Chapter 6
Zora
A quieter tension settles over me as Stefano and I stop in front of the second entrance hidden beyond the ballroom.
The music from the party still reaches us faintly through the walls, softened now into distant bass and muffled laughter.
Strange how easily people separate elegance from depravity.
One room away, people are dancing beneath chandeliers.
In this one, they are preparing to auction violence.
The gate towering in front of us is black steel trimmed in gold, subtle enough to look refined but heavy enough to stop a bullet. Security stands everywhere. Not loud. Not obvious. The dangerous kind. The ones trained to notice everything without appearing to look at all.
I hand over my invitation without hesitation. Number eleven.
The guard scans it carefully before his eyes move to me, assessing, calculating. I hold the stare until he looks away first.
Beside me, Stefano remains relaxed, one hand resting casually in his pocket as if this is another corporate event instead of an illegal gathering hidden beneath Manhattan wealth.
Our phones are collected next.
One of the guards places mine into a black lockbox before sliding it toward me. I enter the code silently and watch the device disappear inside. Stefano does the same beside me.
Efficient and controlled. No room for mistakes.
I expected criminals. What I find instead is discipline, procedure, and precision sharp enough to rival any government facility.
Interesting.
The massive doors finally begin to open with slow mechanical precision.
Before stepping through, I glance once toward Caleb standing farther behind us. He doesn’t speak. Just gives a slight nod. Ready if things go wrong.
I reach discreetly beneath the slit of my gown, fingers brushing the grip of the gun strapped securely against my thigh. The familiar weight settles something cold and practical inside me.
Good.
The room beyond is drenched in muted gold light and old money.
Crystal decanters gleam across black marble counters while low jazz hums somewhere in the background.
Velvet furniture. Dark wood walls. Antique paintings worth more than most companies.
Every detail whispers exclusivity without needing to prove it.
The air smells faintly of whiskey, cigar smoke, and expensive perfume.
I take it all in quickly, cataloguing exits, security placements, blind corners, and the people occupying the room. The people always matter the most.
There are fewer guests here, but somehow that makes the atmosphere heavier. More intimate and dangerous. Conversations stay low, controlled. Nobody raises their voice because nobody here needs to.
Money speaks quietly.
I glance toward Stefano as we move farther inside. "You’re bidding too."
A faint trace of amusement crosses his face beneath the mask. "I didn’t come for the music."
"Then why involve me at all?"
He looks ahead for a moment, attention drifting briefly across the room before answering. "I like my odds doubled."
I study him carefully. "So this is purely strategic."
"When dealing with people like the Keegans?" His gaze flicks toward me briefly. "It would be stupid not to be."
There's no arrogance in the statement. Just calculation.
I study the room again. "And you think I improve your odds?"
"I think you see angles other people miss."
The answer comes too easily. Like he decided that long before tonight.
I let the silence sit between us for a moment before speaking again. "You say that like you’ve already figured me out."
"That would be careless."
"And yet you still approached me."
"You inherited an empire and immediately tried restructuring parts of it against the wishes of people far older and more dangerous than you." His voice remains calm. Matter-of-fact. "That tells me enough."
I glance toward him properly then. "You make me sound reckless."
"No." A brief pause. "Calculated."
For some reason, that lands differently.
Before I can answer, movement across the room catches Stefano’s attention. A group of men greet him near the far side of the bar, familiar enough to earn real smiles instead of polite ones.
"I’ll be back." He says quietly.
Then he disappears smoothly into the crowd. And suddenly, despite the dozens of people surrounding me, I feel alone. Not vulnerable. Just aware.
Aware that most people in this room have spent years operating in shadows I only recently stepped into. They move through conversations effortlessly, glasses in hand, masks hiding expressions already trained not to reveal much anyway.
Everyone here understands power.
I recognize a few faces despite the masks. Men who condemn corruption publicly while financing it privately.
A familiar kind of hypocrisy.
I remain near the edge of the room, taking a slow sip from the whiskey I picked up moments earlier. The burn settles warm in my throat while my eyes continue scanning automatically. No one here looks nervous. Which probably means they’ve all done worse things than I have.
