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Taking a deep breath, Morana stilled her body, not betraying any movements.
"Let me be honest with you, Morana," Dante spoke, stretching one arm over the back of the couch, his shirt pulling taut across his well-built chest. "I have nothing personal against you, so as long as you don't threaten or hurt me or my people, we can work along just fine."
Morana narrowed her eyes and nodded. "Same goes for you."
"Good," he nodded, the dark hair on his head catching the blue lights, his eyes flickering again to the scene behind her momentarily before coming back. And in that one flicker, Morana knew it was the woman – Amara – who had his attention. She had a feeling there was a lot more to his distraction than a hot woman in a great dress. Ignoring the twinge of compassion it elicited, she bit her lip.
"Mr. Maroni, as I told Mr. Caine," Morana grit out, still aware that the man was behind her, watching her sporadically, "I am at a loss. I created the codes and before I could install a failsafe in place, Jackson stole them. I don't have any hopes of finding it like this, much less destroying it without actually having it."
"Tristan told me," the man said, his voice suddenly extremely serious, the air of responsibility around him so strong it made her realize he was the older son of the Outfit. "Whatever hostility exists between our families, fact is that the code is lethal for both our sides, and we cannot afford any war between ourselves with the outside forces looking for a way in."
"Could it have been someone on the outside?" Morana asked, voicing her own apprehensions as she settled back into the cushions, her nape tingling.
Dante shook his head. "I don't believe so. Only someone who had known your family could have known what you were doing." He paused for a second. "I'm not entirely sure it's not someone from our side, framing Tristan for the fall."
"Why would anyone on your side frame him?" she asked, curious.
The man before her shrugged even as his face remained grave. "There can be many reasons. Jealousy over his skills, over my father's preference for him. Hell, he has enough enemies inside the Outfit that anyone could want retribution."
Morana's gut clenched as she remembered how smoothly the man in question had lied to his blood brother. She wasn't sure it wasn't him, faking his own accusations.
"We traced the transactions from Jackson," Dante's voice broke into her thoughts, making her frown.
"I told you, they all lead to Mr. Caine."
"They do, but there were anomalies when we looked at them carefully," he informed her. "We're running traces on them now, but since this is your area of expertise, perhaps you could hurry it up?"
It felt weird, this alliance. But she nodded regardless, holding her palm out for the flash drive he put there.
"Everything we've been able to gather so far, all the information, is here."
She placed the drive carefully in her clutch and stood up, as did he. Since he was being amicable so far, Morana quietly said, "I'll let you know if I get something."
Dante Maroni tilted his head slightly, eyes sharp on her. "May I ask why you refused to work with Tristan?"
Morana raised an eyebrow. "May I ask what's going on between you and Amara?"
The amicable man before her suddenly stiffened, anger flashing over his face before he donned the polite mask, his lips pursing, making her realize yet again that he was no wallflower. He was the actual blood of Bloodhound Maroni. He glared at her slightly, his eyes flickering to the woman in question, before swinging his eyes to her again, a grudging smile on his lips.
"Courage takes only a second to become foolishness," he said quietly, his dark eyes alert. "Keep that in mind."
Morana smiled. So, she'd found a nerve, had she?
"Heed your own advice," she replied in the same tone, before turning on her heels and heading towards the bar, looking absolutely straight ahead, not sparing a glance on either side but aware of Tristan Caine's eyes on her. Her throat worked, a bead of sweat rolling down her cleavage, her muscles stiff in her body.
Parched, she reached the counter, the music louder outside, and leaned over, trying to catch the attention of one of the bartenders.
A man in his late thirties, in a black t-shirt, looked over at her, his eyes cooling as he looked her up and down. Morana frowned at the reaction, not understanding.
"What can I get you?" he asked, his voice loud over the music.
She watched his eyes, the blandness in them, and felt a shiver go over her spine. Yeah, she wasn’t taking alcohol from him. "Just some orange juice."
He turned away and Morana furrowed her brows, trying to remember if she'd ever met him before. She hadn't. But then maybe he knew she was the daughter of the enemy family.
Sighing, she took the glass of juice he pushed towards her and turned to face the dance floor, gulping down the cooling drink, quenching her thirst, her eyes on the mass of bodies moving to the beat in front of her.
"Anton, one JD, on the rocks."
