The Reaper (Dark Verse, #2)

by RuNyx

He rubbed his knee absently,

Chiara? Who the hell was Chiara? And why would she call at this time of the night?

his beautiful bike.

“Stop being a coward, Dante,” she spit out softly in his direction. “It’s high fucking time.” Uh oh.

All she wanted was to put herself in that comfortable bed, draw the thin blankets over her head, and sleep undisturbed for the next ten years. Minimum.

Morana Vitalio: They should be. After all, I just blew up a car and killed two men in cold blood. (Sent 4.33 PM) Tristan Caine: Where are you? (Received 4.34 PM) Tristan Caine: This is not amusing, Ms. Vitalio. Where are you? (Received 5.00 PM) Tristan Caine: I swear to god… WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?

“She comes with me.” Four words. Soft. Guttural. Irrefutable.

Morana put the hot mug of coffee to her lips, taking a small sip as gratitude filled her, for this enemy’s son who’d shown her kindness when she’d been hurt and who was still giving her kindness, even if for his own reasons. The ability to make her own choices had been denied to her for so long, she treasured it now, and felt a flash of respect for Dante for giving her the tools in that moment.

She didn’t want to be responsible for these people. She didn’t want to be responsible for anyone. For the first time in her life, she wanted to be utterly selfish. She wanted to be reckless.

She wanted to get on the back of that bike and throw her hands to the wind. She wanted to sleep at night knowing she wouldn’t be harmed. She wanted to taste the life she’d whet on her tongue just days ago.

She tried to fight it. She thrashed. She gnawed. She clawed.

“Look at me.” Three words penetrated her haze. That commanding timbre. That razor tone. Whiskey. Sin.

“Breathe.” She blinked, trying to clear the black away. Once. Twice. The blackness withdrew, leaving behind… Blue. Clear blue. Magnificent blue.

He was giving her chocolate. Like it was nothing. Just sliding a bar of chocolate over to her before walking away.

Tears streaked down her face, mingling with her laughter as Morana realized she was losing it. She was truly losing it. She was breaking down. And it felt fucking glorious.

somewhere between caring too much and not giving a fuck, and it was utter beautiful perfection. For that moment. She felt free, not weighed down by demons, by responsibilities, by histories. One moment. And then that moment ended.

“You don’t owe these people a thing.” Low. Rough. Gritty. Tugging at something inside her. “And I sure as fuck don’t. Don’t let them control you.” Morana swallowed. A vein popped on the side of his thick neck. “You want to go to Tenebrae?” he asked softly, his whiskey voice deceptively quiet. ‘With me’, remained unsaid but not unheard. Morana inhaled deeply, her mind clear of everything but her own desires. She nodded.

Which meant that either her father didn’t know the Outfit had private jets (which meant his spies weren’t that good), or that he was poorer than they were. Both options gave her a wicked sort of internal glee, for some twisted reason.

And he was lacking. That gave her joy.

‘Don’t let them control you.’ He’d been right. She couldn’t. Not anymore.

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

“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.”

“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.

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

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…

“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.”

Lorenzo Maroni. Feared. Tristan Caine? What the what?

“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 took away what he prizes most.”

She saw Dante’s lips curl into a smile. “Fuck off, asshole.” God, they were such guys. There was something incredibly normal about that.

“Breathe,” he mouthed. Morana breathed. They had arrived.

“Seriously, father?” Dante snorted, his voice tight. “Kids walk around here with weapons, for god’s sake.” “They are not the spawn of Gabriel Vitalio now, are they?”

“You’re with vultures now. They feed off the dead.”

He could see her. Morana realized, watching that little building in the distance, that she'd been wrong. She wasn't alone. Not anymore.

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?

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.

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.

Thankfully, she lacked the requisite body parts to be a shallow dick.

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.

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.

“I’m Leo Mancini,” the man said, smiling. Morana looked him up and down, her eyes narrowing. “Are you the Mancini who likes to rape his wife or is that a poorer relation of yours?”

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.

“Wanna sit with your cousin?” The boy’s eyes widened. “But I’m not allowed up the table.” “You are now. Scoot.”

“But you have to be careful, Morana. Accidents can happen anywhere sadly.” Which meant anyone could hurt her and he wouldn’t do shit about it.

“Then you will get more than you bargained for, little girl.” Fucking. Bastard.

“What’s the occasion?” Dante’s lips turned up in a smirk. “Seeing that beautiful show inside. Thanks, by the way. Keep it up and the old man is going to have a heart attack from the sheer shock that someone aside from Tristan is immune to his power.”

Oh no. No, nopity, nope. She was not in the mood to deal with him tonight.

“And then I will set them on fire.”

It was small, just a little curve of lips, but it was genuine and it was there. And it tilted her world on its axis because he had a dimple. He. Had. A. Fucking. Dimple.

She had found a true friend in Amara and a protector in Dante. And she had found, under all the madness and chaos, Tristan. Tristan. Just Tristan.

Tristan. He was Tristan now. Her Tristan.