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“Are you the Mancini who likes to rape his wife or is that a poorer relation of yours?”
The man, who had been smiling until that point, lost his manners. Morana braced herself, standing tall, not looking away.
"Be very careful, Ms. Vitalio," he threatened. The tension in the room escalated, broken only with the sound of people coming in. Morana looked away to the entrance, seeing a bunch of strange men and women, adults and teens, enter the room. She only recognized three faces.
Lorenzo Maroni saw her standing near the window and smiled the smile that made ants crawl up her arms. Morana looked away deliberately, to see Dante enter under the arch, wearing a white t-shirt and jeans, a gun tucked in his belt, his hair wet and slicked back from his strong face. It was the first time she was seeing him so casual. He saw her, gave her a small sm
ile which she returned, glad to have a friend in this strange place.
And then Tristan Caine entered, dressed similar to Dante, his t-shirt black and jeans faded, no gun in sight. She didn’t know if that was ballsy or stupid or both. Either way, she couldn’t help but admire that kind of confidence. Watching the two men in a crowd of people dressed to the nines, Morana didn’t know if this was how they always dressed for dinner or if this was a giant “fuck you” to Maroni and his system. Judging by the disapproving look on the man’s face, she would place her bets on the latter.
She was aware of the curious gazes on her as she walked to the seat Lorenzo indicated for her to take. The staff was bringing out the food as everyone took their seats in choreography that spoke of years of practice. She pulled out her chair, strategically placed between a teen boy with dark hair and an older man she didn’t know. Her eyes sought out the two people she did know, to see them opposite her side but closer to the head of the table where Lorenzo sat like a self-proclaimed emperor.
“Are you family?” the teenager asked her curiously.
She shook her head. The boy opened his mouth to ask something when a shadow fell over them. Morana looked up to see Tristan Caine standing behind the boy, his face wiped of all emotions, his eyes on her.
He addressed the boy. “Wanna sit with your cousin?”
The boy’s eyes widened. “But I’m not allowed up the table.”
“You are now. Scoot.”
The boy didn’t need to be told twice. He was out the seat and beside Dante in all his youthful exuberance. Morana saw Tristan Caine take the seat beside hers, hyper-aware of all the eyes on them, hyper-aware of his big, solid form warm just inches away from her. She swallowed, focusing on her breathing, donning the mask of carefully crafted indifference like this wasn’t a big deal at all. Nope. No big deal. Tristan Caine changing years of seating arrangements and sitting beside her in front of everyone - no big deal. She could smell that musky scent that was all him, feel the air every time he inhaled and exhaled softly, feel the sheer force of his presence caress her all over.
Food came. Nobody said a word. He didn’t say a word. Morana could practically feel the tension climb up as she kept her eyes glued to her plate like it was the answer to global peace.
“Tristan,” Maroni’s voice came from the head of the table, loud. The sound of cutlery paused. She kept her head down, aware of the man beside her looking up silently.
“This won’t happen again,” he warned.
The man beside her said in the same tone. “It better not.”
Holy shit. She looked up just in time to see Maroni bristling. Tristan Caine continued eating. Nobody said anything but slowly, they resumed eating. Morana looked down at the soup in front of her, her appetite lost under all the tension in her body. Forcing herself to drink a bit, she almost dropped her spoon when a hand went under the slit of her dress, holding her inner thigh like it had every right to. She knew what he was doing. He was testing her.
Morana relaxed her body, closing her thighs hard, trapping his hand between them, just inches from her throbbing core. He flexed his fingers, the movement sending sensation coursing like an arrow to her center. She didn’t open her legs or give his hand room to move. He gripped one of her thighs hard, his fingers prying her legs loose enough to get his hand out. Morana felt the loss ghosting over her skin, knew from the warmth that the imprint of that hand would be darkening the flesh inside her leg. It thrilled her, the knowledge of his having been there, the proof of it marked on her skin, so close. She was wet.
“Morana,” Maroni’s voice broke through her lust-induced daze, chilling her. She looked up to see the man wipe his mouth with his napkin.
“I've informed your father you're here.”
Morana tensed but didn’t remove her eyes from the man. “Awesome,” her voice came out nonchalant.
Maroni smirked under his beard, looking around the table. “Everyone, this is Morana Vitalio, the daughter of Gabriel Vitalio.”
The air around the table, which had been curious but relaxed, chilled at the announcement. Every eye turned to her and she kept hers steady on the man at the head seat. He continued. “She is here as a guest, of course, so everyone will treat her as such. Anybody who sees someone not treat her as a guest will be reported to me.”
Morana heard the warning to herself loud and clear in that. Do not make yourself at home.
Maroni went one step further. “She is staying in the guest room on the second floor," he told everyone. "Nobody will bother her. She is her father’s daughter, after all.”
Her jaw clenched as her hand fisted, the urge to walk up the table and punch the smug bastard in the face acute.
Maroni looked around the table, his eyes coming to rest on Tristan Caine. “And nobody will touch her.”
The hand on her thigh returned. This time, she let it stay.
“But you have to be careful, Morana. Accidents can happen anywhere sadly.”
