The Reaper: Chapter 3

Tucking in her precious laptop and other equipment, that chocolate wrapper pressed safely between the pages of her planner, she was done in fifteen minutes. The first thing, as a matter of priority, she needed to do when she got settled was to shop. She was living on Amara’s borrowed clothes that didn’t fit her right and it made her realize how dire her situation was.

Going out to the living room, Morana looked at the windows and the view beyond, saying her private goodbye to them. She didn’t know when and if she would ever return to that view, and bidding adieu to the place was making her lock the cherished memories, the cherished emotions it had inspired in her. She tucked it safely inside her – the memory of that rainy night, one of the most special ones in her heart, directly related to the windows.

Slightly emotional, she turned towards the elevator, only to find Tristan Caine leaning against that wall in a suit sans the jacket, watching her quietly.

Something passed between them in that instant – the shared memory of a simple, treasured night.

And that was that.

He walked away as Dante joined them; she followed and within minutes, she was ensconced in the back of Dante’s car, heading to the airport, both men taking the front as two other cars followed behind them.

Now, sitting at the almost empty airport lounge as their plane got prepped, Morana watched through the glass doors as both men spoke privately outside the small white plane, a man in the pilot’s uniform with them, two of the security detail in the lounge with her.

“Don’t react,” a heavy voice with a slight accent came from a few feet behind her, pulling her attention.

She almost turned but stopped herself, curious. “Excuse me?”

The owner of the heavy voice continued. “You’ve changed the game, Ms. Vitalio.”

“Who are you?” Morana asked, her attention on the man sitting behind her, even as her eyes stayed glued to the Outfit men still outside.

The man ignored her question. “I’m not your enemy but I know the people who are. And I have an offer for you.”

Morana’s entire attention snapped to the man. “What do you mean?”

“You find out something for me, I’ll give you the information you need.”

Morana stayed silent.

“Remember me,” the man spoke. “We’ll talk later.”

Morana looked up and found her eyes snared in the gaze of a predator.

He stood near the door instead of where she’d seen him moments ago beside the plane, his blue eyes inflamed as they caught hers, held hers. In a split second, he took her apart and put her back together with that focused gaze. In a split second, her blood throbbed everywhere in her body, just by the touch of that gaze.

He held her eyes captive for a long second before glancing at the seat behind her. Morana turned, only to find it vacant.

Wordlessly, without looking at her again, he turned around and strode towards the waiting jet with long steps, and Morana followed, a confused frown on her face.

They covered the distance in seconds, reaching the stairs.

And then he did the craziest thing.

He took her hand and helped her up the first set of stairs. As though she was some medieval damsel in distress needing assistance to climb high stairs with a gazillion skirts and not a twenty-first-century woman wearing comfortable jeans and comfortable shoes, being very capable of climbing the low steps on her own.

Morana felt her eyebrows hit her hairline.

Tristan Caine did not open doors or help ladies up the stairs.

At least, he never had until then.

His hand – exactly as she’d known it would be, rough, big, consuming – held hers, as though replacing any other touch.

Just for a second. The gesture was just a split second long before he snatched his hand back, shoving it into his trouser pockets.

Morana didn’t say a word, just bit her lip and silently, quickly climbed up, finally entering the jet.

A thrill went through her.

She felt him hop on behind her, his presence huge right against her back as she moved forward, taking in the plush interior. This was her first time inside a private plane and she didn’t want to miss a second of it.

The area beyond the door opened up into a small but well-planned sitting space, with two couches nailed to the floor and two armchairs, surrounding a glass table in the center on three sides. There was a minibar behind one of the couches and a TV glued to the right wall, the entire interior in brown and cream overtones. Beyond the sitting area was a small door that was closed at the moment.

Spotting Dante on a couch, his tie loose and a tumbler of whiskey on the table, Morana made her way to the chair before his, placing her laptop on the table, aware the entire time of Tristan Caine ducking his head and moving behind her, his breath on her head due to the closed proximity of the narrow corridor.

“Get comfortable, Morana,” Dante invited. “It’s a long journey.”

Morana slipped off her shoes and sank into the plush armchair, tucking her legs under her.

“No air hostesses?” she asked, confused. Didn’t men like pretty women catering to them on these private planes?

Dante shook his head as Tristan Caine walked over to the closed door and disappeared behind it.

A frown furrowed her brow.

“He likes to nap on the plane,” Dante explained.

Hence, no outsiders except the pilots.

“He trusts you,” Morana commented.

