4. Ghost
4
GHOST
T he prison yard is a cage, just like the walls inside, only colder, harsher. A slab of cracked concrete under my prison-issue shoes, barbed wire cutting the sky into slivers above me. Inmates move in packs—some playing cards on rusted tables, others throwing punches to settle debts. And then there’s me, standing against the wall, watching the world like a man who doesn’t belong.
Because I don’t.
They call me Ghost. Not my real name, but it might as well be. It’s the only name that matters now. It’s the name that’s been whispered on every news channel, printed in bold headlines, screamed through the bars of my cell.
Fourteen women.
Fourteen lives stolen.
That’s what they say I did.
The beautiful serial killer, they called me. The enigma. A monster hiding behind the face of an angel. The headlines practically wrote themselves, like they wanted me to be guilty just so they could keep selling the story.
The truth? No one gives a shit about the truth. They just want a villain they can sink their teeth into, a name to fear, a face to gawk at.
The cameras loved me. The world loved me.
Until they didn’t.
I was twenty-eight when they locked me up. Ten years ago now. They say a man hardens in prison, turns into something unrecognizable. But I was already an enigma before I stepped foot behind bars. Already the kind of man people couldn't figure out, couldn't pin down.
They only knew what they wanted to know.
That I was six-foot-four, built like a heavyweight boxer with a face carved out of marble. That women stared too long when I walked into a room. That I was polite, soft-spoken, a contradiction wrapped in flesh.
That I was dangerous. Lethal.
And maybe I was.
But not like this. Not like what they said.
I don’t kill those fourteen women.
But the system doesn't care about what I say. A jury saw what they wanted to see—a man too perfect, too unreadable, too much of a mystery to trust. And then there were the three women. Three strangers from three different states who all swore I was with them the night of the last murder.
Three women who ruined me with their love.
Because who the hell has three airtight alibis in different states?
No one. No one but me.
I exhale, dragging a hand over my shaved head, my fingers brushing the nape of my neck. Sometimes I miss my hair, the dark curls at the nape of my neck that the ladies loved to play with. But it’s easier this way—easier to maintain in my caged prison.
The media still wants me. Even after a decade, they send requests, letters, reporters who sit outside this place like scavengers, waiting for me to throw them a scrap. I don’t, and I won’t.
Because I’m still fighting.
Still appealing.
Still fighting to claw my way out of the grave they buried me in. I refuse to give them anything that could shatter my chance at freedom. Because I can almost taste it—sharp, electric, just out of reach. The scent of it lingers in the air around me, heavy like a storm about to break, ready to drench me in its downpour.
A shadow moves in my periphery. One of the younger guys. A new fish, barely out of his twenties. He watches me like the others do—equal parts fear and fascination. They whisper about me in here, tell stories like I’m some kind of legend. Some of them think I’m a murderer. Others think I got framed. Some don’t care either way. They just know I’m untouchable.
Because I’m Ghost.
Because even in here, the walls don’t know how to hold me.
And because no one wants to find out what happens if they try.
There are advantages to being locked up. You start to view things differently; start to understand the value of things you would otherwise take for granted. All the things you miss… like the smell of freshly mown grass. Apple pecan pie. The comfort of knowing you can do whatever the hell you want, any time you want to do it.
In here, I have nothing but time on my hands. Time I spend dissecting my past, thinking what I could have done differently. I spend time orchestrating my future—because with this much time to plan, there’s no way I could fuck it up again. A cynic might call me crazy; they’ve marked my record never to be released . But there will come a day, mark my words. There will come a day when I will taste freedom again; I can feel it in the marrow of my bones.
Twenty minutes. That’s how long it takes before he finally makes his way to me.
Mason Ironside.
Underboss of the Moreno crime family. The name alone carries weight, the kind that doesn’t need to be shouted to be heard. He moves through the yard with a quiet confidence, the kind men like him are born with—or maybe the kind they earn. He’s clawed his way up, and now he stands second only to Kanyan De Scarzi—a man whose name is spoken in hushed tones even in places like this. Just like me. We could’ve been twins, Kanyan and I, in another lifetime.
Ironside’s reputation precedes him, even in here. It was foolish of those kids to take a swing at him yesterday—wannabe upstarts, obviously don’t have a clue who he is. But that’s the thing with the mafia these days—they aren’t like the old-school gangsters of the past. They’ve adapted, evolved. They’ve changed in ways that have reshaped the world, rewritten everything society believes about the criminal underworld. They wear suits instead of bloodstains, operate in boardrooms instead of back alleys. They’re not just criminals anymore. They’re businessmen, polished and refined, with pockets deeper than the law can reach.
