. No child of mine forfeits that name. And this is the Outfit. I want to know who you've been pimping your name with."