LUCIAN CASTELLAN

  Two weeks.

  Fourteen fucking days since I last saw her.

  The itch was getting unbearable. Like fire underneath my skin, crawling through every vein, every nerve ending. I'd buried myself in work, in blood, in orders. None of it touched the need. Not even close.

  Tonight was no different.

  I was seated behind my desk, the weight of the Beretta heavy in my hand. In front of me, a man knelt—sweating through his suit, lip trembling like a child caught stealing candy, except this wasn't candy. This was my fucking empire.

  Carlos Vega. Manager of my Las Vegas strip casino. On paper, sharp. Profitable. Punctual.

  But I know rot when I smell it. And Carlos reeked.

  "I gave you a piece of the kingdom," I said, voice calm, unhurried. "And what did you do?"

  He shook his head too quickly. "Boss, I swear—I don't know what you're talking about—"

  Wrong answer.

  I flicked the safety off with a slow click, watching the panic bloom in his eyes.

  "Try again."

  He choked, blinking rapidly. "Please, Lucian—I didn't mean—okay, I took a cut, just a small one. Just a few shipments. It was a side deal, nothing big. I didn't think it would—"

  "You didn't think." I stood, every inch of me still and silent. "You moved product in and out of my casinos. You skimmed from my profits. You sold to my fucking clients."

  Carlos dropped fully to the floor, hands clasped. "It won't happen again. I'll return everything. I'll work for free, just—just give me another chance."

  Another chance.

  Of course that's what he'd ask for.

  I took a sip of my single malt, the peat sharp on my tongue, and then I looked down at him—this pathetic fucking excuse of a man who thought he could outplay me.

  "Oh, Carlos," I murmured, raising the gun. "Of course it won't happen again."

  The bullet sliced the air before he could register what I meant.

  One clean shot between the eyes. He dropped like a ragdoll, blood spilling fast, staining the expensive rug.

  "Clean it up," I said to the soldier by the door, who was already stepping forward with practiced ease.

  I sat back down and refilled my glass. The warmth settled in my throat, but it didn't cut the edge. Nothing did. Not anymore.

  My phone buzzed.

  One vibration. Discreet. Expected.

  Shade.

  I tapped the screen, and there she was—today's update. No unnecessary commentary. Just clean, silent footage.

  Ghost.

  "Mia".

  She was in her kitchen again. Her little sanctuary. The place where she thought no one could see her.

  She had no idea.

  I leaned back, my grip tightening around the glass. Single malt forgotten.

  She was barefoot, of course. Always barefoot in the kitchen. Something about her needed to feel the ground—needed to touch reality with her skin. That amused me.

  On her, even grounding was a kind of ritual.

  She wore a navy-blue dress today. Small. Short. Stopped just under her ass like a fucking invitation.

  Her back was to the camera, but the angle caught her reflection in the dark-glass cabinets. She was bopping her head to music—something with rhythm, something playful. She stirred a pan on the stove with one hand and tapped the counter with the other, absent-mindedly dancing in place.

  It was like watching a private film no one else was supposed to see. Unfiltered. Unmasked.

  She didn't know I was watching.

  And that was all that mattered.

  The image was soft. Domestic. Innocent, almost. If you didn't know her.

  But I did.

  I knew what those hands could do on a keyboard. What her mind could dismantle. She wasn't just a hacker—she was a weapon. A walking paradox. Fire and silk.

  And I wanted her.

  Not for an hour. Not for a night.

  Completely.

  Obsessively.

  I watched her tuck her hair behind her ear. Waist-length waves of black, untamed, falling like a storm down her back. She had no idea how goddamn beautiful she looked like this—natural, at peace, unaware.

  Her mouth moved—she was singing. Off-key, probably. Didn't matter.

  She swayed again, hips shifting with every note. The way that dress clung to her curves made my jaw clench.

  My mind started to spiral. I imagined walking up behind her, one hand sliding up that bare thigh while the other closed over her mouth. The startled sound she'd make. Her body pressed against the counter as I held her still, whispering filth in her ear while she gasped.

  She'd struggle. Pretend she didn't want it.

  She'd lie.

  But her body would betray her.

  Because I could already see how she'd melt under me. See how easily that sharp mouth would fall open for my tongue, for my cock, for my name.

  Lucian, she'd breathe.

  Desperate.

  Breathless.

  Ruined.

  I shifted in my seat, jaw tight. My pulse pounded behind my eyes.

  I wasn't just aroused.

  I was possessed.

  That little dress, those bare legs, the way she cooked like it was foreplay—I wanted to peel her apart like code. Line by line. Until there was nothing left but raw skin and obedience.

  She didn't know she was mine yet.

