LUCIAN CASTELLAN

  The silence before dawn had always been his favorite time of day. Before the staff stirred, before the calls started flooding in, before the day began its endless parade of decisions and power plays—this was his domain. The air was still cool, kissed by the lingering Sicilian night, and his estate sat cloaked in shadows that the sun had not yet dared to chase away.

  Lucian moved through the hallways of his estate barefoot, the marble cool beneath his feet, his mind already awake and calculating. His body didn't need time to catch up—it had been conditioned long ago to obey the discipline of early mornings. No sluggishness, no groaning, no dragging of feet. Just control. Always control.

  The doors to his private gym whispered open at his approach, revealing a sleek space filled with reinforced steel, high-end equipment, and a wall of floor-to-ceiling mirrors that reflected every taut line of his frame. The gym, like the rest of his estate, was built for performance—not vanity. There was no clutter, no distractions. Only precision.

  He started with weights. Chest press. Curls. Deadlifts. His muscles responded like a machine—a powerful engine that had never known a single failure. Each repetition brought the familiar strain and burn, the comforting reminder that his body was just as sharp as his mind. That it could carry the weight of empires and not buckle under the pressure.

  He wasn't a man who needed distractions. He wasn't looking for clarity. He worked out for one reason: control. Discipline. Domination. The iron responded to his hands the way the world responded to his command—with resistance, at first, then eventual submission.

  He moved to the punching bag next. Each blow landed with increasing force, the heavy bag jerking on its chain, rebounding only to be met with another punishing strike. His knuckles were wrapped, but he felt the ache all the same. It was good pain. Useful pain. Pain that served as a reminder.

  It had been days since he last heard from Enzo. Days since that bastard disappeared like a puff of smoke. Lucian didn't believe in coincidences. Not in his world. If Enzo was silent, it wasn't because of incompetence—it was because something had gone wrong. Or someone had made sure he wouldn't talk. Either way, the absence gnawed at him.

  And Ghost...

  He took another swing at the bag, jaw clenched.

  It had been days since he'd told Xander to stop digging. Not because he was giving up—never that. But because endless loops of the same dead ends were beginning to bore him. Ghost left nothing behind. No trace. No pattern. No signature. And that kind of clean work... that wasn't just rare. It was almost impossible.

  Almost.

  Lucian wasn't the kind of man to be outmaneuvered. He wasn't someone who tolerated the idea of losing control. Yet here he was—days without leads, no new threads to pull, no blood in the water.

  It should've pissed him off more than it did.

  But the truth was—it excited him. The way a predator is stirred not just by the hunt, but by the knowledge that the prey is fast. Smart. Worthy.

  His fists slammed into the bag again.

  Ghost was the first opponent in a long time who hadn't made it easy. No blunders. No arrogance. Just precision. Silence. Skill.

  It was irritating. And exhilarating.

  Because if the prey was this elusive... catching it would taste even better.

  Lucian exhaled slowly and stepped back from the bag, chest heaving, sweat trickling down his spine. He unwrapped his hands and headed toward the bathroom attached to his gym. The steam was already rising by the time he reached the shower—hot, dense, cleansing.

  He stood beneath the torrent of water, eyes closed, head bowed, letting the heat work into his muscles. The ache in his shoulders loosened. The tightness in his neck began to melt. But his mind? That stayed sharp. He let the thoughts swirl as the water hit his skin—Enzo's silence, Xander's report, the lack of progress.

  The last time someone tried to play chess with him in the dark, they didn't live to see the endgame.

  But Ghost was different.

  Who the fuck are you?

  He stepped out of the shower and wiped the condensation off the mirror. His reflection stared back—stoic, composed, unshaken. His jaw was freshly shaven, his dark hair slicked back, drops of water trailing down a body honed by years of discipline.

  Power didn't need to roar. It could be quiet. Collected. Just like he was now.

  He dressed without rush. Black slacks. A tailored white shirt. No tie today—he wasn't in the mood to pretend civility. The charcoal jacket was draped over his arm as he walked down to the breakfast lounge, where the morning spread had already been laid out by his private chef.

