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Tristan: I can see your window from mine.
Heart suddenly beating harder, Morana looked out the window, trying to see where his place was. She saw several buildings spread out behind the treeline and then she remembered what Dante had told her.
“His wing is the smallest, area wise. It is also the farthest from the main house and the other wings. He lives there alone.”
Heart in her throat, Morana squinted and tried to find the one building that stood away from the others. And she found it. Right by the lake. Where the other wings were spread out over the west side of the compound, that one lone building stood alone in the east, surrounded by green on one side and water on the other. Half-wild, half-tamed. Just like the man. She couldn't see anything inside because of the distance but just knowing he could see her, that he was still watching her despite Maroni's effort to take her away filled her with a warmth she was unfamiliar with.
He could see her.
Morana realized, watching that little building in the distance, that she'd been wrong.
She wasn't alone.
Not anymore.
It was almost time for dinner.
A lady in her mid-forties, clearly a member of the staff, had come to the room almost an hour ago with a dress draped on her arm. She hadn’t spoken a word, simply handed the dress to Morana when she opened the door and had gone on her way. Baffling as that had been, Morana was more curious as to why Maroni would have sent her a dress and if she should wear it. Sadly, she didn’t really have an option. She hadn't packed her own wardrobe when she left her house and all she had on her was borrowed stuff from Amara’s closet that was more casual than the dinner demanded.
Staring at the dress - a long, silky number in forest green with full sleeves, a modest neckline and simple back, and a scandalous slit on one side right to her upper thigh - Morana shook her head and took off her bathrobe, freshly showered and clean, and donned the dress. It fit like a glove and that was disturbing, especially because Maroni had sent it to her. She just knew it. The fact that he had stared at her long enough to get a measure of her sizes made the hair on the back of her neck rise and not in a good way. Fighting off a shudder, Morana smoothed the fabric out and debated whether to strap the knife to herself. While keeping it on her would make her feel safer, she didn’t have any other weapon and was she searched again, she would lose it. As much as it pained her, she would have to leave it hidden in the room itself.
Brushing her hair out, she carefully applied concealer to cover up the few bruises left behind from the night in the cemetery. That done, she applied her mascara and painted her lips blood red. She’d made the mistake of being in the mansion unprepared once, she wouldn’t do it again. She didn’t like the insecurity that bopped its head upon seeing the beautiful women, especially when one of them had her sights on her man.
Her man?
The hand holding the lipstick stopped suddenly, hovering in the air as she stared at herself in the mirror, her heart pounding hard.
Her man.
Where the hell did that even come from?
They did not have that kind of a relationship and she doubted they ever would. Even though she had been his long before she even knew him. Even though he had all but claimed her in small, subtle ways over the two weeks. Even though he had touched her for the first time as a mark of her belonging to him (as archaic as that sounded). Her eyes fluttered shut, remembering the sensation of his rough, calloused fingers going up her thighs. Exhale. Her skin pebbled, a delicious shiver coursing down her spine. She was his. By now, probably everyone in the mob knew. She knew. But was he her man?
She inhaled again and got back to her lips, carefully scrutinizing her own face. She was pretty enough, definitely. Though not as visually stunning as Chiara Mancini. But did that even matter? It never had, not to her. She had always been comfortable in her skin, mostly because she had loved her intelligence and her repressed wit that had been waiting for the right person to repartee with. Which was also why she didn’t think it mattered to him either. She remembered the way he had simply given her that tight head-shake when Chiara had been all over him, and her lips turned up in a smile.
&n
bsp; Fuck yes, he was hers. For however long, damaged and asshole-d, and however he was, he was hers. And good luck to anyone who tried to come between that.
Feeling the strength of that acceptance seep into her pores, Morana gave her hair a final brush with her fingers, stepped into her one pair of golden heels, and opened the door, only to come face-to-face with the she-devil. Chiara Mancini.
Interesting.
The other woman, stunning in a red wrap dress that showed her cleavage just the right amount, gave Morana a smile as false as her eyelashes. Morana didn’t even bother.
“I hope you’re settling in well,” Chiara asked, her voice low and soft. Morana could understand why men who didn’t look beneath the surface would fall head-over-ass for this woman. Thankfully, she lacked the requisite body parts to be a shallow dick.
“I’m sure you haven’t come up here to ask me about how I’m doing, Mrs. Mancini,” Morana said in her most dry voice. “Oh, it is Mrs, isn’t it?” she blinked innocently, knowing she’d hit the nail on the head when the other woman’s face tightened.
“Yes, I’m married to Lorenzo’s first cousin,” she gritted out quietly. “Not the most ideal marriage. But then, when does the mob listen when a woman accuses her husband of rape?”
She wasn’t lying. Morana saw it in her eyes and her heart, as hard as it had been, softened. “I’m sorry.” What else could she even say? Some men got the license to be monsters.
Chiara visibly shook off whatever thought had plagued her and focused on Morana again. “I don’t want your sympathy. What I want is for you to keep your distance from Dante and Tristan.”
Morana tilted her head to the side, hardening herself again, even as the compassion lingered. “And why would I do anything you want?”
Chiara took a step forward, her hand slamming once on the door, her eyes angry at her. “Because they’re the good ones and they don’t deserve the shit storm you have created, princess. Neither of them. Especially Tristan.”