And they’ve made sure the world sees them that way.
I have to give them credit. The mafia learned from their past mistakes. No more unnecessary violence. No more reckless bloodshed that attracts the wrong kind of attention. The new generation has taken the old empire and reshaped it into something untouchable.
And the money?—
I’ve seen the numbers. Even from inside these walls, I keep up with the news. It’s impossible not to. The Moreno family has mastered the art of legitimacy, but behind every clean deal, there’s always something darker lurking beneath the surface. They don’t just make money. They own it. Every rumor about their wealth, their influence—it’s all true.
Ironside stops a few feet away from me, hands tucked into his pockets, expression unreadable. He studies me, taking his time, his gaze steady. I don’t move. I let him look. I let him see what the world has painted me as.
A monster.
And yet, even with everything I’ve been accused of, even with the media turning my name into something that drips with horror, Ironside doesn’t look afraid. If anything, he looks intrigued.
I already know everything about him. How he climbed his way up the ranks, carving his own path in a world where power is earned in blood. He stands in the shadow of Dante Accardi—the man who runs everything in these parts. The name alone is a force of nature. Even behind bars, I can feel the weight of it. Accardi isn’t just another crime boss. He’s something bigger. Something men like Ironside and De Scarzi orbit around, like planets caught in a massive, inescapable pull.
I’ve never met Dante Accardi, but I can imagine the presence he commands. Maybe even more than I do. And I’m the one they call a serial killer.
Accused serial killer.
Ironside exhales as he sidles up beside me, his gaze sharp as it skates across the yard. A silent tension cuts through the air between us before he speaks. “You’re not what I expected,” he says finally, eyes unreadable.
“That so?” I lean back against the wall, crossing my arms over my chest. “And what exactly were you expecting?”
He shrugs, watching me with that quiet calculation. “Not what I found, that’s for sure.”
“A monster?”
“Mercy.”
That earns him a smirk. Clever. “Well, I suppose that depends on who you ask. The press thinks I’m the devil in disguise. The guards? Too afraid to even look me in the eye.” I gesture around us at the inmates. “They don’t know what to think. If I’ve learnt anything in here, it’s that reputation is everything. Making me a serial killer has done enormous things to my very deflated ego.”
Ironside smirks as he shifts his weight, gaze sliding past me, his chin tilting toward Clay Monroe. The kid stands in the middle of the yard, shoulders tight, eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun. He watches us, hesitating on the edge of a decision.
Approach or walk away?
He chooses the latter, settling onto a nearby bench, but his gaze never strays. Like a stray dog watching a pair of wolves, trying to decide if he belongs or if he should run before they decide for him.
“What’s the kid’s story?” Ironside asks, his voice even, unreadable.
“He didn’t do it.”
That earns me another smirk, this one edged in disbelief. He doesn’t have to say it—I already know what’s running through his head. Everyone in here claims innocence. It’s the unofficial motto of the damned.
Ironside doesn’t respond right away. He just watches me, the air between us thick with something unspoken. Calculating.
I don’t blink. I let the silence stretch, let him think, let the weight of my words settle in his chest like a slow drag of poison.
“You, of all men, should understand that not every man in here is guilty,” I murmur, my voice a steady, measured thing. “They may be guilty of something—but not necessarily the thing that put them behind bars.”
I tilt my head, studying him the way I’d study a mark before a job. Watching for the cracks, the places where the truth is flexible. “You understand that, don’t you, Ironside?”
He holds my gaze, unmoving, unreadable. A long, thoughtful beat before he finally speaks.
“The same way you’re not a serial killer?”
A bold move. He comes right out and says it. No hesitation, no dancing around the words like most men would.
I don’t answer right away. Instead, I watch him, letting the question hang between us, let the moment coil tight like a wire ready to snap.
Mason Ironside has guts. But then again, he’s a killer in his own right.
And he’s apparently in here on a traffic violation.
That was the first red flag. You don’t live your life steeped in crime, blood, and power, only to get caught on a misdemeanor.
A slow, dark smile spreads across my face, the kind that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. A knowing smile. A dangerous one.
We’re kindred spirits, Mason Ironside and I.
Even if he doesn’t know it yet.
I push off the wall, letting my voice drop, just enough to make sure he hears every word.
“I never said I wasn’t a serial killer,” I murmur. “I just didn’t kill those fourteen women.”
Ironside’s expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in his gaze. A shadow. A realization.
We understand each other perfectly now.