Dante chuckled. “As much as he can, I guess.”

The captain called out then, letting them know they were going to take off. Morana closed her eyes as the plane rumbled under her, her nerves getting shot as they always did that first moment of take-off.

This was it.

There was no turning back now.

Her presence on this flight would definitely set off a chain of events, most of which she wouldn’t even be aware of until it was too late. She knew that.

The runway became a blur.

Morana glanced out the window, taking in the city that had been her home her whole life, a finality settling upon her. She was leaving behind so many memories, mostly ones not worth keeping – her father, his house, her dead car, her spot in the cemetery, the penthouse… some dear, some not. And though she’d only known her only for a few days, leaving Amara behind left a bad taste in her mouth.

And then, they were in the air – one man off to sleep, the other still there.

Looking towards Dante, she found him considering her with his dark eyes.

“I have to admit, you surprised me, Morana,” he stated casually, inspecting her.

She raised her eyebrows. “I did?”

He nodded, taking a sip of his whiskey, offering her a glass. She declined.

He explained. “As much as I don’t approve of how you discovered the truth, I’m surprised. I had expected a lot of things when I thought about this scenario over the years… never this, though.”

“By ‘this’, you mean me tagging along to Tenebrae?”

Dante shook his head. “I mean you staying. Any other woman would have been running for the hills by now. Honestly, I don’t know what I would have done had you run. Because he would have chased you, you know.”

Morana closed her eyes for a second, her heart beating strong. “I know.”

“What are you doing, Morana?” Dante asked softly, the concern in his voice making her eyes flutter open. “As much as I love Tristan, better than my blood, I would never want him with my sister if I had one. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little worried – for both of you. There’s something very broken in him and if you’re here because you think you can fix it, I’m telling you right now, you cannot.”

Morana regarded Dante quietly, a tiny ball of anger coiling in her belly. “I’ll be honest with you, Dante. I like you. You and Amara have been incredibly kind to me, at a time when I needed it the most. And that is something I’ll always admire you for. But,” she leaned forward, flames licking her blood, “what’s between him and me is between him and me. As you told Amara last night, if he wants to tell you, he will. You won’t hear anything from me.”

She took in a deep breath, calming her temper down, reminding herself he wasn’t her enemy.

“But because your heart is in the right place,” she uttered quietly, “I will tell you this – I don’t want to fix him. I want to fix me. And he’s the only thing that seems to be working.”

“So,” Dante asked, his voice controlled, hand clenching around the glass, “you’re just using him then?”

Morana smiled. “And is he not using me? To fight whatever demons live inside him?”

Dante remained silent. They both knew the answer to that one.

Morana stared at a spot on the table, her voice going soft, her heart drumming softly inside her chest.

“His demons dance with mine,” she murmured softly, the truth of that statement seeping into her pores. “That’s all I can give you.”

She found the other man regarding her with a heavy gaze.

“And if your demons take you like they did this morning?” he asked quietly.

Morana swallowed. “Let’s hope his find mine, then.”

Dante nodded, exhaling loudly, raising the glass to her in a toast. “In that case, I wish you good luck. You’re certainly going to need it with him.”

A grin tugged at Morana’s lips. “That’s how you got him into your corner? Good luck?”

Dante huffed out a laugh, shaking his head, his handsome face coming alive. “Sheer, stubborn luck. I was very wilful back then.”

“Back then?” Morana prompted.

His smile dimmed and Amara’s parting words to him came back to her. She’d called him a coward. Was he? From what Morana had heard and seen of him, it didn’t seem to be the case.

His voice broke through her thoughts, his hand swirling the amber liquid inside the glass.

“I cornered Tristan into accepting my partnership over the years. Wore him down.” He looked at her. “He’s a lot more stubborn, Morana.”

“So am I.”

Dante smirked, sipping the whiskey. “This will be fun.”

Morana let that slide, looking out the window into the castles of clouds, the silence between them companionable as he began working on his phone and sipped that one glass of whiskey. Morana gazed out at the puffs of white, wondering what it would have been like to have a Dante in her corner when she’d been young, looking out for her, watching her back. Would she have slept better at night knowing he existed? He’d almost called her his sister. Would his friendship, his brotherly aura have somehow made everything else easier?

She truly didn’t know. Finding herself suddenly surrounded by people who inspired such thoughts in her, who made her wonder about the what-ifs, Morana both cherished and feared it, like a little colt taking its tentative steps for the first time on shaking legs.

And the fact that these two were now in her corner because of the man they were loyal to wasn’t lost on her, even though his motives were still lost to her.

