Chapter 18 Geneva
GENEVA
BENEDETTO SHUFFLES THE DECK WITH PRACTICED EASE, THE cards sliding between his fingers in a clean, effortless motion. No unnecessary flourishes. Just pure, mechanical precision.
He’s good.
Not just because he plays often, but because he plays to win. Too bad for him, I do too.
He smirks as he finishes shuffling the cards and begins to deal them, his gaze flicking up to meet mine. “All right, Doctor, let’s see what you’ve got.”
“You ready to relive that ass-whipping from yesterday?” I ask with a laugh. “By all means.”
Benedetto will play more carefully today, clearly aware that I’m watching him. But I don’t care.
I toss in my chips, meeting his stare. “So tell me something.”
He eyes me warily. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether or not you’re about to psychoanalyze me.”
I place a hand over my chest, projecting mock outrage. “Would I do that?”
“Yes.”
Fair.
I lean in slightly. “Fine, no therapy session. Just a question.”
Benedetto curses in Italian before saying, “Here we go.”
“You’re my only resource when it comes to Ghost. Don’t be difficult.”
His expression doesn’t change. “Maybe you should’ve done your homework before you fucked him, Doc.”
I scoff. “Ouch. And you’re wrong. I researched him extensively, but that’s hard to do when there’s nothing in the database.”
He chuckles but doesn’t offer more.
I frown as a thought strikes me. “Do you know why someone wouldn’t pop up in various government databases?”
Like my parents’ murderers, for example.
He lifts his glass, takes a slow sip, and smirks over the rim. “You trying to win the game, or start an interrogation?”
I tap my cards against the table. “You’re avoiding the question.”
Benedetto studies me for a moment before finally setting his glass down. “There are many reasons, but the most likely is that whoever you’re looking for is an international mercenary.”
I lean back against the couch, my mind racing through possibilities and connections I hadn’t even considered before. An international mercenary.
That changes things.
A government, an organization, or even a single powerful individual could make these organized killers disappear on paper, like they never existed. It’d give them free rein to operate without interference. To get rid of people entirely.
Like my parents.
I exhale slowly and set my cards down in exchange for my whiskey. I take a healthy swallow, but it doesn’t stop my thoughts. They’re coming too fast now, multiplying with every second.
If my parents’ deaths were orchestrated by someone with access to mercenaries, then that means their murder wasn’t just a crime. It was a professional execution. The kind that leaves no loose ends, no forensic trails, and no easy answers.
But why them?
My parents weren’t politicians or CEOs or high-profile targets.
They were humanitarians. People who dedicated their lives to healing, to rebuilding communities torn apart by war, disease, and famine.
They worked in some of the most dangerous places in the world.
Not for power, not for profit, but because they believed they could make a difference.
I swallow hard, my pulse hammering in my ears. The idea of my parents being seen as threats is absurd. They weren’t involved in anything criminal or corrupt. They weren’t whistleblowers or revolutionaries.
But… what if their work put them at odds with someone who profited off suffering? What if they knew or saw something they weren’t supposed to? Governments, corporations, and warlords provide no shortage of powerful people who wouldn’t have wanted my parents getting in the way of their operations.
I grip the whiskey glass tighter, my fingers curling around the smooth surface as Benedetto watches me. I know he sees the shift in my expression, the way I’m barely holding it together.
“I take it this little theory of yours just got more interesting,” he says, his voice even.
I look at him, debating how much I should say. But Benedetto is a shark. He already smells the blood in the water.
“Hypothetically,” I say carefully, “if someone needed a mercenary for a job, how would they go about hiring one?”
Benedetto tilts his head, clearly intrigued by the shift in conversation.
“Depends on the job. Some contracts go through organizations, some through fixers like Telford.” He swirls the amber liquid in his glass before taking a slow sip.
“But if someone wanted the best? The kind of ghost who can slip in and out of a country without leaving a trace?”
I nod, swallowing hard.
“Then they’d have to know the right people,” he continues. “Not just anyone can buy a ghost, Doc. That kind of killer? That takes connections. Government-level. Or someone who has enough money and influence to bypass them entirely.” He raises an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”
I don’t answer immediately, instead tapping my fingers against the rim of my glass. If what Benedetto is saying is true, then whoever wanted my parents dead is damn near untouchable.
A sense of defeat washes over me. I down the contents of my glass, desperate for the type of numbness that alcohol won’t provide.
