by RuNyx .
“You were just a child,” Morana spoke up before she could help herself, her voice rusty and small.
Amara smiled sadly, fidgeting with the hem of her top. “So was he, Morana. We all forgot that so was he.”
Morana swallowed the lump in her throat, gripping her top with her fingers.
“Him being such a terrifyingly silent boy just fed the wariness everyone felt for him even more. People talked about him, and I’m certain he knew, but he never uttered a word. Nothing. The first time I actually heard him speak was years after he’d come to live there.”
Shaking her head, as if to shake off the memory, Amara continued. “Mr. Maroni had sworn his men to silence about Tristan’s truth – not out of the goodness of his heart, if he even has any, and not because he wanted to protect the boy. Oh no, it was so that the man Tristan would become one day would owe him.”
The disgust in Amara’s voice seeped into Morana, her heart shuddering. The depth of cruelty in her world astounded her. Even though she’d known how brutal their world was, this still managed to catch her off guard. There was no place for innocence here. None. What a little boy had done out of instinct had cost him everything. Not because someone wanted to get revenge against him, or because someone wanted to kill him for themselves. No, but because someone wanted to simply exploit him. He should have been loved and protected. More importantly, he should have been forgiven. Instead, his crucible had only begun at the hands of the people who’d taken him under.
“Fuck,” she whispered, not knowing what else to say, the one word encompassing the entire situation perfectly.
“Yeah. As if that wasn’t enough, he was kept away from all the other children in the family, in a separate wing,” Amara reminisced, another tear trailing down her cheek, her raspy voice trembling. “During the day when other kids went to school outside the walls or played until their time came to be trained, he was locked in the compound with private tutors. Maroni’s best men trained him, tortured him, and he never said a word. Mama said she heard his screams sometimes in passing when she went to the wing. All of us did at some point. But never heard his words. And after a point, the screams just stopped.”
Morana closed her eyes, rage infusing her blood, the urge to kill all those people, the need to kill all those people, to destroy them as they destroyed a child, so acute it became an ache in her heart. She remembered the deep, mottled scars she had seen all over on his body, the burn marks on his back. How many of those had been inflicted by these people? How many when he’d been just a boy? How many had taken him to the brink of death? To the brink of insanity?
A tear made its way down her cheek – a tear of pain, of anger, of compassion – before she could stop it. She let it roll down, taking a deep breath to calm her racing heart.
She opened her eyes. “Go on.”
Amara sighed softly, her face etched in remorse. “I’ll never forgive myself for ignoring him back then. I know I was just a child, but even back then, I knew it shouldn’t have been happening like that. I knew it wasn’t right. And yet, I did absolutely nothing to help him, not in any way. And I wonder sometimes if maybe a kind word, a selfless gesture, a hand of friendship would have made things a little better for him…”
Morana didn’t say anything to that. She couldn’t. Not with the rage she was feeling.
Amara swallowed, evidently struggling with something before she sucked in a breath and continued. “I saw him around the compound for years. I’d be wandering around the quarters, playing with the other children not under training, or helping my mama, and I’d catch glimpses of him over the years.”
Rubbing a hand over her drained face, she went on. “He was always bruised. He walked with a limp sometimes. Sometimes, he could barely walk. And even then, nobody dared pity him, or talk to him. It became clear within years that he was lethal. His silence fed that even more. People within the family shunned him for being an outsider and people outside shunned him for being on the inside. He belonged nowhere. And while nobody messed with him, nobody talked to him either.”
“Wh-what happened then?” Morana stuttered, barely able to get the words out, her heart clenching for the boy he’d been, wishing she could’ve known him back then. She’d been so alone growing up too, surrounded by people but nobody to talk to. Maybe, she could’ve extended that hand of companionship, surreal as it would’ve been. Maybe, they could’ve helped each other feel less lonely.
Maybe…
Amara smiled slightly, breaking Morana’s thoughts, her entire face softening. “Dante happened.”
Morana frowned, not understanding.
Amara shook her head, grinning softly, her beautiful eyes glistening. “A few years later, Mr. Maroni started Dante’s training with the same men who’d trained Tristan for years. They both trained in the same place sometimes. There had already been talk about Tristan taking over the family when he grew up, and Dante was the obvious heir, being the oldest son and all. It didn’t help that Tristan barely acknowledged anyone, much less spoke to anyone. Dante would try to talk to him and Tristan would shut him down so fast… he was that way with everyone. Only spoke when spoken to, and most of the time, not even then. Dante wasn’t used to not getting his way. It created a lot of tension between them.”
She could imagine.
“Then one night after training, Dante lost it. Got in Tristan’s face. Tristan tried to walk away, and Dante punched him. Tristan broke his jaw.”
Amara paused. “He broke the jaw of the oldest son of Lorenzo Maroni, the Boss of the Tenebrae Outfit.”
Morana felt her eyes widen, the implications making her breath hitch, a shiver running down her spine.
The wind swirled around them, bringing stray, fallen leaves on their laps.
“Was he punished?” she asked in a whisper, afraid of the answer.
