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It nearly glowed against the darkness.

And her curves stirred a memory I thought I’d lost.

A shaky breath escaped me, but I squared my shoulders. Weakness was not an option.

Not to this ghost.

Not to this impossible memory.

It couldn’t be her.

It just couldn’t. And yet everything about her felt familiar, from that resting murder-face to the gentleness buried deep in her eyes.

“Hello, Ghost,” I murmured, tightening my fingers around her neck.

She smiled back like a demon, clearly enjoying herself. “Hello, mafia prince. Have you liked my gifts?”

A laugh nearly bubbled up, but I kept it buried. She couldn’t know I found her charming. Instead, I settled a hard mask over my features.

“Not particularly,” I growled.

She gave a playful huff. “Too bad. I enjoyed them quite immensely.”

I’m sure she did. First my father’s dick, then his severed head. I would’ve enjoyed sending those gifts myself. In fact, I wished I’d been the one to kill him.

I tightened my hold on her neck, enough to make my warning clear without choking her. So slender, so delicate, it could almost convince a man that the creature it belonged to was harmless.

But I’d just watched her cut through five men to save Nika’s life.

Why, I wasn’t entirely sure.

Perhaps she targeted only men and protected women. Or perhaps there was more to it.

Perhaps… no. She wasn’t fucking Xeniya. Xeniya was dead. You watched her die over and over again. The day she died is burned into your mind. This ghost isn’t her.

But what if?

She placed a hand over my heart, as if reminding herself she could hold me back whenever she wanted. And I believed it.

This woman might be deadlier than me.

Tension tightened between us, and neither of us spoke, but electricity crackled through the silence. She smelled of rosemary, vanilla, and gunpowder. I swallowed, drawing in her scent further, testing it on my tongue. It was almost Xeniya’s, except Xeniya had smelled of lavender, vanilla, and smoke.

It still wasn’t possible.

She was dead.

Dead. Dead.

I threaded my fingers into the Ghost’s hair and tilted her head back. I was cold, calculating, and monstrous. She might be a serial killer, but I could be terrifying too, and it was time she understood that.

My plan had been to exhaust her until she could no longer remain invisible. From the footage, I’d noticed a pattern: every transition between forms took something out of her.

The signs were subtle, but I had figured it out. Her form flickered when she grew tired, and her hands grew unsteady, her aim faltering. Each time she switched forms, I noticed that flickering increase and her aim slightly waver.

It was in the small things. But I was a trained killer with an eye for weakness, and strategy had always been my greatest strength. So I had discovered that if I wore her down enough, I stood a better chance of capturing the Ghost.

Even now, I could feel her trembling beneath my grip, her strength nearly spent.