Chapter 12 Ghost
GHOST
HUNTING NEVER FAILS TO brING A SMILE TO MY FACE. I ENJOY EVERY aspect of it.
The stalking.
The chase.
The kill.
But this isn’t about pleasure. (Well, not entirely since murder is my favorite.) This is really about Geneva. About finding out who wants her dead and making sure they never have the chance to try again.
It’s fucking personal this time. More personal than anything has ever been.
The Malone family is my first move. They’ve been running their little slice of organized crime in this city for years. Drugs, extortion, smuggling, etc.… They’re your typical crime syndicate, efficient and careful. But not untouchable.
That’s how I was able to grab them by the balls. I mean that in both a proverbial and a literal sense.
With my hands tucked in my pockets, I walk into the bar on Fifth Street.
It reeks of stale beer and cigarette smoke, a far cry from the glitz and glamour the Malones typically project.
It’s the kind of place where deals are made in whispers, and blood stains the floorboards if the wrong thing is said.
My boots thud against the sticky floor as I approach the bar, the din of conversation fading into silence as heads turn in my direction. The bartender, a wiry man with a scar slicing across his hand, looks up from wiping down the counter. His face pales as recognition dawns.
“Ghost,” he says, his voice shaking slightly. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
I don’t respond. Instead, I sweep my gaze across the room, taking in the handful of men hunched over their drinks, the two sitting at a corner table playing cards, and the one near the back door who has his hand on the gun tucked into his waistband. All of them are watching me.
“I need a word with Alex,” I say.
The bartender swallows hard, his grip tightening on the rag in his hands. “Alex?” he repeats.
I give him a pointed look. “Yeah. Unless he’s suddenly developed the ability to crawl up his own ass and disappear, I’m guessing he’s still in the back.”
A chair scrapes loudly as one of the men shifts uneasily. The guy near the door stiffens, his fingers hovering over his gun.
I offer him a lazy smirk. “Calm your tits, enforcer.”
After removing my hand from my pocket, I lift my arm, turning my wrist just enough for the dim overhead light to catch the small black device resting in my palm. It’s not flashy. Not oversized. Just compact and efficient.
The bartender freezes and his face immediately drains of color. The card players go statue-still, eyes flicking between each other like they’re debating whether to make a run for it. Even the trigger-happy idiot suddenly looks like he’s reevaluating his life choices.
There it is. That beautiful, glorious moment when fear sets in because I just became the biggest fucking problem in the room.
The bartender swallows hard. “Ghost,” he says, his voice thinner now. “What is that?”
I blink at him like he’s stupid. “A detonator for a bomb.”
“A bomb?”
I wiggle it slightly between my fingers, watching how nobody fucking moves. Then I tilt my head. “Hmm. You know, now that I think about it, I’m not actually sure if this is a detonator. You want to check it out for me?”
The bartender visibly stops breathing when I extend my arm in his direction. Then he inhales sharply, muttering a curse under his breath. “Jesus, Ghost.”
I nod. “Yeah, I get that a lot. Not quite, but I understand the comparison.” I sigh and start casually turning the object over in my hands, like I’m examining the craftsmanship. “Listen, I’m in a bit of a hurry. Things to do, people to kill… So make the call. Now.”
He nods frantically, fumbling for the phone. The room remains silent as I wait. I can feel their eyes on me, the unease radiating off them like heat. They know better than to start something, but you never know with unscrupulous individuals.
A few seconds later, the bartender hangs up, his face still pale. “Alex will see you.”
The enforcer mutters the equivalent of “Thank fuck” in Italian.
With a skip in my step, I head toward the door at the back of the room.
The man guarding the entrance steps aside, and I walk through the doorway, which leads to a narrow hallway, then a set of stairs that creak under my weight.
At the top, I’m met by two men who could be professional MMA fighters.
One of them opens the door without a word, so I walk into the office and shut the door behind me.
Alessandro “Alex” Malone is sitting behind a desk, a glass of grappa in one hand and a cigar in the other, looking every bit the successful man he is. His younger brother, Franco, leans against the wall, hands balled into fists at his sides, as though waiting for the order to attack me.
Alex is different. He doesn’t react on impulse. He calculates. Watches. Waits. Unlike his hotheaded brother, Alex understands the game. While he might not run the Malone family, he’s just as powerful as the man who does.
Alex is the consigliere, the Malone family’s advisor, strategist, and cleaner. The one who keeps their empire running smoothly, makes people disappear, and ensures the boss’s hands stay clean. He’s not the man who pulls the trigger; he’s the one who decides when and if the trigger gets pulled.
And that’s why I’m here.
Alex knows every major player in the city, whose whispered suggestions decide who lives, who dies, and whose name never even makes it into the conversation. If anyone has intel on the man who got Skinner out of prison, it’s Alex.
Not to mention, we have history.
Alex has sent a lot of men after me over the past couple years, back when I started fucking with their operations, infiltrating shipments, and carving through their security like butter. Not to mention all the bodies I left behind.
He never appreciated that.
I step forward, my boots silent against the gleaming hardwood. Alex doesn’t flinch at my proximity. He just takes a slow sip of his drink, watching me over the rim of his glass, his gaze briefly landing on the detonator in my hand.
“Ghost,” he says, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
I don’t waste time on pleasantries neither of us mean. “Marcus Telford,” I say, my tone flat. “I need everything you’ve got on him.”
Alex raises an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “Telford’s a slippery one. Why the sudden interest?”
Because he tried to take Geneva—my reason to live—from me.
Narrowing my gaze, I step closer and lean forward. “That’s none of your fucking business.”
The smirk falters, and Alex exchanges a glance with Franco, who shifts uncomfortably.
“Telford’s been moving quiet lately,” Alex says. “He’s been running jobs for someone big, but no one knows who.”
I frown. “Not even you?”
“Not even me.” Alex shrugs. “The guy’s paranoid, which makes him very careful.”
“That won’t save him,” I say, straightening. “Where is he?”
Alex hesitates, then sighs, setting down his glass. “Last I heard, he’s been laying low in one of those new high-rises downtown. Penthouse suite. Sounds like his employer pays well.”
Figures. Telford is likely a “fixer,” a manager for the kind of high-profile men who need problems handled without the mess leading back to them.
He’s not a thug or the muscle, but the man behind the curtain, smoothing over disasters before they become scandals.
That kind of work makes him valuable. And expensive.
“I’ll need the address,” I say. “Anything else?”
“Just be careful. Telford’s no amateur. If you’re going after him, you’d better be ready.”
I wait for him to write down the address, before turning away and heading for the door. As I reach the hallway, Alex calls after me.
“Hey, Ghost,” he says, his tone light but with an edge. “Whoever Telford’s working for? They’re not someone you want to piss off.”
I glance back over my shoulder, a faint smile tugging at my lips. “Too fucking late for that.”
Geneva is still alive.
And I intend to keep it that way.