Amara’s responsive chuckle surprised her as she shook her head again. “Mr. Maroni called everyone to the mansion. All the staff was there too, watching quietly. Anyways, he created a big scene, demanding the culprit, demanding who had broken his son’s jaw. He took it as a hit to his honor or something.”
Morana leaned forward, her breaths picking up. “Then?”
That little smile on Amara’s face remained. “Dante never spoke up or even looked in Tristan’s direction – he already hated his father. But Tristan did. I remember how stunned I’d been when Tristan stepped forward without hesitation. There was no fear in that boy. None at all. I mean, I’d seen grown men cower before Lorenzo Maroni and him… anyways, Maroni tried to threaten him subtly…”
The wind picked up. Morana shuddered. This just kept getting better and better.
“… and that was the first time I heard Tristan’s voice.”
Morana raised her eyebrows, heart pounding. “What did he say?”
The look of awe on Amara’s face, even at the old memory, matched the wonder in her voice. “God, I still remember it like it was yesterday. Mr. Maroni threatened Tristan, thinking he’d feel obliged, maybe scared, maybe respectful – God knows what he was thinking – and Tristan… he got nose to nose with Mr. Maroni and told him – ‘You ever put a leash on me, I’ll fucking strangle you with it.’ ”
Morana blinked, stunned. “He said what?!”
Amara nodded. “You ever put a leash on me, I’ll fucking strangle you with it. Word for word.”
She tried to wrap her mind around it as astonishment flowed through her. “How old was he?”
“Fourteen.”
Morana sat back, feeling the wind knocked out of her.
Amara nodded, as though she understood completely. “He was fearless, Morana. That was the first time any of us had seen a boy shut the Boss up. That was also the moment Dante decided he was completely Team Tristan. And when his father told him the truth about Tristan to make him stay away, it only made Dante more adamant to befriend that boy.”
Stealing in a quick breath, Morana asked, “So they became a team?”
“He
ll, no!” Amara retorted, shaking her head in fond memories. “Dante was always a charmer on the outside. He could seduce you in one breath while planning a million ways to kill you in the next, and you wouldn’t even know. Tristan didn’t trust him an inch, but he couldn’t shake him off either. Dante was, still is, deceptively stubborn. And though he was the oldest son with responsibilities, Dante went against his father repeatedly by sustaining his association with Tristan. Maroni wanted them to compete. They basically gave him the finger. Over the years, they just sort of fell into this relationship – they’re not really friends or brothers, but they’d not have anyone else on their side in battle. It’s complicated with them.”
Morana stayed silent, digesting all of it.
Twisting the cap off the bottle in her hand, Amara took a sip of water, swallowing slowly and leaning back against the headstone, quiet for a long moment as Morana soaked up everything.
“I was taken a few years later,” she spoke quietly into the space between them, her voice husky, eyes dulling with the memories. “Tristan was the one to find me.”
Morana started at that.
Amara nodded. “Yeah, he found me and left me with Dante while he took care of the men who’d kept me captive. It was after I was found that I truly interacted with Tristan. While I was recovering, he became… more present, I guess, without being obvious about it. I didn’t know back then that it hit too close to home for him. He was being protective of me. Not obviously, and never with people around, but he just… became a presence in my life. He never talked much but the fact that he looked at me, listened if I talked said it all. That’s why I know he’s incredibly protective of women and children. I’ve seen him be that way for years now.”
It was dawning on Morana – his deep-rooted need to protect. The fact that he’d survived all of what he had and not rid himself of that need to protect said more about him than anything ever could, more than he could ever show.
“He’s never trusted anyone, Morana,” Amara continued, her voice tinged with sadness. “He’s never had much of a reason to.”
“He trusts you and Dante,” Morana reminded her.
Amara smiled sadly again. “Only to an extent. He lives behind his walls, all alone, dead to the world. We’re allowed to come close to that wall but never behind it. That’s why he’s so feared. Everyone knows he’s got nothing to lose. His weaknesses were exploited out of him. Now? No weak spots. Nothing. I’ve never, in all the years I have watched him, seen him be anything except deadly. He’s not happy. He’s not sad. He’s not in pain. He’s just made himself nothing…”
Memories came to Morana in a rush.
‘Did I hurt you?’
His sleepless eyes, the intensity of his question, the stillness in his body.
The rage in him when she’d come to him hurting. The heat in his eyes when he'd fucked her in his mind. The curses in the shower when he'd cut himself open, bleeding in pain.
Amara was wrong - he wasn’t nothing.
He felt.
He felt so deeply he didn’t let himself feel.
He felt so deeply he feared his own reactions to it.
Or had it all been a trick to manipulate her? To make her compliant for his vengeance?
A loud clap of thunder rang across the skies, startling her.
Morana looked up, surprised to see the sun was low on the horizon, hidden behind thick, dark clouds roiling over each other. The wind rushed through the graveyard, whipping the leaves on the trees in a frenzy, whipping her hair around her face, whistling through the columns, making her aware of the dried blood on her arm from where the gunshot wound had opened in the blast.
Borrowing the bottle of water from Amara wordlessly, Morana tore a relatively clean piece of fabric from the bottom of her shirt, cleaned the wound the best she could with the limited water she had, and wrapped it in the cloth to keep it from bleeding again. The bottle nearly empty, she handed it back to the other woman, aware that she was being watched by her quietly.