  Organic eggs, lightly seasoned. Sliced avocado. A bowl of ripe, Sicilian figs and blackberries. Greek yogurt. And a tall glass of cold-pressed juice, green and pungent, exactly the way he liked it.

  He sat alone at the table, sunlight now bleeding in through the glass doors, illuminating the edges of the stone floor. His fork scraped the plate softly as he ate, but his thoughts remained elsewhere.

  There were very few people who had ever escaped his radar. Even fewer who'd done so without leaving a trace of where to start looking. Ghost was either a digital ghost of godlike precision, or—

  —or someone closer than he realized.

  The idea had come to him last night, uninvited, but he hadn't shaken it. What if Ghost wasn't working alone? What if Ghost was a name... not a person? Or worse, what if Ghost was embedded in the very systems he relied on?

  He set his fork down, eyes narrowing.

  There was no proof. No trail. No mistakes.

  And yet... that was the very clue, wasn't it?

  Lucian leaned back in his chair, watching the pool of sunlight slide across the table. He hated not knowing. But more than that, he loved the chase. The way it twisted through him, sharp and primal.

  Ghost might've won the first round.

  But he'd never lost a war.

  Not once.

  The drive to the office was silent, the city moving around him like a background blur he no longer paid attention to. He was already on a call with Elena, his secretary, who—as always—was precise, efficient, and a step ahead.

  "Sir, your first meeting is at ten with the Zurich rep. The conference with the Tokyo board was moved up to one-thirty. Lunch has been arranged in between, and your four o'clock with finance is still on schedule," she informed him calmly through the speaker.

  "Cancel the finance meeting," Lucian said, adjusting his cuffs as he gazed out the tinted window. "Replace it with an internal briefing from Milan's warehouse. No excuses."

  "Understood. Anything else, sir?"

  "I want the Zurich file waiting on my desk when I walk in."

  "It'll be there."

  Elena wasn't just a secretary—she was embedded in his organization. Trusted. Sharp. She knew things most didn't. Knew about the incumbents, knew when to speak and when to remain silent. That level of access wasn't handed out carelessly. Lucian kept his circle short. Always had. Elena belonged in it for one reason—she had earned it without ever overreaching.

  When the car pulled up to the Castellan Tower, the reactions were immediate and familiar. Everyone outside the building moved with a touch more urgency. Inside the lobby, the staff's postures shifted; backs straightened, conversations stopped mid-sentence, and eyes discreetly followed his steps. Fear wasn't required. Presence was enough.

  Lucian ignored it all.

  He headed directly for the private elevator, the only one that led to the thirtieth floor—his floor. No stops. No interruptions. The moment the elevator doors slid shut, he loosened the tension in his neck with a slow, controlled roll of his shoulders.

  The doors opened to his hallway. Quiet. Minimalist. Dominated by sleek black stone and framed art that held meaning only to him. Elena stood behind her desk, already rising as he stepped out.

  "Good morning, sir," she greeted, voice crisp.

  "Black coffee," he replied, without slowing. "No sugar. No milk."

  She nodded. "It'll be ready when you sit."

  His office was immaculate, as always. The large glass windows poured light across dark marble floors and steel furnishings. Every object had its place. Order reflected power, and Lucian didn't believe in disorder—not in his space, not in his empire.

  He removed his jacket and draped it neatly over the back of his chair. Within moments, his coffee was placed before him. He didn't thank her. She didn't expect him to.

  The day began as it always did—files opened, data reviewed, decisions made swiftly and without hesitation. Then the meetings began. One after another. Strategy sessions, asset reviews, overseas calls. Two hours passed, and still his mind wasn't fully present.

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  Because in the back of it, something gnawed.

  It had been days since he'd last heard from Enzo. Days since he told Xander to stop digging for the ghost. They had scoured everything—databases, access logs, physical and digital—but came up with nothing. That was the part that burned the most. Not failure. Not loss.

  Nothing.

  Ghost had vanished without leaving a trace, and while it frustrated Lucian more than he'd admit, there was a darker part of him that thrived on the tension. The mystery. He liked the game. Liked the chase. There was something exhilarating about pursuing a shadow—something that made his blood stir the way few things did these days.