This isn’t some cold case waiting to be solved.
There won’t be a missing witness stepping forward with a crucial detail, or some long-forgotten piece of evidence suddenly surfacing to crack it all open.
And that means whoever orchestrated their deaths will never face justice.
The weight of that realization settles deep in my bones, hollowing me out from the inside. How do you fight an enemy you can’t reach? How do you get revenge on someone powerful enough to erase their own fingerprints from history?
You don’t.
Benedetto watches me with mild interest, clearly waiting for me to respond. I force a smirk and refill my glass before I knock it back without hesitation. The whiskey burns, but it’s nothing compared to the pain in my heart right now. I failed my parents before I even started.
Benedetto refills my glass. Then he watches me closely as I sip this time, slower now, the alcohol still rushing through my veins.
“You okay, Doc?”
I huff out a laugh. “What, you feeling sorry for me?”
His lips twitch, but he doesn’t deny it.
And that’s almost funny. Benedetto. A man who has undoubtedly ended lives without remorse, looking at me like I’m some wounded animal he doesn’t quite know what to do with—to either comfort me or put me out of my misery.
“Don’t be weird,” I mutter, swirling my glass. “I can handle it.”
“I know,” he says simply.
“Then let’s finish this hand.” I pick up my cards. The shapes and numbers aren’t blurred, but I can’t deny they’re fuzzy, forcing me to squint to clear my vision. “Your call.”
We continue playing hand after hand, drinking and laughing until I can’t get rid of my lopsided smile. Or stop slurring.
“Let’s do this shit,” I say.
Benedetto smirks, flicking a glance at my glass. “You sure you can still count, Doc?”
I narrow my eyes at him, lifting a finger. “I’ll have you know, I’m a highly educated woman. I can count. I just”—I pause, blinking at my cards—“need a second.”
Benedetto chuckles, shaking his head. “Fine, let’s see what you got.”
With dramatic flair, I slap my cards down on the table, spreading them out like I just revealed the secret to curing cancer. “Boom, bitch.”
Benedetto lifts an eyebrow. “That’s a two and a seven.”
I frown. “Well, that’s disappointing.”
“Yeah, for you.” He lays down his hand of three kings.
I stare at the cards, then at him. “I feel like this is rigged.”
“Rigged?” He snorts. “It’s because you’re drunk.”
“Maybe,” I mumble, slumping back into the couch.
Benedetto stacks his winnings, watching me with mild amusement. “You done?”
I scoff, sitting up. “Not a chance.” I reach for my glass and take another sip, then point at him. “Are you enjoying this?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
I narrow my eyes, trying to look intimidating, but based on Benedetto’s smirk, I’m guessing I fail spectacularly.
“You’re laughing at me,” I say.
“Yup.” Benedetto reaches out to take my glass. “That’s enough. I’m not looking forward to explaining to Ghost why you’re shitfaced. It’s time for bed.”
I shake my head. “No. I wanna…” I pause, frowning, because my brain suddenly goes blank. “Wait. What was I saying?”
Benedetto laughs outright, and it’s not the usual sharp, sarcastic sound. It’s real.
“See?” I point at him. “That. That right there.”
His smile lingers. “What?”
“You don’t always have to be scary and mysterious. You have a nice laugh.”
Benedetto’s amusement fades slightly, his gaze narrowing as he looks at me. Like I said something I wasn’t supposed to. Or something he wasn’t expecting.
Then, he clears his throat. “Come on, lightweight. Time to sleep.”
He stands, grabbing my arm and hauling me to my feet with more care than I expect.
I blink up at him, swaying slightly. “You’re nice. For a criminal.”
Benedetto grunts. “No, I’m really not.”
I grin, poking his chest. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.”
He rolls his eyes but steadies me with a hand on my shoulder. “Come on, let’s get you settled before Ghost gets back and decides to murder me for letting you get this drunk.”
I sigh dramatically. “He’s so overprotective.”
He groans, guiding me toward the bedroom with the patience of someone who deeply regrets every decision that led him to this moment. His grip is firm but careful, like he’s handling a particularly volatile explosive. Which, to be fair, isn’t entirely inaccurate.
I feel like I could cry or puke at any moment.
I manage a few steps before my foot catches on absolutely nothing, and I stumble. Benedetto curses under his breath, catching me by the elbow.