  But she would.

  Soon.

  The more I watched, the worse it got.

  I knew her routines now. I'd memorized them. Morning coffee. Music while she cooked. Late-night hacking. She smoked when she was anxious or needed to unwind. Baked brownies when she was restless. She danced when she thought she was alone.

  She had a habit of biting her lips when she was deep in thought. I caught her doing it three days ago. The image still lived in my head.

  These weren't just habits.

  They were keys.

  And I was building the fucking map.

  The only mystery was how she still thought she was invisible. How a woman that bright, that powerful, hadn't sensed me circling.

  But maybe that's what excited me most.

  The fact that she didn't know she was being hunted.

  That every step she took was already being traced. Every laugh, every meal, every breath—cataloged. Studied. Filed.

  I wasn't just watching her.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  I was learning her.

  Her code. Her rhythm. Her instincts.

  And the more I learned, the more addicted I became. The deeper the obsession rooted.

  She was my drug. My fix. The ghost I couldn't exorcise.

  I watched her taste the food with her fingers—lick the sauce from her thumb. It was almost fucking erotic.

  And she didn't even realize.

  Didn't realize the way she moved could bring a man to his knees.

  She turned then, facing the camera briefly. Not directly—but enough.

  Those honey-glazed eyes, a little red around the edges.

  She'd smoked.

  Again.

  Didn't even care to hide it. That should've annoyed me. But instead, it made me want her more.

  There was something about her vices—so reckless, so unapologetic—that lit a fire in my blood.

  Everything about her was a contradiction.

  Soft and lethal.

  Relaxed and alert.

  High and calculating.

  And it made me want to destroy her in the most exquisite way possible.

  Not break her.

  Not really.

  My fingers drummed against the mahogany desk, the weight of silence wrapped around me like a shroud. The room smelled of aged leather, gun oil, and power. The files spread out before me were standard—money laundering audits, supplier delays, bribes. Nothing unusual. Nothing to distract me from the pull gnawing at my chest.

  Then my phone buzzed.

  Rafael.

  I picked up, voice sharp. "Talk."

  "We've got a problem," he said, tone as clipped as mine. "One of our shipments was intercepted. Hundred kilos of uncut coke, weapons, and two crates of premium cannabis. Gone."

  A slow heat unfurled in my veins. "Who was stupid enough to steal from me?"

  "Jewish gang. Small, new. Trying to make a name."

  My jaw clenched. "Where?"

  "Chicago. We tracked the movement. They've set up camp on the South Side, backed by a few ex-IDF mercs."

  I stood, already moving. "Get Arlo. Tell him to prepare the men. Fifteen minimum. Xander—I want live feeds. Every angle of that camp. I don't go in blind."

  "We already have ground in Chicago," Rafael added. "Arlo's men are stationed, waiting for orders."

  "Good," I growled. "We leave in five hours..

  "Yes, boss."

  The call ended. I stared out the window, knuckles taut.

  Time to remind the world why I'm king.

  .

  .

  .

  After a sixteen-hour flight, the jet touched down on the outskirts of Chicago just before dawn. The air was crisp, sharp with the scent of cold steel and smoke—the kind of morning that whispered death if you listened close enough.

  We'd spent the flight planning every step. Every kill. Every turn. We weren't just coming to retrieve what was ours. We were here to erase a name. The Jewish gang wanted to play empire, wanted to rise off my reputation by stealing from me. That was a mistake they'd die for.

  Xander's live feeds streamed directly into the jet's secure system, showing every corner of the camp. It wasn't a bunker, just a two-story safehouse with perimeter guards and lookouts who thought flashlights and arrogance were enough.

  They weren't.

  Arlo signaled the team. The moment we landed, we slipped into black—the clothes, the silence, the intent. Ten soldiers from Sicily joined our men already stationed here. Ghosts with silencers, shadows with sharp eyes. No wasted movement.

  We moved like death through fog.

  The first bullet cracked into a sentry's skull before he could blink. His body dropped with the sound of wet meat. Then another. One by one, their lookouts disappeared from the live feed. No alarms. No mess.

  I led the breach myself.

  The front door blew in with a soft thud. Inside, chaos erupted in muffled shouts and stifled gunfire. Arlo took point, clearing the main hallway with brutal efficiency. I swept the right flank, taking out two with a clean pair of headshots. Blood sprayed across the wall like dark paint. Beautiful in its own violent way.

  Xander directed us from the van, pinpointing remaining heat signatures. The bastards had stash rooms, panic rooms, all rigged up like they were ready for war.

  They weren't ready for me.

  Room by room, we swept through. No children—good. That would've complicated things. No mercy needed tonight. Anyone who stood wore the mark of betrayal. And I carved it out of them with bullets.