He wanted her alive. He wanted her with him. He wanted her. Period. But beyond that? Could twenty years of intense hatred, twenty years of focus on one singular reason of survival, twenty years of telling himself “one day”, really be wiped away in a few days? She didn’t believe so. No matter how strong he was, how stubborn, how wilful, she did not think it was possible.

And yet, there she sat, alive. Contrary to her thoughts, he had made a choice last night, a choice antithetical to the last twenty years of his life. There she sat, after being brought back from the edge by him, twice. There she sat, after eating a bar of chocolate he’d silently given her after her panic attack. He watched her like a hawk, claimed her flesh for his own – even with the smallest gestures – and yet he kept a chunk of himself aloof from her, while she kept exposing vulnerability after vulnerability.

Morana truly did not understand him in that moment.

But, to be honest, she doubted he understood himself in that moment.

Taking a deep breath, she strengthened her resolve, promising herself to play it by the ear and trust her instincts. No amount of planning would work with a man as unpredictable as he was. What she’d told Dante had been true. Her demons danced with his. She’d let his lead and follow accordingly.

Blowing out a breath, she unlocked her phone and started checking on her ongoing programs, immersing herself in the place that had always brought her peace, always made sense when the rest of the crazy world didn’t – her codes.

Hours flew by, both Dante and she immersed in their works, changing positions, eating snacks, drinking water or whiskey, stretching, and enjoying the joys of being on a private jet.

After a while, when she changed her position and curled her legs under her the other way, Dante’s voice interrupted her.

“Before I forget,” he said, making her glance up at him. “I need to warn you about some stuff that I’m pretty sure Tristan is not going to think to mention.”

Morana put her phone down, her curiosity piqued. “Do tell,” she muttered, locking her phone, focusing on the man before her.

He scratched the side of his neck absently and started speaking. “About Tenebrae… well, we have a big property by the lake-”

Morana remembered the beast of the property but she hadn’t seen the lake the last time she’d been there, distracted by the potential murder she’d been trying to commit. God, it felt like a lifetime ago.

“-it’s almost like a compound of sorts,” she brought her attention back to Dante as he went on. “There are a total of five wings on the property, including the main house, all unconnected from each other. The only way to get from one to the next is by going through the grounds, and the entire compound is on one of the hills outside the main city.”

Morana leaned forward, completely fascinated, trying to picture it all in her head.

“One of the wings is where all the staff lives with their families – the housekeeper and her assistants, the gardeners, as such.” Amara’s family. “It’s a huge one.”

Morana indicated for him to go on when he paused.

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees.

“The second wing is the training center.”

Morana remembered what Amara had told her about the young boy secluded in the training area, kept away from everyone else. Bile rose in her throat just at the thought of the way he had been alienated and she pushed it down, gritting her teeth.

Dante’s somber voice broke through her thoughts. “You are never, under no circumstances, to enter that wing. Nobody who’s not a trainer or a trainee is allowed there. You never, ever go there. Not by mistake, not by accident. Is that clear?”

The severity in his voice was effective – it made a knot in her stomach, delivering exactly how serious this was. She nodded her understanding.

“Good,” he continued, satisfied. “The other two wings are much smaller in comparison and a little farther from the main house. The third one is mine.”

Morana raised her eyebrows. “Yours alone?”

A lopsided smile curled his mouth. “Being the oldest son has its perks.”

Morana shook her head. Men.

His face grew serious again. “I have my staff in that wing. My cousins visit sometimes, and you’d be more than welcome to stay there if you like. It has its own security detail as well.”

Morana nodded her thanks, touched by the genuine offer, soaking in all the information. “And the fourth wing?”

“Is Tristan’s.”

Of course, it was.

Dante went on, unperturbed. “His wing is the smallest, area wise. It’s a cottage, to be honest. It is also the farthest from the main house and the other wings, right by the lake. He lives there alone.”

Alone.

Like an outcast.

Morana felt her heart clench at the thought of this, at his reality, as the enormity of his life day after day dawned upon her. He’d lived on the compound but the periphery. He’d lived with people but as a pariah. They hadn’t accepted him and they hadn’t let him go.

Hands fisting on her thighs, Morana blew out a breath through clenched teeth at the fury she could feel invading her bones. Another monster rose inside her – a monster she was familiar with, a monster that had made her kill in cold blood to exact her revenge.

She wanted to destroy, to decimate.

The depth of her own emotions staggered her.

