r. It pressed the blade against her thigh as she tried to appear relaxed for the sake of the cameras. A few days ago, she would have entertained the thought that this was a trap, that the Outfit men had suckered her into believing them and brought her here for whatever nefarious reasons. Now, even as the thought briefly flickered through her mind, she discarded it. With everything they had been through, everything that was still unknown, every single reaction she had seen in the two men, she knew they hadn’t tricked her.
She did have questions though. From everything Dante had told her on the plane, she had no idea how Lorenzo Maroni would respond to her presence. Moreover, she had no clue as to how Tristan Caine would respond to Maroni’s response to her presence. The man was a ticking bomb and only he knew when he would explode from what Dante had told her. She was curious to see them interact, to see for herself the infamous boss of the Outfit and his rumored protegee come face to face. She also wondered if there were people on the compound who cared for him, perhaps without his knowledge, like Dante and Amara did. But most importantly, she was curious about where she would be staying. She knew where she wanted to stay but two things were blocking that - one, it was Tristan Caine’s home, his actual home, and he had to invite her; two, Maroni had to be okay with it because for all intents and purposes, she was his guest and she was the daughter of the Shadow Port boss.
The sound of high heels clicking on the marble floors had her eyes going to the doorway. A stunning dark-haired woman came into vision, her tan silk blouse flowing against her curves, tucked into dark straight pants that fell straight to the floor, her long tresses pulled back into a high ponytail. Her beautiful attire made Morana conscious of her simple black and white skirt, matching top and flats, all that she had borrowed from Amara. She needed to go shopping as soon as possible, especially if there were more gorgeous women prancing around the place.
What surprised Morana though was the small gun holstered to her side, in clear view. The woman stopped as her bright green eyes came to Morana, a slight frown between her brows. “Can I help you?” the woman asked, her voice strong but quiet.
Morana wondered how to respond as she stood up. She simply decided on a polite, “No, thank you.”
The woman’s frown deepened. “Who are you waiting to see?”
Morana remained quiet. The woman took a step inside the room. Sunlight hit her olive skin, making it glisten as tilting her head to the side. “Have we met before?”
Morana blinked in confusion before realizing the other woman might have seen pictures of her. “I don’t believe so.”
The woman studied her in a manner that should have been rude but was simply curious. And then her eyes flared with recognition. “Morana Vitalio.”
Morana stayed still, her heart starting to pound. She was the enemy’s daughter and she was standing alone in the house of Lorenzo Maroni. How could she explain that if the situation worsened? To her surprise, the woman smiled slightly, walking deeper into the room, her arm extended. “I’m Nerea, Amara’s half-sister.”
Surprised but still cautious, Morana took a step forward and held the woman’s hand in hers, giving it a firm shake. Up close, she could see Nerea was at least a decade older than her, fine lines, light freckles, and experience clear on her make-up free face.
“Pleasure to meet you,” Morana said, keeping it polite, still unsure of how to read her.
Nerea gave a small smile, as though comprehending her uncertainty. “Amara mentioned that you were coming.”
It seemed like she had more to thank Amara for. Nerea glanced down at the sleek watch on her wrist. “I have to rush right now but if you need anything, you can come to me any time. Any friend of Amara’s is a friend of mine. She doesn’t have many in the first place.”
“Thank you,” Morana said, grateful but still unsure.
Nerea gave her a warm smile. “See you later.”
She walked out of the room on those high heels just as quickly as she’d come in. How was Amara's half-sister a part of the mob if Amara was shunned and her mother a housekeeper? Minutes later, just as Morana was thinking upon that, a group of strange men wearing dark suits entered the room. Some looked at her curiously, some leered, some entirely ignored her. They all went to the back of the room and took their positions against the wall.
Morana perused them all. They were eight in total, all of them in dark suits and matching shirts and ties, guns at their hips. They were all middle-aged, some tall, some stocky. One of them though, one with the leery eyes that creeped her out, was built like a heavy-weight wrestler. His huge frame matched Dante’s height with added bulk. The other man that stood out to her was the one who was ignoring her the hardest. He appeared to be the youngest in the lot. He looked straight ahead, his hands folded together at the front. What set the hair on the back of her neck buzzing though was the nasty scar going down the side of his face, from the corner of his left eye right down to his neck, disappearing inside his shirt. It looked like his flesh had been gouged out in slashes. His eyes were vacant.
“Well, well, well,” a woman’s voice interrupted her perusal and had her focusing back at the door at the woman standing there. If Nerea had been stunning, this woman was stunning. Her dark red hair falling around her in gentle waves, a gorgeous navy dress (that Morana would have loved to have) falling to her knees. She had bright eyes that were a cross between green and gold, appearing liquid. Eyes that were examining Morana with a surprising amount of hostility.
Morana stayed silent and kept her expression blank.
The woman came forward, her eyes hardening, and spoke low enough that only she could hear. “I hear you’ve been creating quite the stir for my man, Miss Vitalio. Do you have any idea what you’ve put in motion?”
Morana tilted her head even as her stomach clenched. Her man? Dante or Tristan Caine?
And that was when Lorenzo Maroni entered the room.
He was a distinguished-looking man, no doubt about that. He seemed to be aging gracefully, his salt-and-pepper hair cut stylishly, his trimmed beard holding certain gravity up close that she had not expected. The lines on his face were stark, a testament to a hard life, and his dark eyes were impassive. Those eyes came to the woman in front of her, the woman who had somehow shaken her steadiness.
“Go to the back, Chiara,” Maroni ordered, his voice gravelly.
Chiara? Chiara Mancini? The same Chiara Mancini who had been calling Tristan Caine the other night? Was he her man? Had she been completely wrong and Tristan Caine had a woman? This woman?
Her stomach bottomed out, a flare of anger pooling in her chest. The hostility wasn't one-sided anymore.
Chiara gave her a small sneer, her stunning face contorting into something not beautiful. Though Morana simply raised an eyebrow outwardly, inside she felt worse. She had assumed just because he seemed like a man who wouldn’t two-time that he wasn’t. But this was the mob. Men cheated and were cheated on here even with the knowledge of their matrimony. The thought of him being someone else’s while he fucked her made her angry. But the thought, the mere thought of him being someone else’s while he kissed her the way he had, while he had taken her mouth and shared something real with her hurt. God, she’d been so sure of him. Had she been wrong?
As though conjured from her thoughts, Tristan Caine strode slowly, almost lazily, at the back, coming to a stop at the entryway. Those magnificent blue eyes of his came to her, doing a quick check, not missing her hands that had instinctively gone to the weapons against her thighs. His lips twitched, just barely, just enough to have a family of butterflies start samba in her belly at the most inappropriate time. He leaned against the doorjamb, blocking the doorway, hands in his pockets, that shirt stretched taut across his chest, one ankle crossed over the other.
And that was when he locked eyes with hers.