The Syndicater: A Dangerous Dark Romance (Dark Verse Book 6)
The Syndicater: Chapter 9

Xander was up to something.

Morana didn’t know why exactly, but she was sitting on one of the kitchen island stools with her laptop on the countertop, keeping an eye on her programs running the trace, watching the little timer in the corner ticking down with each second. She was getting closer to the twenty-four-hour mark, and her anxiety was peaking with each declining number, both because it was her responsibility and her forte to crack this thing open and because Tristan was going to come back any second, and she couldn’t hide it from him.

Talking to Dante a few hours ago had given her the perspective she’d needed. Tristan was an adult, and though every instinct inside her wanted to protect him from any disappointment, and though it came from a place of love, she had to quell it down and let him make his own informed decisions. She could only stand and support him regardless of how things panned out.

Even though she was very sure Dante had been with Tempest—there was a certain softness in his voice whenever he was around her goddaughter—he had given her solid advice. Morana couldn’t believe some days that she had a life now where she not only had family and friends but a generation of kids she was now responsible for as well. Speaking of, she looked at Xander making a cucumber, tomato and cheese sandwich, one of his favorites for some reason, and narrowed her eyes.

He’d been making that sandwich for fifteen minutes. It usually only took him five.

He was hovering for some reason.

Morana rested her arms on the countertop, feeling the cool stone on her skin, and watched the boy. ‘What’s going on with you?’

Xander stopped in the process of slicing bread, the knife midway between the loaf, his head bent in concentration. ‘What’s going on with you?’

Morana blinked, surprised at the question. ‘What do you mean?’

The boy pulled the knife out from the loaf, wiped it once, twice, and then started slicing again. Surprisingly, Tristan hadn’t been the one to teach him how to do that. The sandwich had been one of the first things he’d shared was his favorite, and he didn’t let anyone else make it for him. The cucumber and tomato had to be cut in a certain way, and the bread had to be sliced precisely in a certain thickness, and no one got it right but him. Tristan had made him the sandwich once and Xander had politely said, ‘You are a great cook but a bad sandwich maker.’

It had been one of the funniest things to see the look on Tristan’s face.

But it was just one of those very Xander things. That was exactly why Morana knew how long it took him to make.

Xander finished slicing his bread just right and Morana didn’t interrupt him, knowing he would start all over again if disturbed. Once he was done, he neatly put away all the ingredients and plated two sandwiches, bringing one to her.

Surprised, Morana looked down at the offering.

‘You haven’t eaten anything all day.’

She shouldn’t have been surprised he had noticed. The boy was more observant than people gave him credit for. Just because he was different, people didn’t care to notice him. Morana had seen that happen in the school he was in, with his peers and even some teachers, and it made her blood boil. She had almost decided to pull him out and homeschool him, get him the best teachers who could appreciate and encourage his keen mind and hunger for learning new things, but his psychologist had suggested otherwise for the time being. Dr. Kol, one of Amara’s trusted colleagues, had been fabulous with Xander. He believed that Xander would do better if, at least for a few years, he was a part of social settings and learned different social environments, good and bad. That would help him adapt and operate better as an adult in the future. That didn’t mean she couldn’t leak certain secrets of people who were mean to him. He’d also suggested getting him a dog, which they would soon do since Xander had shown a preference for canines.

‘Thanks.’ Morana felt her stomach rumbling at the sight of the food. She picked it up with her right hand, her left feeling numb after the grueling typing she’d been doing throughout the day, and took a huge bite of it. The fresh flavors burst on her tongue, making her groan. ‘This is amazing,’ she mumbled through a full mouth, chewing slowly.

‘You should eat on time. You have medicines to take,’ Of course, Tristan would train his miniature medical disciplinary to monitor her in his absence.

Morana rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, sir. I’ll keep that in mind.’

‘You should also get your left shoulder checked. You haven’t moved it in three hours.’ Xander dropped his observation, his tone without inflection, his eyes on the counter as he picked up the sandwich with both his hands and took a neat bite, chewing slowly. His mouth moved in counts of three, paused, started again, paused, started again, and then he swallowed. Morana knew the patterns, having seen them daily. Patterns made him feel good, and they were used to him now.