Inhaling deeply, she tried to get it under control.

“Go on,” she urged Dante, needing to know more.

Dante cracked his neck, stretching his legs, his gargantuan body seeming to take up the entire space. “The main house is where my father lives with his siblings and their spouses.”

Morana frowned. “And what about the other sentinels or whatever you guys call them?”

“They all have houses outside the compound but right near the edges. Why exactly do you think Tristan is considered such an anomaly?” Dante prodded her to think.

“Because he’s the only outsider in the Outfit to live with the high family,” Morana murmured, catching on quickly.

Dante nodded. “Exactly. It’s made him a target for many people on the outside looking in, men who’ve been in the business longer than he’s been born but never given the privilege of living with the family.”

Morana shook her head, confused. “But why does your father even keep him there? Why not let him live outside like the others?”

Dante chuckled darkly, the sound icy. “My father,” he sneered the word, leaving no doubt in her mind as to his own feelings for the man, “prizes one thing above all else – control. Control over his empire, control over his puppets, control over his family. And you know the one person he’s never been able to control?”

‘You try to leash me, I’ll fucking strangle you with it.’

Amara’s words of a fourteen-year-old boy came back to her.

“Tristan Caine,” she whispered, stumped all over again by the sheer brazenness of him.

Dante’s lips twisted. “Tristan Caine.”

Morana could hear the same awe she felt in Dante’s voice, the fact that a fourteen-year-old boy had told that boss of an entire mob that he wouldn’t yield…

“I’ve seen men, grown men, lick my father’s boot to remain in his favor, Morana. By the time I was eighteen, I thought there was not a single soul on this earth who could stand up to him. And then Tristan happened.”

His eyes closed as he inhaled deeply, evidently remembering. “That’s the reason I started sticking with him in the first place – he was fearless. He truly didn’t give a fuck at what my father did. In fact, the first common ground we both found was pissing the old man off.”

Morana slumped back in the chair, her chest filling with something.

“And your father keeps him on the compound because…?”

“Because though he would never admit it, my father fears Tristan,” Dante stated, a smidgen of respect in his voice.

Lorenzo Maroni. Feared. Tristan Caine?

What the what?

Her thoughts were evident on her face because Dante explained quietly.

“He fears Tristan because Tristan is a wild card. He does what he does, even living under the great Lorenzo Maroni’s eye. Every time Tristan disregards my father, it’s a very public slap on his face. And he fears what Tristan would do if he left his watch. He’s already an unknown. My father fears he’d become truly rogue if he left and take away what he prizes most.”

“His power,” Morana completed, pieces falling into place. “Wait, so he doesn’t want him to become the heir?”

“Fuck, no!” Dante responded vehemently. “That’s a rumor started by people on the outside who think Tristan lives on the inside because he’s being groomed to take over. My father entertained the rumor only to save his face. Because refuting it meant admitting to the truth, which would make him look weak.”

Oh boy.

She had to ask. “Why not just kill him, if he’s so much trouble?”

The thought left her bitter.

Dante shrugged. “Pride. Power. Who knows? Because Tristan is his most valuable asset? Because it would be admitting defeat if he couldn’t control him alive? I don’t know.”

God.

“Morana,” Dante paused for a beat. “For years my father has tried to break Tristan, to get even some semblance of control over him. Torture, blackmail, you name it, he’s done it. But it’s never worked. No matter what he subjected Tristan to, it always hit a wall.”

Her heart ached even as the rage filled her, against a man she’d not even met.

“My father,” Dante continued, “is going to hate you. And use you.”

Morana swallowed, a part of her afraid, another part daring the evil man to even try.

“I don’t have any control over him,” she reminded Dante, her fingers balling into fists.

Dante agreed. “You know that. Tristan knows that. But to anyone standing on the outside? You don’t have control, Morana. You have something better.”

“What?” Morana whispered.

“Influence,” Dante stated. “To anyone who’s looking at you two, it will be apparent you influence him. Which means it’s his choice. That, Morana, is going to make my father very, very upset. Because after everything he thinks he’s done, Tristan chose to let a girl influence him – that too the daughter of Vitalio. They have history.”

Uh oh.

“You need to watch your back with him at all times,” Dante cautioned, the weight in his voice making her breath hitch. “He will try to manipulate you, use you to get to Tristan. I don’t know how but you need to be very, very careful. It will not be easy.”

Morana remained silent, swallowing down the bout of nerves trying to attack her.

“And not because he wants Tristan to be the heir. Oh no, that pleasure will be all mine,” Dante sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, sarcasm heavy in his tone.