  The predator in him had been restless ever since the breach. Ghost was a threat, yes. But more than that—Ghost was a challenge. A worthy one.

  Then the call came.

  His phone lit up. Enzo.

  Lucian answered immediately, still scanning the document in front of him with a calculated eye.

  "I have the five names," Enzo said. "The ones you asked for."

  Lucian leaned back, attention sharpening. "Send them to me."

  "No," Enzo replied without hesitation. "This can't go through mail. Not even encrypted. If Ghost has been inside once, they might still be watching. This doesn't leave paper. In person. That's the only way."

  Lucian didn't argue. He understood caution better than most. "Where?"

  "Your estate. Six p.m."

  "Done."

  He ended the call without another word, then buzzed Elena.

  "Clear my evening. Everything after five."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Inform Rafael. I want him at the estate by six. And notify the incumbents. Full meeting. No one misses it."

  Elena didn't ask why. She didn't need to. She knew who the incumbents were—Xander, Arlo, Dante. She knew that when Lucian called a full meeting, something significant was about to shift. Her role in the organization demanded that knowledge, and her loyalty had never once faltered.

  "Consider it done," she replied.

  Lucian stood from his chair and moved toward the window, coffee cup still in hand. The city stretched endlessly before him, its noise muffled by glass and altitude. Somewhere out there, Ghost was hiding. Observing. Thinking they still had the upper hand.

  He exhaled, slow and deep.

  No one stays invisible forever.

  The game had changed. Tonight, it would begin again—with names, with suspicion, with clarity. Lucian could already feel the pulse in his veins pick up speed.

  And when the predator finally locked eyes with the ghost...

  ___________

  Lucian Castellan stepped into the grand foyer of his estate, the polished marble echoing beneath his soles. He loosened the collar of his dress shirt, a subtle transition from the sharp precision of his daytime attire to a more relaxed formality—dark slacks, a tailored black button-down left slightly unfastened at the top, and his signature watch glinting beneath the soft lighting.

  He climbed the staircase and moved through the corridor to his bedroom, shedding the tension of the day with a quick shower. The steam helped, but only so much. His mind remained in motion, always a few steps ahead. He didn't have the luxury of stillness, not in this life. Not with a ghost haunting his digital shadows.

  By the time the grandfather clock in the hallway chimed 5:40 p.m., Lucian was in his home office, glass of single malt in hand. The space, masculine and meticulously ordered, reflected his essence. Leather-bound volumes lined the shelves, a decanter tray glinted beside him, and five identical tumblers sat on the dark oak table, awaiting their recipients.

  At exactly 5:55, the heavy front door clicked open. He didn't need to ask who it was—punctuality was a silent rule in his circle.

  Rafael entered first, always dressed like he might be heading into either a boardroom or a battlefield—sharp suit, keen eyes. Behind him came the three men who had become his trusted circle: Xander, Dante, and Arlo. Elena followed a step behind, quiet but present. She was one of the few women Lucian allowed into the core of his organization. She didn't need an invitation to know where she stood. Her loyalty was proven, and she understood the importance of keeping the circle tight. Incumbents knew her well—and respected her even more.

  Pleasantries were exchanged with a cold, understated kind of camaraderie. They took their glasses, settling around the room in a casual cluster. Light conversations flowed—a comment about a deal Arlo had closed in Prague, a passing mention of a politician Dante had coerced with a mere nod. Lucian let it roll for a few minutes, sipping his single malt, his expression unreadable.

  Then the air shifted.

  He placed his glass down with a soft, decisive click against the wood.

  "Enzo," Lucian said, voice low and direct. "You have the names?"

  Enzo gave a curt nod. "Five of them," he confirmed. "I had to verify and reverify. Couldn't risk sending it electronically."

  He pulled a thin leather folder from his coat and handed it over. Lucian opened it with deliberate precision, eyes scanning the contents in silence. The others leaned in, reading from a slight angle.

  "The first," Enzo began, "is TemporaTech, a clean name but with backdoor links to confidential robotics patents—military-grade. The second, Klayton & Sedge, poses as an architecture firm, but three of their firewalls are coded in defensive algorithms classified in EU cyber warfare. Third—Black Veil. Freelance, underground, known only through myth. Four—AshenCrow. They've supplied scripts to two confirmed financial data breaches in the last year. And the fifth..." He paused for effect, though he didn't need to.