Fuck, even she hadn’t given him as much credit. He had noticed. Of course, he had. Ever since she got shot, he had been keeping an eye on her like a hawk. The first time he had initiated a hug had been when she’d come out from the hospital, and he’d put his arms around her waist for exactly thirty-three seconds—he had counted—and told her never to get hurt again. It would be just her luck to be stuck with two quiet men—one grown-up and one miniature—who had difficulty expressing emotions, though for entirely different reasons. Tristan’s issue was more because of nurture; the traumas he had sustained that had made him build a wall around himself so impenetrable he didn’t know how to break it himself. Xander’s was nature, as Dr. Kol had told them. He was born different, and there was absolutely nothing trauma-related about it, thank goodness. It would’ve broken her heart to even think of him going through anything traumatic. That was why maternal instincts inside her didn’t understand how Tristan’s mother could have just left him to be tortured by monsters all his life. Morana would have killed them or died trying if any of them even looked at the boy she thought of as her son now.

‘Are you okay?’ Xander’s question broke through her musings.

She took another bite of the sandwich. ‘Yes, why?’

‘You’re not behaving normally.’

She wondered what her normal behavior was to him. ‘I just have a project I’m working on,’ she told him the easiest truth. ‘It’s time-dependent, so I’m a little distracted.’

‘What’s the project?’ He took another precise bite and chewed in his pattern of threes.

From any other child, the question would have been odd. Not from Xander. He was naturally interested in the digital space, spending time with her as she taught him some stuff. Surprisingly, he already knew a little. When Morana had asked where he’d learned, he’d just shrugged, remaining quiet about his past.

That was the only thing Morana was yet to understand about him to fill all the spaces. His missing past and his resistance to talking about it intensified the itch in her brain.

‘Just tracing a location using a message IP.’ She simplified it.

A little frown burrowed between his brows as he ate. ‘That doesn’t take you so long.’

She chuckled, amazed that he caught that. ‘No, it doesn’t. But this is a little tricky.’

He nodded as if he understood. ‘Don’t worry. You got this.’

Morana was touched by his implacable faith in her abilities. ‘Thanks, little man.’

‘I’ll be taller than you in a few years,’ he pointed out the obvious. He was already tall-ish for his age group, or at least what they estimated his age group was.

‘You’ll always be little man to me,’ she stated. ‘No matter how tall you get.’

He shook his head three times, like she was ridiculous, but she knew he liked it. He liked that she was ridiculous and affectionate with him. They both finished their sandwiches in silence, and then Morana took the plates and picked them up in her right hand, walking around the counter. She went to the sink to rinse them, forgetting that her left arm was numb, and halted, taking a deep breath in as the realization that she couldn’t do something basic as rinsing the plates dawned upon her.

‘I got it.’ Xander butted her away with his hips, his height letting him stand at the sink and wash the plates before popping them in the dishwasher. Morana stood frozen to the side, not knowing what to do, watching the younger boy take over, his observations having made him realize that she couldn’t do it.

‘Thanks,’ she uttered quietly, leaning against the counter, grappling with the new reality. Was this how she was going to live now? One-handed? Not able to do the most basic tasks for more than a few minutes?

She felt a little hand slip into her left, and looked down at Xander, giving her hand a squeeze. ‘Don’t worry,’ he told her for the second time in as many minutes. ‘You got this.’

Morana felt her lips tremble and she pulled him into a hug. He let her, standing there patting her back in threes, counting in his head while she held him. He had become so precious to her, she didn’t know how her life would be like without him anymore if they couldn’t adopt him. She didn’t even want to imagine it.

The sound of the private elevator opening had them pulling away and turning to face the doors.

And he walked out. Once her enemy, now her lover.

Tristan.

And fuck if her heart didn’t pound the way it had back when she’d hated him.

It all had the same effect—the closely cut hair was a little longer than the first time she’d seen him at the Maroni party but still short enough to look sharp, the thick neck with that delicious vein she had licked more times than she could count, the muscular body hidden behind a white shirt and dark pants.

And those eyes. Those magnificent, electric blue eyes that still zapped her the moment they landed on her.

He did a full-body perusal of her like he always did, checking to see if anything had changed in his absence, before doing the same with the boy next to her. And then he walked toward them, and her heart thumped in her ribs like it was the first time, like he was going to press her into the counter and whisper murder across her skin, like they were locked in a bubble with the world pounding on the door outside.