  One tried to plead. Said he didn't know whose product it was.

  "I know," I told him—and put a bullet in his temple.

  By the time we reached the basement, the crates were untouched. My cocaine. My weapons. My cannabis. Still sealed, still stamped.

  We recovered every last box.

  No losses. No injuries.

  Clean.

  Just like it should be.

  I didn't say a word as we loaded the last crate into the van. My men knew the rules—no chatter, no fucking glory speeches. You walk in a ghost, you walk out the same. We disappeared just as the sun broke over the skyline, painting blood-red streaks across the sky.

  It felt appropriate.

  We returned to the jet in silence, boots damp with blood and satisfaction. There was no need to linger. We'd made our point.

  You don't steal from Lucian Castellan and live.

  ____________

  By the time the jet touched down at the private hangar in Sicily, the sun had long since drowned beneath the horizon, casting the estate in a sheen of cold obsidian. The hum of the engines quieted to a low purr as the ramp extended. Lucian descended first, trench coat brushing his calves, shirt still smeared with faint blood splatter. Not his. Never his.

  He didn't speak to anyone as he entered the waiting convoy. There was nothing left to say.

  The operation in Chicago had been brutal and exact. As planned.

  Sixteen hours in the air gave them time to refine what they already knew: where the Jewish gang was holed up, how many exits the warehouse had, the weak points in their perimeter. Xander's live feed had offered them a bird's eye view of their routines. Lazy guards. Sloppy defense. Overconfidence. And that—above all—was fatal.

  They struck just after midnight in Chicago, sliding through the shadows like death's own hounds. Silenced weapons, precision movement, Arlo's men on the ground carving a path from inside while Lucian and the Sicilian unit breached the main entrance.

  Lucian never used a gun if a blade would suffice.

  They left no one alive.

  Clean in. Clean out.

  They'd retrieved every crate—cocaine, cannabis, weapons—untouched and intact. No losses. No injuries. Just blood soaking into American soil and a name now spoken in whispers with renewed fear.

  Lucian Castellan.

  Now back on Sicilian soil, Lucian's jaw was tight as he stared out the window of the armored vehicle. His estate rose from the cliffs like a dark cathedral, drenched in moonlight and the hush of the sea below. The gates opened without question. The guards didn't meet his eyes. They never did when he returned like this—blood on his hands, silence in his mouth, violence still humming beneath his skin.

  He went straight to his room.

  Stripped off his clothes, stepped under the hot spray of the shower, and watched red swirl down the drain. Not from injury. From execution.

  The pressure worked knots from his muscles, but not from his mind. He stayed under the water for ten minutes. Maybe longer. He didn't care. The only thing that managed to break through the fog was the image of her.

  Honey-glazed eyes. Bare feet brushing kitchen tiles. That curve of her lips when she tasted something she liked. He had watched her—again—right before departure. The footage Shade sent had showed her in one of those barely-there silk nightgowns, singing to herself while smoking and cooking something that made her dance. He didn't even know the song, but the sway of her hips was still burned into the backs of his eyelids.

  Fuck.

  Lucian turned off the water with a growl and stepped out, drying off with mechanical precision. He dressed in black joggers and a cashmere tee, descended to the dining hall, and found a hot plate already waiting.

  Steak. Mashed potatoes. A bowl of berries. Water—no scotch tonight.

  He ate in silence, only the clinking of cutlery punctuating the quiet. Arlo had checked in. No loose ends. Xander had already begun running digital interference in case any U.S. agency got curious about the massacre. Rafael was overseeing the repackaging and redistribution of the recovered goods.

  Lucian's empire ran like clockwork. Because he didn't tolerate failure. Or theft.

  He returned to his room and fell into bed just after three. Exhaustion was clawing at the edges of his vision, but still, it wasn't sleep that found him first.

  It was her.

  Again.

  That look she gave the camera at the awards. Like she saw everything and gave nothing. The dress clinging to her hips. The way her voice had sounded in the footage when she'd thanked no one in particular, like gratitude was beneath her.

  He was used to being wanted. Feared. Obeyed.

  But she hadn't even known he was watching, and that made it worse. It wasn't control he craved with her.

  It was the chaos.

  And that? That was a problem.

  The next morning broke clear and cool. Sicily was still quiet. No alarms. No gunfire. No blood on the floor.

  Lucian rose just before seven.

  Workout. Fifty pushups. Fifty squats. Ten minutes of boxing with the bag in his private gym. The aggression still lingered, but the movement bled it into discipline.

  He showered again—cold this time.

  Dressed in a charcoal gray suit, crisp white shirt, and a matte black tie. Rolex. Cufflinks. Every inch of him polished, lethal elegance wrapped in human skin.

