Her father interrupted whatever Tomas had been about to say. “It’s not her protection that concerns me. It’s ours.”
So, they were talking about her. But what wasn’t she ever supposed to know?
“What do you mean?” Tomas voiced her own question.
There was a long pause before her father spoke again. “She’s dangerous but she has no idea how much. It’s best if we keep it between us.”
Tomas must have given some sort of assent because the next thing she knew, the door opened. Tomas saw her upraised arm, ready to knock, and nodded at her. His short, stocky frame walked away from her without a word, moving with a grace she'd witnessed was lethal.
Morana turned back and saw her father speaking to someone on the phone, his tall frame pacing in front of the window. His black hair, the shade of her own original locks (also the reason she'd originally started dyeing hers), was highlighted with a single streak of grey above his broad forehead, that somehow added heaviness to his face, to make people take him more seriously. His beard was French-cut and groomed, just like it had always been, and only the small lines beside his eyes indicated to his aging. From afar, he looked no older than his late thirties.
His dark eyes swung up to where she stood. The lack of delight in his gaze at seeing her, the lack of displeasure, the lack of any reaction at all was something that didn't even pinch anymore. But her curiosity was fully flared.
"Hold on," he muttered into the phone, his voice grave and retaining hints of his slight accent, as he raised his eyebrows at her.
"I need to speak with you," Morana stated vaguely, the wheels in her brain spinning as she stood in the doorway of the plush area.
He nodded. "After dinner. We are dining out tonight at the Crimson. 7.30. I expect to see you there."
He turned back to the phone.
Confused by the eavesdropped conversation, Morana closed the door behind her as she left, looking down at the time on her phone. It was already 6.
Sighing, Morana started towards the stairs, towards her suite, keeping her breath steady.
She was going to find out.
Crimson was one the most expensive, beautiful and elitist restaurants in Shadow Port, located smack in the heart of the city. It was also frequented by the mob families. One of her father's favorites, it oozed class and taste from every wall, the interior designed in various shades of red, muted yellow lights creating a dim, intimate ambiance.
Morana hated it.
The entirety of it – the ambiance, the clientele, everything. One would think that people with too much red in their lives would avoid that color. Instead, they seemed to bask in it.
She hated it. She hated the way men her father did business with would sometimes look her up and down like she was a mannequin on display. She hated how she was expected to stay silent and just look good without having an opinion when she had more IQ than the entire table combined. And she hated how her father remained unaffected by it all.
There was only one saving grace. She didn't smile if she didn't feel like it, and thankfully that was something her father never forced her to do. Mostly, she just sat there listening to the men talk and scowled. Sometimes, she played on her phone. Other times, she just stared out the window, watching laughing couples stroll by hand in hand, observing happy families with not much besides each other.
And while their table companions had commented on her behavior previously, her father never paid heed to it. It was a simple understanding between them. She would come to the said restaurant in her own car, sit and eat silently, play the dutiful daughter, and leave in her own car. And in her twenty-four years, the arrangement had never changed.
Sitting at their regular table for six, Morana closed her eyes, listening to the rumbling clouds and the mumbling crowd. The sky had been threatening to pour throughout the day but never really crossed the threshold since the afternoon. The chilled wind outside called to her though. Instead, she was stuck inside with the cool, conditioned air that was making goosebumps erupt over her bare arms.
She had arrived half an hour ago in her simple, sleeveless blue dress that fell to her knees in waves from her waist and hugged her torso, the straps on her shoulders baring half her back and just the hint of her breasts, with her favorite pair of nude high heels. Since she really didn't care much about the impression she made on whomever her father was meeting, she'd worn her hair loose and foregone her contact lenses, with minimal make-up. And half an hour had passed. The crowd in the restaurant was buzzing and her dinner companions kept talking about some new shipping venture.
But Morana was distracted by the impending conversation she needed to have with her father.
Sighing, she looked around at the restaurant, at the bustling waiters and the chattering crowd, letting her eyes rove over them, letting her mind roam as well.
And suddenly, she sat up straight.
Dante Maroni sat a few tables down with two other men she didn't recognize but was certain was the Outfit, engrossed in whatever conversation they were having.
Morana looked away quickly, her brows furrowing. It had been a week since she'd cursed him and his blood brother, and left them standing at the abandoned building. A week. What was he still doing in town? And what were the odds of her father having dinner at Crimson the same night a Maroni was there?
And then her blood rushed, the memory of stark blue eyes invading her.
Was Tristan Caine still in town as well?
Her stomach sank.
Discreetly, Morana excused herself from the table, nodding at her companions, and stood up. Her father settled his dark eyes on her briefly, before turning back to his companion.
Avoiding as much attention as she could, she quietly glanced at the Maroni table, relieved to realize Dante Maroni hadn't spotted her. Or if he had, he gave no indication of it. Neither did his dinner companions. None of whom were blue-eyed men with a penchant for pinning her across flat surfaces.
Silently narrowing her eyes, Morana ducked behind a darkened alcove with a view of the entire restaurant, and stood in the shadows, letting her eyes wander through the place, and more importantly, the people.
Nowhere.
He was nowhere.
A loud exhale left her just as her tensed body relaxed.
And then, her heart stopped.
He was there. Right there.
Walking, no sauntering, towards the table like he owned the restaurant, like he owned every ounce of air in that room, as though he commanded it to will. A small part of Morana could not help but admire that lethal, powerful grace. The bigger part of her could not help push her defenses on alert.
He saw down, right next to Dante.
And his eyes came right up to her like he'd known exactly where she was hiding in the alcove the whole time.
Morana did not look away. Not this time.
She wasn't intimidated. Not by the complete focus of that intensity directed straight at her, not by the way her heart kept pounding so loudly she was sure everyone could hear it, not by the way Dante and the other two men followed his gaze and looked at her. Morana didn't spare them a glance, not breaking his stare, not backing down, not willing to admit defeat. She didn't even blink.
Straightening her spine, keeping their gazes locked, she walked quietly back to her table, aware of the way his eyes held her and hers held his with each step, aware of the way her blood was thrumming in her ears. The sounds of the restaurant dimmed to nothing but a distant buzz as he leaned back in his chair like he had a fucking right to even glance her way, much less stare.