Her ovaries began singing opera every time he was in the vicinity.

‘Why did you not eat the whole day?’ were the first words out of his mouth, in that whiskey and sin voice, effectively bursting her bubble of orgasms through eye contact.

She turned to Xander, her mouth pursing. ‘Traitor. You didn’t have to snitch to him.’

The boy just shrugged and high-fived Tristan before throwing a ‘good night’ at them both and walking to his room.

A hand settled on her neck, bringing her face back to him, blue eyes looking deep into hers. ‘Why didn’t you eat?’

It wouldn’t have been a big deal, but since the shooting, everything she didn’t do to take care of herself was a big deal. The fact that he’d asked her twice meant he was concerned and that he knew her well enough to know she wouldn’t have concerned him without reason.

Fuck.

She had to tell him.

She bit her lower lip, swallowing, turning her eyes down to his collar, where his tie hung.

He had never worn a proper tie before because he had never known how to make a knot. It was something she had learned when they got together. Growing up in the Maroni compound, people had thought that it had just been his way of rebelling, of not abiding by how Lorenzo had wanted the people dressed. He had leaned into the narrative because it had hidden a vulnerability—he was never taught how to knot a simple tie, and he never trusted anyone enough to ask. Though he did begin to trust Dante later, it was too late by then, and he didn’t know how to be emotionally vulnerable and open himself up to anything. Even Morana had had to force him, bit by bit, to allow himself to be with her.

So, when she’d found a pair of pre-knotted ties with hooks in his closet, she had asked him about it. He still didn’t admit anything, but the next morning, she had gone shopping for gorgeous silk ties in different shades of blue that matched the shades in his eyes. The morning after, after he had dressed up for the day, she’d shown him the new collection in his closet and asked him to select one for the day. He’d stood there, taking it all in, and pressed her against the closet wall for a brutal kiss that still made her toes curl just thinking about it.

And then, she had knotted his tie for him.

She had been doing it for almost two years.

Morana looked at the knot in the rich blue silk, her eyes misting because she didn’t want to admit how much harder it had become for her to just tie the fabric. She did it perfectly in the moment, but her shoulder and arm felt it afterward, even the minimal action leaving behind an aftermath of pain.

She touched the silk with her right hand, her mouth trembling because she didn’t want to lose that. It was stupid. It was just a tie. But it was theirs. It was a part of their morning routine, something they both shared in the quiet moments before their world expanded to let all the shit in. But if she couldn’t rinse a fucking plate, for how long could she knot his tie? Would she lose this too?

Summoning strength, she raised her left hand, feeling a sharp pain shoot through her shoulder at the movement. She ignored it, and placed her hand over his wrist, feeling his pulse under her fingers as he felt hers against his palm.

And then she looked back up at him, only to replace him staring intently at her. He knew something wasn’t right, but he was waiting for her to tell him about it. Over the years, the more she had opened up and let herself be, the more talkative she had become with him in their home. She knew this was sending alarms ringing inside him as he waited.

Taking a deep breath in, ignoring the matter of her arm for now and focusing on the more important thing, she spoke.

‘I received a text from the Shadow Man last night.’

He stilled, his fingers flexing around her neck, his eyes darkening. She knew he didn’t like the Shadow Man; he hadn’t since the beginning because the man had been contacting her, and she had been talking to him whenever he did. Tristan was territorial about her, and the idea of a strange man replaceing ways to talk to her and meet her secretly fired up all his synapses, turning him into the caveman she called him. Tristan didn’t like him more because he had been the one to lead them down paths and disclose information they should have found themselves. That was why she knew he wasn’t going to like what she had to tell him.

‘He sent me a folder and asked me to track him.’

Tristan stayed still, waiting, watching, like the predator they called him.

‘I am tracking the message as we speak. But the folder, well, it was titled Fountainhead, which is an odd name I know. But it means the original source of something. I couldn’t open the folder on my phone since it was heavy, so I came down and opened it on my system. It—’

‘What was in the folder?’ His voice cut through her nervous rambling, getting straight to the meat of the matter, and Morana swallowed.

‘Photos. Five photos. One was Zenith.’ She couldn’t help but slightly flinch at the mention of the girl. ‘One was the photo I showed you before, the three of us girls after being taken. And the others. Well.’