  "CipherWorks."

  The room fell silent, not out of confusion—but out of recognition.

  Lucian's gaze snapped up. The name wasn't foreign. It had whispered through encrypted circles and passed in veiled mentions behind digital curtains. A company shrouded in prestige, precision, and the kind of elegance that made even the most dangerous organizations tread carefully.

  "They are... different," Enzo continued, measuring each word. "On the surface, they're everything an elite cybersecurity firm should be—streamlined, respectable, revered. Their reputation in the tech world? Untouched. No controversies. No scandals. Just spotless records and a reputation built on discretion. Governments consult them. Conglomerates trust them. And yet—no one really knows who sits at the top."

  Arlo frowned. "Sounds too clean."

  "That's what's terrifying," Enzo said. "It's surgical. Whoever's running it... they don't just erase footprints—they never leave them. The fa?ade is elegance, but beneath that? Something far more dangerous."

  Lucian leaned forward, eyes narrowing with lethal interest. "And yet here they are. On our list."

  "They shouldn't be," Enzo replied. "They never are. Which is why this..." He tapped the folder. "...is not just a lead. It's a crack in a fortress no one's ever breached."

  That was when Xander finally spoke.

  "I saw them," he said. "At the awards."

  Lucian's eyes cut to him.

  "One of their executives was there. No press. No introduction. She arrived late, alone. Black dress, subtle diamond accents. Red gloss. Poised like she was walking through a kingdom that already belonged to her."

  "And no one knew who she was?" Lucian asked.

  "Not by name. But the presence—undeniable. She didn't network. Didn't linger. Vincent Morelli recognized her. He looked like he'd seen death in a silk dress. Said CipherWorks ruined him after a single meeting. But it wasn't what she did that shook him..."

  Xander's voice lowered.

  "It was how unreachable she was. He tried to dig. Found nothing. No bio. No scandal. No digital trace. Just clean, brilliant silence. Like she existed only where she wanted to."

  Lucian's glass paused near his lips.

  A ghost... cloaked in elegance, untouched by the world's filth, yet orbiting its core.

  Regal. Elusive. Untouchable.

  A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

  "CipherWorks," he echoed. "Finally... a worthy adversary."

  But admiration was fleeting—there were no real kings without a thirst for dominance. And I never bowed. Not to crowns. Not to brilliance. Not to beauty.

  I leaned forward, steepling my fingers. "Xander. Show me the video of the Executive Director. The full footage. Entrance. Speech. Exit."

  He gave a tight nod, already pulling his laptop forward and tapping out lines of code like a priest reciting verses. The room around us dimmed. Anticipation was a living thing in the air, thick and pulsing. I lifted my glass, took a measured sip of the single malt. Smoke and oak swirled on my tongue. My pulse remained calm. My breathing, steady.

  Until she appeared.

  The screen came alive with the soft hum of the award ceremony's opening footage, but my gaze wasn't on the room. No. I was waiting for her.

  Then—there she was.

  A vision cloaked in black, gliding down the carpet like sin woven into silk.

  My grip on the glass tightened, knuckles straining. The camera wasn't nearly enough to contain her presence. It strained to capture her—black dress hugging every inch of her like a secret it couldn't keep. My eyes narrowed on the subtle shimmer of diamonds kissing her skin, the impossibly high heels clicking with precision, not vanity.

  Power. Poise. Control.

  That mouth—fuck. That mouth was a sin I would commit a thousand times over. Plush. Slightly parted as she moved through the crowd, nodding graciously, eyes hidden behind a calm veil that told me nothing and yet made me want everything.

  Then she turned.

  And the jiggle of her ass—perfectly timed with her strut, smug, effortless. The kind of sway that didn't ask for attention; it demanded it. She didn't need to look back to know every eye in the room followed her.

  Mine did.

  Over and over again.

  I rewound the footage, silently. Watched it again. Slower. Paused at the exact moment her honey-glazed eyes scanned the room.

  Glazed.

  High.

