I don’t move. I don’t breathe.
"I want that dinner perfect," he mutters, pouring himself another drink. "Marcello walks in here, I want him feeling like a goddamn king. Understand?"
I nod even though he’s not looking. Because that’s what I do, nod. Obey. Smile when I’m told. Wear the mask.
But inside? Inside, I’m screaming.
The next day…
I dreamed of Sophia last night. Again. Her presence is like a ghost wrapped around me all day. One I can't seem to shake, no matter what I do. She's there in the forefront of my mind.
When I receive a signal that someone has entered my house in the Catskills, it’s just the distraction I need. I tell Yosh to call it a day and swing onto the Ducati. Whoever decided to break into my house has not only no idea who they are dealing with, but they have also picked the wrong time.
By the time I reach the Catskills, the city is behind me. I don't come to this place very often. It’s a secret palace I built for her. Sophia. When she's ready to take her throne.
She doesn't know it exists; no one does. Not even Leo or Mario. It’s tucked deep into the edge of the Hudson Valley, disguised as an old artist’s retreat, wrapped in private LLCs and shell accounts that trace back to dead companies on foreign soil. Because there’s no way in hell I could afford this place on what Stephano pays me.
This estate was built on blackmail, silence, and secrets sold by the gigabyte.
Blood money. Guilt money. Power money.Mymoney. Money I've earned withmycompany.
The long drive curves through a corridor of maples and oaks so thick they silence the world. Just how I like it. I leave the Ducati cooling in the lower garage, beside the backup SUV and the generator hatch that powers the entire grid if the world ever goes dark—one can never be prepared enough.
Stone steps lead to the main house, a modern fortress disguised as a retreat. Glass walls look out over a private lake, and a wraparound terrace faces the sunrise. Inside, the floors are a light gray oak. The linens are imported. The kitchen is unused, but I keep it stocked with everything necessary to fix a gourmet meal or just a plain dinner.
There’s a piano room with a white Steinway. A music box in the shape of a lioness on her vanity. A closet filled with dresses she hasn’t worn yet.
And beneath it all?
A subterranean command room, synced to Omertà Infernale’s server's heart, silent as a tomb, except for the whisper of the servers. Everything is as it should be. Yet, my alarm went off; somebody is here. I feel it. A shift in the air pressure. A whisper where silence should reign. A breath, so soft it could’ve been imagined, if I didn’t know better.
My hand reaches for my Glock before the thought fully forms, and I raise it just as the chair by the main terminal begins to turn. The man seated in it spins it slowly and deliberately, like we’re playing out a scene in a slasher movie. He’s nothing and everything at once. Bald. Wiry. Eyes like frozen steel with the kind of face you’d forget unless it were the last one you ever saw.
Calm. Patient. Unbothered by the gun pointed at his skull.
"Raffael DeSantis," he says smoothly, with the faintest accent, Eastern European if I had to guess, though it's deeply buried under layers of polish. "I have to say… this ismuchnicer than your storefront."
I don’t lower the gun.
He smiles faintly, like he’s disappointed by my lack of manners. "You can shoot me if you’d like. Wouldn’t be the first time someone tried. But I’d suggest hearing me out before you repaint this lovely floor with my brain."
I step closer, still aiming. "Name. Now."
"Igor Pavlov," he replies. "Though most people who use that name tend to disappear shortly after."
A pause. Then, with a wry curl of his mouth, "But if we’re being theatrical, most people have heard of me as Ledyanoy Prizrak. I'm sure you’ve heard the myth."
My finger tightens. The name, Icy Ghost, cuts clean through my mind as I recall whispers and rumors of cold kills. Missing bodies in locked rooms. I would have to be a civilian to have never heard that name before. My curiosity is piqued enough not to pull the trigger. A killer like him has no business with a man like me. Ledyanoy Prizrak kills high-profile targets, politicians, kings, and billion-dollar targets. I doubt anybody has put a bounty like that on my head.
He leans forward slightly, elbows on knees. Relaxed. Like we’re two old friends getting together for a drink. "Your alarm system is lacking," he says. "Your encryption’s impressive. Your perimeter? Less so. I had no problems letting myself in through your ventilation shaft."
My eyes flick toward the sealed wall vents. No way. "Impossible."
He shrugs nonchalantly, "Not for me."
The bastard smiles again. I should shoot him. I might still. But something in the way he’s watching me—not with fear, not with arrogance, but with interest—makes me hesitate. Inflames me.
He's here for a reason. People like him don’t waste time.
