Morana felt her stomach tighten. “What do you know about what he deserves?”
Chiara smiled. “I know he’s fucked me on the regular for almost two years and Tristan doesn’t do regular.”
Fire.
There was no other word for whatever was spreading through her chest, eating away at her insides. She could feel the burn crawl up her neck, over her cheeks and finally mist in her eyes. But she couldn’t let it show, couldn’t let it affect her. And that hurt. Really hurt. Not that he’d slept with this woman but the fact that he’d done it regularly. Because that implied she meant something to him. Emotionally. And that fucking burned.
Years of practice coming in handy, Morana kept her composure, not even allowing her fingers to curl into her palms, and smiled at the other woman. “Fucked. Past tense, Mrs. Mancini. But I’m the present and the foreseeable future.”
Chiara’s smile faltered. “He will come back to me.”
“Maybe,” Morana shrugged. And then she leaned in closer. “Or maybe, I will destroy him for anyone else.”
Before the other woman could say another thing, Morana took a step outside. “Now, you’ve done your due diligence and warned me. I’ve not heeded it. We both know where we stand and we both know neither will nudge. Either way, I’m hungry so excuse me.”
Without another word, Morana locked the door behind her and walked away, not looking back at the woman who had poured gasoline over what had only been a small spark. It was a blaze now, a blaze which wanted to destroy. Him. She would destroy him for anyone else.
For the first time in their convoluted relationship, she took out her phone and texted him first.
Morana: My vagina just became off-limits to you.
His reply came almost immediately.
Tristan: ?
Question mark. He’d sent her a damn question mark. She was seething.
Morana: Not that it matters. Your regular would be more than happy to welcome you in her bed, I’m sure.
No immediate reply. Of course. Morana walked down the stairs, barely looking at the paintings on the walls, watching her step as that knot of fire coiled tighter in her belly. Her phone vibrated with the incoming message.
Tristan Caine: Jealous?
God, he had to be the stupidest man on the face of the earth. One did not ask a woman who was jealous as hell if she was jealous. Just no.
Morana: I’ll ask you the same after I find myself a hot stud from the buffet in this mansion.
He didn’t reply.
Morana shook her head, trying to shake off the weird cloud over her head and get back that happy mojo. It didn’t work too well.
She finally came to the ground floor, the landing almost empty except for two staff members doing their chores. Morana ignored them as they ignored her, walking in the direction of the dining area (that she remembered from breaking in a few weeks ago). Her steps were muffled by the thick carpet lining the foyer and the corridor. The lights were perched on both sides of the corridor like fire- torches, adding an ancient aesthetic to the place. In that warm glow, Morana finally entered the dining room and stopped.
It was empty, except for one lady in the housekeeper’s uniform positioning cutlery on the table. Morana looked at that table - long, wooden, and able to sit at least thirty people - wondering if this was the same table she’d been put on as a toddler or if it was another table in another room. That part of the story she didn’t know about. And if this was indeed the same table in the same room where twenty years ago a young, innocent boy had been scarred for life, Morana wondered what it took out of him to come into this room regularly and eat on the table where his father’s blood had splattered.
It was there, standing in that room full of demons, that the full extent of his torture hit Morana over the head, making her stumble. She caught the edge of the window she was standing beside, her heart shattering for him. To have to sit with people who tortured and trained him, to see them laugh and crack jokes, to quietly get sustenance where your life went to hell… how did someone ever heal from that?
She turned her back on the room and looked out the window, trying to center herself even as she wanted to weep from the pain she felt for him, for her, for them. Were they truly doomed? What was she even trying to do? What was she doing thinking a man that badly damaged could ever heal enough to be with her? They had ended even before they had begun. And that was a depressing, depressing thought. The conflict inside her ensued, one part of her tugging her to the evidence of two weeks, the other part showing her the impact of twenty years.
Letting out a breath, she watched the endless green ground surrounding the house, ending with the shadow of woods. The moon, a beautiful crescent in the dark sky, played hide and seek with the clouds. A few men patrolled the property on foot with weapons while a few others in suits were gathered around a small bonfire, talking.
“Good evening.”
Morana turned around to see a handsome older man walk into the room, dressed in a sharp suit like the rest of them.
“Good evening,” she replied quietly.
“I’m Leo Mancini,” the man said, smiling. Morana looked him up and down, her eyes narrowing.