“Christ, Doc,” he mutters, adjusting his hold like I might infect him with my lack of coordination. “You do this often?”
“Getting drunk and making hardened criminals babysit me?” I say, blinking up at him. “Not as often as you’d think.”
He drags a hand down his face. “Let’s go. Before you break something.”
I huff but let him steer me toward the bed. He keeps his distance, gripping my arm only when necessary, like he’s afraid Ghost will materialize out of thin air if he gets too familiar.
Which is honestly kind of funny.
I flop onto the mattress, wincing as my head pounds. Benedetto stands near the door, arms crossed, clearly waiting to make sure I don’t immediately roll off onto the floor.
I squint up at him, suddenly curious. “Hey, Benedetto?”
He exhales like he already knows he’s not going to like this conversation. “What?”
I prop myself up on my elbows. “Does Ghost… have a type?”
His brows lift. “A type?”
“Yeah. Women. Fuck-buddies. Whatever.” I wave a hand, which is a mistake because the room spins. “What does he go for? I just… I can’t imagine him in a relationship.”
Benedetto snorts. “That’s because he’s never had one.”
I pause, my chest tightening slightly. “Never?”
“Not in the way you’re thinking.” He leans against the doorframe, watching me closely. “Ghost fucks, but he doesn’t do… this.” He gestures at me. “The whole attachment thing.”
I bite my lip, processing that.
“You’re different,” Benedetto adds after a moment, his voice quieter. “He could’ve hidden it, but I’ve never seen him like this with anyone else.”
I force myself to sound casual. “So… no crazy exes lurking around, waiting to murder me in my sleep?”
Benedetto smirks. “Nope. Just the usual amount of people wanting you dead.”
“Comforting.”
He chuckles. “Go to sleep, Doc.”
I sigh, collapsing back against the pillows. As I drift off, one last thought lingers in my whiskey-addled brain.
“Who is Abby?”
“Where did you hear that name?” he asks.
I shift against the pillows, my body feeling too warm, too heavy. “He said it. In his sleep. I—” I lick my lips, hesitating. I don’t want to betray Ghost’s trust, but I also can’t deal with not knowing who she is. “I woke him up from a nightmare. He was calling for her.”
Benedetto doesn’t react at first. He just stands there, arms crossed, his gaze flicking toward the door like he’s debating whether to just walk out and pretend this conversation never happened.
“Benedetto?”
“I don’t know.”
I frown. “You don’t know?”
He sighs, running a hand down his face. “I don’t know, Doc. He doesn’t talk about his past. And I don’t ask.”
“So you’ve never heard him say that name before?”
“Never.”
I exhale slowly, staring up at the ceiling, my mind running in circles. A name doesn’t give me much, but paired with the way Ghost screamed for her tells me enough.
Abby matters.
And I don’t know if she’s gone… or someone he’s still looking for.
The thought sends a sharp pang through my chest, and before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “I hate that I feel… insecure.”
Benedetto tilts his head slightly. “About what?”
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, groaning. “I don’t know. Someone else having a piece of him I don’t?”
Benedetto stares at me like I just grew a second head. Then he barks out a laugh. “Jesus Christ, Doc. You are really fucking drunk.”
I scowl at him. “I know it’s irrational.”
“Oh, yeah,” he says, still chuckling. “Absolutely deranged.”
I huff, turning onto my side, trying to hide the embarrassment heating my face. “Forget I said anything.”
“Not a chance.”
I groan louder, pulling a pillow over my face. “I will actually murder you in your sleep.”
“Whatever.” He snickers before pausing for a moment. “If Ghost told you everything, would it actually make you feel better? Or would it just fuck you up more?”
I lower the pillow just enough to peek at him, my brows pulling together. “What kind of question is that?”
“A real one.” He leans against the doorframe. “You think you want answers, but what if you don’t? What if whatever you find only makes it worse?”
I hate that question.
I don’t know what knowing Ghost’s past would do to me.
I can’t say what knowing about Abby would mean for us.
“You’re an over-thinker and drunk, which is a dangerous fucking combination. Get some sleep.”
He pushes off the doorframe and steps out of the room, but not before throwing me one last glance over his shoulder. “And, Doc? A man’s past can shape him, but a man’s future is what sustains him.”
The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me alone with my spiraling thoughts. I squeeze my eyes shut, but sleep doesn’t come easily. Because now, all I can think about is a name whispered in the dark.
Abby.