She needed to be alone.
She needed to be by herself to even begin to process everything she’d learned. She needed time to herself, to grasp the magnitude of how intertwined they had always been, how defined they’d both been – him more so than her – by their pasts. But more importantly, she needed time to figure out her future, their futures, or if they could even have one.
Taking a deep breath and shoving the heaviness in her throat back down, Morana looked Amara in the eyes.
“I just… I need...” she scrambled for words, not really sure what to say.
She saw the other woman’s eyes soften as she nodded, pushing herself off the ground to kneel. Picking up her spacious bag and putting the bottle inside it, Amara stood up, hitching the bag over her shoulder, brushing her backside to get the grass off.
Morana remained seated on the hard ground, leaning against the headstone, and looked up at the tall woman, the light in the sky falling right on the scar across her slender neck. The scar she’d received when she’d refused to rat on her people at fifteen. Morana had never clearly seen it before – because of scarves or makeup or shadows – but it was naked to the eye now, a thick, jarred white line of raised flesh going right across her throat.
Morana looked up at her beautiful eyes before she could stare. Amara had come to her with her scar exposed, showing a kind of trust Morana had never felt before, and she wouldn’t let it down by making her feel conscious.
“I can’t even imagine how hard this must be for you, Morana,” the beautiful woman spoke softly in her raspy voice, the voice that had somehow started to soothe Morana. “Just give me a call if you need me.”
Was this what friendship was like?
She didn’t know. Tears threatening again at the kindness this strange woman had shown her repeatedly, at the hard truth she’d brought to light despite being bound by her own word to someone she loved, at dropping everything to come to her aid at one phone call – Morana was alien to these. But heaven help her, she was going to try.
She swallowed, trying to keep her lips from trembling.
“Thank you, Amara,” a whisper escaped her, wrenched straight from the bottom of her soul. “Thank you… for everything.”
Amara sniffled, wiping her tears, smiling. “I’m just happy to have you. In my life and especially in Tristan’s. He’s… he’s spent twenty years in pain without acknowledging it. I love him, Morana. He’s like a brother I never knew I had. And he’s been through so much, so alone… just…”
Morana inhaled at her hesitation, waiting for her to continue.
Amara took a deep breath. “I can understand if it’s too much for you… if he’s too much for you. Frankly, I’d be surprised if he wasn’t. Just – if it is too much – just don’t give him hope if there’s none. He never shows weakness. He doesn’t expect anyone to stay with him, stay for him. That’s a reason why he doesn’t trust anyone. So, please, this is my only request to you, Morana. Please don’t encourage him to trust you if you’re going to leave in the end.”
Blowing out a breath of air, she brushed a hand through her dark hair. “I told you all this because you needed to know the truth about yourself and about him. Do what you need to do, Morana. I won’t deny a part of me hopes it’s what he needs too, but just in case it isn’t, do what you have to do for yourself and please don’t hurt him.”
The lump in her throat grew until her vision blurred.
She closed her eyes and nodded. “I need to… process. It’s a lot.”
“I know. I’ll leave you be.”
“Just don’t… don’t tell anyone about this for a while, please.”
“Okay.”
With one softly murmured word, Morana heard Amara’s footsteps grow distant as she left her alone in the graveyard with the dead.
Morana closed her eyes, tilting her head back against the stone.
Death. So much death.
In her past. In her present. In her future too? Was that what s
he was moving towards? Did she want to go forward like this? Knowing she’d done nothing wrong? She’d just been a baby. She didn’t even remember a thing, for fuck’s sake!
And yet, a part of her, deep in her gut, heavy in her chest, rooted in her heart, was bathed in pain – pain for the boy he’d been, pain for the man he’d become, pain for everything he’d lost.
It had been twenty years.
How had he survived?
Her eyes opened.
She knew.
He’d survived through sheer will, for her.
She pictured all the scars she’d seen on his body, all the scars she had yet to see. She pictured him, the young boy who’d lost everything, getting nothing but pain, scar after scar, day after day, year after year. For twenty years, he’d had nothing, absolutely nothing, except what he believed she owed him.
Her life.
He’d lived for her life. He’d held on to his life for hers. And while her heart bled for him, while she understood him, was that what she deserved? Was it right for her to stay with a man who’d vowed to collect his debt one day? Could she live with a sword like that hanging over her head?
She couldn’t.
Morana looked down at her fingers, dirty fingers, and let herself be absolutely, utterly honest with herself. No more denial. She let herself reflect on every moment she’d spent with him – from that first moment of that knife against her neck to that last moment of his text message telling her he didn’t believe anyone could handle her if she didn’t want to be handled. In the short span of a few weeks, she had changed. She had rebelled against that change, feared that change, but it had been uncontrollable.
She had changed.
And she couldn’t believe, not after the honesty she had witnessed in his eyes, time after time – about his lust, his hatred, even his pain – that he hadn’t changed somewhere too. While the boy he’d been might want her life, might still want to hold on to the debt in his mind, the man he was only wanted her.
