The real Ghost isn't the monster you've been chasing. He's the shadow who's been protecting your investigation from interference, eliminating obstacles before they could derail your progress. Every time you got close to a breakthrough, every time a witness decided to talk, every time evidence mysteriously appeared in the right place at the right time - that wasn't luck.
That was family taking care of family.
Because Mariana Castillo isn't just the federal point person for the legitimacy project. She's the bridge between Mila's new world and the one I've been operating in for decades. Her success means Mila's safety. Her failure means everything Alexei has built falls apart.
Which is exactly what Pavel wants.
She must be trying to decide whether to trust her instincts or her training.
Choose wisely, little wolf. Both our lives depend on it.
My reflection stares back at me from the dark glass—silver hair, dark eyes, the face of a man who's spent fifteen years learning how to disappear. But for the first time since I became Ghost, I'm not sure invisibility is going to be enough.
Because this isn't just about my reputation or Pavel's revenge.
This is about the woman who looked into my eyes tonight and saw something worth saving, even when she thought I was her greatest enemy.
And I'll be damned if I let Pavel Volkov destroy her the way he's tried to destroy everything else I care about.
The hunt is about to begin in earnest.
And this time, I'm not the only prey.
Chapter three
Hunting Ghosts
Mariana
My apartment feels like a war zone, which is fitting since I just survived one.
I stand in front of my kitchen island, staring at the wall I've constructed over the past two years. My "Ghost wall," as I've come to think of it - an obsessive collection of photographs, maps, newspaper clippings, case files, and red string connections that would make a conspiracy theorist proud.
Twenty-three months and sixteen days of my life reduced to pushpins and police tape.
How the hell did he know the exact timeline?
I reach for the coffee mug that's been sitting cold and forgotten since I stumbled home this morning, my hands still shaking from smoke inhalation and something else I don't want to examine too closely. The bitter brew tastes like ash and regret.
Three walls of my kitchen are covered in Ghost's greatest hits. Crime scene photos from the seventeen confirmed kills I've been able to connect to him. Maps showing the geographic pattern of his movements. Financial records of his targets. Psychological profiles I've spent countless sleepless nights developing.
And in the center of it all, a single question written in red marker:WHO IS GHOST?
Well, now I know. Sort of.
Silver hair, dark eyes, face like a fallen angel who's seen too much of hell. Voice like whiskey and winter nights. Hands that could probably kill me in a dozen different ways, but instead traced my cheek like I was something precious.
Jesus, Mariana. Get it together.
I pull the first photo from the wall—Ghost's first confirmed kill. Marcus Antonov, a mid-level enforcer who'd been skimming money from his family's operations. Found in his apartment with a single gunshot to the head, execution-style. Clean, professional, no evidence left behind except the signature calling card.
Except... looking at it now, something bothers me. The methodology feels different from the more recent kills I've been analyzing. More respectful. More precise.
I grab my laptop and start pulling up other case files, comparing details I should have memorized by now. My obsession with precision, with cataloging every microscopic detail, should have caught inconsistencies before.
Fuck.
I spread seventeen crime scene photos across my kitchen counter like tarot cards predicting a future I'm not sure I want to see. When I look at them chronologically, a pattern emerges that makes my stomach drop.