A few moments later, the low conversations around the room begin fading one by one as a man near the fireplace steps forward. The shift is subtle but unmistakable as eyes gradually turn toward him.
"Gentlemen," he says smoothly, glancing around the gathering, "thank you for joining us tonight."
Then his eyes land on me. A subtle pause follows before he inclines his head slightly. "And Madam."
The shift in attention is immediate. Every head in the room turns toward me at once.
I feel the weight of it instantly. The curiosity, the judgement, the amusement from some of them. A woman here is unusual enough. A woman bidding tonight? Even more so.
I keep my posture relaxed anyway, lifting my chin slightly as my gaze moves calmly across the room. If they expect discomfort, they will not get it from me.
Most faces remain hidden behind expensive masks and carefully neutral expressions. Except one.
My attention catches on him almost immediately. No mask.
He stands near the back of the room like he has no interest in pretending to be someone else. Taller than everyone around him. Broad shoulders beneath a black shirt rolled carelessly to his forearms, the top buttons undone just enough to expose ink stretching across his throat and collarbone.
Tattoos crawl along his arms and disappear beneath dark fabric.
Sharp jawline. Dark stubble. Black hair falling slightly across his forehead.
Dangerous is the first word that comes to mind. Not because of the tattoos or the rumors. Because unlike everyone else here, he looks completely unbothered by the attention around him. As if this room belongs to him more than the people funding it.
That has to be Him.
The announcer gestures toward him. "Tonight, we are discussing the services of this man."
A quiet ripple moves through the room.
"Il Fantasma. The Ghost."
The tattooed man finally moves then, walking toward the front with slow, unhurried steps. No performance. No attempt to intimidate. Which somehow makes him more intimidating. The room watches him instinctively. Including me.
He steps onto the small platform near the fireplace while the announcer continues speaking.
"You'll find envelopes and cards on the table before you. Write your assigned number, your proposal, and the reason you believe your request warrants The Ghost’s attention. Seal it afterward."
No bidding war. No public negotiations. Interesting.
Beside me, a large man smelling heavily of cigars and cologne lets out an irritated grunt.
"And if someone wants to increase their offer?" He asks roughly.
The cigar in his hand drifts far too close to my face, thick smoke curling into the air between us.
I resist the urge to visibly react. Barely.
The announcer doesn’t even look annoyed by the interruption. "That won’t be possible."
The room quiets again.
"The Ghost chooses based on interest. Not the highest value." That changes the atmosphere instantly.
Money alone isn’t enough here just as Stefano predicted.
My attention drifts back toward the stage. Domenico hasn't spoken a single word yet, but his attention feels different. I notice it a moment before our eyes meet, direct, heavy, and unmoving, as though he'd been watching me long before I looked his way.
The cigar smoke finally becomes unbearable enough that I step away first, crossing toward the long black table near the fireplace. Several envelopes and a fountain pen rest neatly across it.
I pick one up. My fingers remain steady as I write number eleven, followed by the details of the Keegan problem, and the offer I was prepared to make in return for Domenico's attention. Clear and direct. No unnecessary details.
The entire time, I can still feel his gaze on me. Cold enough to unsettle. Focused enough to feel deliberate.
I ignore it and seal the envelope carefully before placing it on the table.
Around me, more men begin stepping forward to do the same, Stefano among them now. Unlike the rest, he barely hesitates while writing his offer.
One by one, the envelopes are collected and carried toward the fireplace where the announcer begins quietly sorting through them beside Domenico.
The rest of the room slowly breaks apart again afterward. Soft conversations resume. Glasses clink while people wait.
Stefano disappears somewhere into the crowd before I can reach him again. So instead, I make my way towards the bar.
The whiskey burns pleasantly down my throat as I take another sip, grounding me slightly. I rest one elbow against the bar, keeping my back to the rest of the room while the bartender quietly moves around in front of me.
"Unusual for a woman." The deep voice sounds directly behind me, low enough that it brushes against the back of my neck like a warning.
I don’t turn immediately. I take another sip of whiskey before glancing over my shoulder casually. "What exactly is unusual? The whiskey, the auction, or the fact that none of the old men in this room have tried undressing me with their eyes yet?"
A quiet sound leaves him. Not quite a laugh.