Morana took in his weariness, her heart squeezing in sympathy. “What did you want to be?” the question slipped out of her before she could stop herself.

She waited as Dante looked up at her, his tie loose around his neck, hair disheveled.

He laughed, the sound not reaching his dark eyes. “Truly?”

Morana nodded, curious.

“A sculptor.”

Morana blinked in surprise at the answer. Dante saw and smiled, a genuine smile.

“My mother had been a painter,” he explained, his voice soft, eyes lost in memory. “One of the fondest memories of my childhood is of sculpting with clay while she painted in the same room. She always used to hum this melody and my hands…”

He let his words trail off, shaking himself out of the memory, his eyes hardening again as he breathed deeply.

Morana noted his use of past tense.

Her heart clenched, the urge to take his hand and give it a squeeze acute. But she refrained, knowing somehow that he wouldn’t appreciate it.

“As I told you once, Morana,” he spoke quietly, “you’re lucky to be following your dream.”

She was.

Sitting there in front of Dante, while discussing the history of a man more damaged than she’d even imagined, thinking of the friend she’d left behind – the girl who’d been abducted and tortured for days for information, one who still carried the mar of that around her throat, thinking of the lost girls from years ago, of Luna Caine – of where she could be, how she could be if she was even alive – Morana felt truly lucky to be just breathing. Her past was filled only with loneliness and not true horrors, not deep scars, not lifeless agony.

“Do you want a hug?” that voice of whiskey and sin penetrated the space around them.

Morana’s gaze flew to Tristan Caine standing beside the door, not a crease on the fabric of his clothes, nothing to indicate he’d been asleep, his face a stoic mask, which did not fit with his words. Surprise filled her at the fact that she’d missed him entering the area. Usually, she never did, her body aware of him in ways she couldn’t hope to understand.

She saw Dante’s lips curl into a smile. “Fuck off, asshole.”

God, they were such guys.

There was something incredibly normal about that.

Dante turned to her as the other man pranced to the bar, getting himself a glass of whiskey on the rocks, his blue shirt hugging the muscles on his torso as he moved about, before leaning against the wall and facing them.

“Anyhow,” Dante began, drawing Morana’s attention again. “Just remember one thing – you’ll be Lorenzo Maroni’s guest. That means a lot of pretending.”

Morana nodded. “I’m good at pretending.”

She saw Tristan Caine raise a single brow in the periphery but ignored him.

Dante turned around to pin the other man with his gaze. “All done?”

Tristan Caine gave a curt nod as the captain’s voice filled the cabin, informing them to put on their seat belts, as they would be landing soon.

Heart suddenly racing, Morana turned in the seat and hooked on the belt, aware of Tristan Caine taking the seat beside hers, not touching her anywhere but his presence searing her.

Closing her eyes, she tilted her head back and focused on her breathing.

The next hour seemed to fly by.

It all seemed surreal – them landing safely, the wind whipping her hair around in her ponytail as she exited the plane, her thanking the crew, then getting into a town car that waited for them near the strip along with two other cars.

Morana took it all in – the men, the bulge of the guns under their jackets, the beautiful sunshine, the wind, everything as she looked out the backseat of the car to the passing city, absorbing it in a way she hadn’t before.

She wondered through it all if he had a bike here as well. If he had a sacred space in his bedroom. If his territory was a reflection of him.

She wondered where she would be staying – at the main house as Maroni’s guest or with him.

She wondered about a lot many things as everything seemed to happen in fast forward.

And then the cars stopped.

Morana peeked out from behind the glass, her heart drumming painfully in her chest as she saw the huge wrought iron gate that manned the beginning of the property, lush green grass rolling out far into the edge of a forested area. That beast of an almost-castle loomed farther up ahead the drive

almost ominously, another building farther behind that to the left but nothing else to be seen from this vantage.

The iron gates opened smoothly, four armed men standing near the control room.

Her nerves were shot.

The car went in motion again, moving forward, entering the premises.

Morana felt her heart thundering in her chest as she gazed upon that beast of a house, where everything had been put in motion twenty years ago, where everything had changed course a few weeks ago.

That house had changed her life twice.

And the magnitude of that reality settled upon her like a heavy cloud.

The car slithered closer and closer to the beast.

And then, finally, it came to a stop.

Her heart stopped.

Her eyes locked with his in the rear-view mirror, her inhale stuck in her throat.

“Breathe,” he mouthed.

Morana breathed.

They had arrived.