  My gaze narrowed further. No redness, no fatigue. Just the faintest dilation and a lull in her blink rate. I knew the signs—I've seen every shade of intoxication and indulgence.

  What are you on, little queen? my subconscious purred. What makes your kingdom slow down enough for you to still conquer it?

  She reached the podium. My blood surged.

  Her voice hit like velvet over steel—measured, precise, detached. Not a single hesitation. No fluff. Every word she spoke was carved with intent. She didn't stutter. She didn't pause. She commanded.

  And let's be clear—nothing about her screamed assistant or representative. No. She didn't represent CipherWorks. She was CipherWorks.

  That speech? It was the final tell. Too polished. Too calculated. It was a mask—an elegant one, but a mask nonetheless.

  She wanted them to see restraint. I saw control. I saw a woman built for power who knew exactly how to hide it.

  But she couldn't hide it from me.

  She never begged the room for attention. It offered itself willingly.

  And when she smiled...

  My cock twitched.

  There was a hint of mischief in that curve—like she knew exactly how to turn a room inside out and still leave with its spine intact. My gaze was locked to the screen, absorbing her movements, the cadence of her voice, the subtext hidden in her eyes.

  I'd never been affected this way.

  Not by looks. Not by poise. Not even by brilliance.

  But she was all three—packaged into a storm disguised as elegance.

  "Play it again," I muttered, my voice lower now.

  Xander glanced at me, but didn't question. He tapped the keys.

  The footage rolled again.

  This time, I leaned back slowly, letting my eyes burn every movement into memory. The way she moved her fingers when she spoke. The subtle weight shift in her stance. The pause before her final statement—calculated, deliberate.

  Fuck. She was feeding them just enough to look generous... but not enough to be touched.

  Unreachable. Untouchable.

  Mine.

  The word hit like a bullet I hadn't meant to fire.

  I stood, needing the distance but knowing it was useless. She wasn't in the room—but she was everywhere in it.

  "She's making me lose control," I hissed under my breath. "From the fucking screen."

  I turned slowly, setting the glass down.

  No woman had ever aroused such a primal need to possess. To conquer.

  To own.

  She was going to be mine—every fucking inch of her. That mouth, those hips, that voice.

  But above all, that mind.

  The cherry on this wicked cake was her brain.

  She outpaced analysts. Skated circles around security protocols. Built an empire that left no fingerprints.

  No cracks.

  But every fortress had a weakness.

  And I'd find hers.

  The plan was already writing itself inside my head. I'd draw her out. Force her to surface. Get beneath her skin, into her world, her habits, her breath.

  She wouldn't see it coming.

  The queen had made her move.

  Now it was the king's turn.

  I turned to Elena. "Schedule a meeting. Tell them we need their assistance to resolve a cybersecurity problem—immediately."

  She gave a sharp nod, fingers already flying over her tablet.

  "Be efficient," I added coolly. "I expect the meeting tomorrow. No delays."

  Elena didn't ask questions. She knew better. CipherWorks wasn't just a name anymore. They had a face now. A voice. And both were living rent-free in my head.

  I was baiting her.

  Dangling a problem I didn't need solved— But who better to fix it... than the one who broke in?

  She won't know I know. Not for sure. But suspicion is a hell of a drug.

  She'll bite. Not if—when.

  Her kind never resists the urge to dance in the fire they lit.

  The moment the others left and the door clicked shut, I poured the last of the single malt and leaned back against the edge of my desk.

  The fire she lit in me hadn't dimmed.

  It was madness—to be this fixated on someone I hadn't touched, hadn't spoken to, hadn't even met. But obsession wasn't born from logic. It was born from instinct. From hunger.

  I sipped once, savoring the taste.

  "I'll be the one attending the meeting," I had told them earlier. "Alone. I'll alert you if your presence becomes necessary."

  But they knew me well enough to read between the lines.

  This wasn't business anymore.

  It was a hunt. A chase. A game between two predators circling the same terrain. The difference? Only one of us knew we were playing.

  I glanced at the clock.

  "Mia," I whispered to the silence. Mine.

  She didn't know it yet. But I was counting down the hours.

  And she had no idea what was about to hit her.