Morana didn’t know what to say, so she stepped back. He let his hand drop from her neck but followed her as she moved to her laptop.

The numbers were ticking and the trace was almost complete. She was confident she could get it done in time. Or maybe, the Shadow Man had been confident that the time would be enough for her skills.

Shaking off that thought, she minimized the software and opened the folder she’d saved right at the front. She turned her neck to see him watching her, and with a deep breath, she clicked on the folder.

Tristan crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze now on the screen, waiting for her to show him whatever she had.

She opened the third photograph.

She heard him inhale sharply as the image filled the screen, the younger version of his sister in high definition, much older than his memory of her or the last time he had seen her. This was years after she had disappeared, years after he had become a tortured young boy, wanting to die but not dying because he thought of his sister, alive somewhere. His faith in that belief for over twenty years was the true definition of love. That was the kind of love this man possessed, the kind that believed across time and distance without evidence, with just sheer force of will. Morana didn’t really believe in manifestations, but if she could, this would be all the proof she needed.

She watched his arms flex, his fingers gripping his biceps, as if holding himself together, his eyes moving across the screen feverishly to take in each and every detail, committing it to memory.

Morana let him take all the time he needed, just standing by his side in silence, her heart in her throat watching the man she loved so much finally replace the answer he had been looking for, the answer he had spent his whole life searching but never replaceing until now.

He didn’t wait for her to scroll to the next picture, leaning forward and pressing the side key himself.

The next photo filled the screen. The teenage version of his sister. He did the same thing as with the first. Stared and committed every detail to memory, looking for long minutes at the image, before hitting the side key again.

Morana held her breath, keeping her eye on him. ‘That’s the last photo.’

She watched him closely, unsure how to react to how he would react to this one. It looked intimate to her, but maybe he wouldn’t notice. Maybe, in his emotional state, he wouldn’t suspect what she did. She hoped he didn’t, not at this time. This moment was pure; it was just for him. He deserved this. As Dante had said, they could talk about suspicions and speculations later.

There was nothing on his face for a few seconds, no twitch, no microexpression, nothing she could read, which was saying something because she had become an expert at reading him.

He just stared at the screen, still like a statue, and Morana couldn’t even imagine how his brain was processing things, how his emotions were storming inside his body. She just stayed by his side as he took his fill of the adult version of his sister, his eyes moving over the hair, the face, the being.

There was silence in the penthouse for long, long minutes, before a loud clap of thunder suddenly shook the sky.

Morana glanced out at the windows, seeing a splattering of raindrops assault the glass, the lights of the city twinkling in the distance against the backdrop of the night. It reminded her of the first time they had talked about his sister against those very windows, on a night similar to this. It felt fitting somehow, as though the universe was coming full circle at that moment too.

‘When was this photo taken?’ His roughened voice, fueled by his emotions, brought her eyes back to him.

‘Three weeks ago.’

Her words hit him. She could see that in the slight tremor of his jaw, yet he stood unmoving.

‘It’s her, Tristan,’ she said as softly as possible. ‘She is alive. She is real. She is found.’

Both his arms dropped to his sides at her words. His eyes stared at the screen, unseeing and unfocused, the pupils down to little points, swallowed by the blue. She didn’t know what to do or how to help him process this, so she just stood next to him, hoping for a signal that she could do something.

And then, his hands began to shake.

Morana rushed to hold his hands in hers, ignoring the pain in her shoulder and numbness in her left arm at the sudden movement.

‘Tristan?’

He looked right at the screen, lost deep in his head.

‘Tristan?’

She shook his hand, but it just intensified his trembling.

‘Tristan.’

His lips parted as if to say something, but no words came out.

‘Tristan!’

Tristan finally turned to face her, coming out of his stupor, his jaw clenching, his eyes misted, his hands shaking in her grip.

She held them tighter, hoping it would subside, and when it didn’t, she stepped into him and wrapped her arms around his body, wincing at the stabbing pain in her shoulder but keeping it at bay through sheer stubbornness. It took a split second, but his arms came around her, crushing her to himself, and Morana bit her tongue, swallowing her noise of pain down.

Her physical pain could wait. His emotional pain was more important right then.

He needed to take this from her right then, and that was what she needed to do. She needed to let him take.

And with that thought, she let herself be crushed into his embrace and be what he needed in that moment.