  Breakfast was simple. Protein sandwich. Green smoothie.

  He didn't linger.

  His driver was waiting. As the car sped toward his headquarters, he leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes for a moment.

  The NDA.

  He hadn't forgotten it. He was simply waiting.

  Letting her believe he had.

  But she'd know better the second it landed in her hands.

  He'd studied her—CipherWorks Executive Director, golden ghost in a world of firewalls and code. Hacker. Chef. Addict, maybe. He didn't care. She was his obsession now, whether she knew it or not.

  And the NDA? It would ensure she came to him.

  No lawyers. No representatives. No intermediaries.

  Her.

  Alone.

  Three times a week.

  Face to face.

  She wouldn't be able to refuse—not once she saw the server specs. He'd made sure of it.

  Lucian's phone buzzed. He tapped it.

  "Elena," he said.

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Have Giancarlo in my office within the hour."

  "Yes, Mr. Castellan."

  His lawyer was one of the best in Europe. Efficient. Discreet. Unquestioning.

  By the time Lucian arrived at his skyscraper, everything was in motion.

  Security nodded. Employees averted their eyes. The whispers were there—like always—but lower than usual today. Likely from the news. The bodies in Chicago were already being discovered, but no one would trace it to him.

  Not really.

  Lucian entered his office. The space was minimalist. Cold steel. Black marble. Floor-to-ceiling glass behind his desk offering a view of the sea.

  "Elena," he said without looking up.

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Coffee."

  A moment later, a steaming cup of black coffee was placed at his desk. He didn't thank her. She didn't expect it.

  Documents first. Always.

  .

  .

  .

  Elena's voice came through the intercom.

  "Giancarlo is here, sir."

  "Send him in."

  Giancarlo stepped in, suit crisp, not a hair out of place.

  "Morning, Lucian."

  I didn't waste time. "Sit."

  He did.

  "I need an NDA. Specific. Tailored."

  He opened his briefcase, pulled out a notepad. "Who's the target?"

  "A freelancer. Cybersecurity expert."

  His brows lifted slightly. "A hacker?"

  I tilted my head. "A consultant. She'll be working with us on-site."

  Markus scribbled. "What kind of terms are we talking?"

  I stood and walked to the window. Watched the city move below. "It has to be binding. No loopholes. I want her tied to the company—three days a week. No representatives. No proxies. Her."

  "Three days on-premises?" he echoed.

  "Minimum. I'll say we need her expertise in-person to evaluate potential weaknesses in our internal servers."

  "She'll know it's a setup."

  I smiled faintly. "Of course she will. But she'll still sign."

  Markus nodded slowly. "You want a clause for exclusivity?"

  "Yes. No other tech clients. No cross-affiliations. Absolute discretion."

  "Duration?"

  "Six months. Automatic renewal unless terminated in writing."

  "And if she breaks it?"

  "I want teeth in the contract. Penalties. Legal action. Complete forfeiture of compensation."

  "Anything else?"

  I turned to face him.

  "Yes."

  Giancarlo paused, pen hovering.

  "Include a clause that all discoveries—codes, exploits, patches—developed while under our contract become proprietary to Castellan Enterprises."

  His pen scratched across the page.

  I crossed back to my desk. "Make it professional. Tidy. But unmistakable."

  Giancarlo looked up. "She'll know she's walking into a cage."

  "Good." I sipped my coffee. "Make it a velvet one."

  An hour later, the document was complete. Signed. Sealed.

  I picked up the envelope myself.

  Giancarlo looked confused. "You want to send it through courier?"

  "No," I said. "I want it delivered. To her home."

  He blinked. "Personally?"

  "By someone I trust."

  He didn't ask questions. Smart man.

  Satisfied, he lifted his phone and called one of his more discreet couriers.

  "I need a package delivered," he said. "Directly. Into her hands. No substitutes. Today."

  "Understood."

  When he hung up, he finally exhaled.

  She wouldn't see it coming.

  Ghost was brilliant. Strategic. Impossible to ignore.

  But she wasn't untouchable.

  Not anymore.

  Lucian dismissed Giancarlo, then rose and crossed to the window. Outside, the sea thrashed against the cliffs. The sky was shifting—sunlight burning through clouds, casting everything in gold and shadow.

  Behind him, the news played on mute.

  More headlines. More speculation.

  Slaughter in Chicago.

  Bodies found. No leads. No survivors.

  He smiled.

  Then sipped his coffee.

  Let the world panic.

  He had other plans.

  Plans with honey-colored eyes and code-laced fingertips.

  And now, she had no idea a leash was already wrapping around her neck.