Chapter 42 Ghost
GHOST
WHEN I LET GO OF GENEVA’S HAND, IT ALMOST FUCKING KILLED ME.
She doesn’t know that. How hard it was to walk away earlier. To pretend that I wasn’t dying inside with every step I took.
I move through the people milling about, toward my designated spot. A dozen masks pass me, laughter trailing behind them, but I’m not listening. My eyes are on Geneva. Always.
From my vantage point near the second-tier balcony, I watch the path she takes, the way she threads through the crowd, champagne flute in hand, posture flawless, eyes forward. Every step is graceful but with intent.
God, she’s fucking beautiful.
Not just the way she looks. It’s the way she boldly walks into a storm she doesn’t want to face.
Geneva vanishes behind the velvet drapes guarding the balcony, and I shift position. I need a clean view, not just of her, but of Bisset. And whoever else approaches.
I count three likely interceptors before they even move. They’re not staff. Too stiff. Too alert.
One is at the bar pretending to be disinterested. The second stands at the edge of the dance floor with a comm in his ear. The third pretends to admire the artwork along the wall, but his eyes keep scanning the stairwell.
They’re not watching Geneva.
They’re waiting for me.
Let’s fucking go.
The one by the wall reaches into his jacket. I’m on him before he draws. A sharp elbow to the throat and a twist of the wrist has his pistol clattering on the marble before he plummets. No time to catch him. I let the floor do that for me.
When I look up, the second guy’s already moving, weaving through the crowd, murmuring something low into his comm. He’s repositioning. Trying to intercept me before I hit the stairs.
Nothing can keep me from Geneva.
I keep to the perimeter of the room, circling behind a column just as he passes.
Once the attacker’s within reach, I ram my blade beneath his ribs, fast and deep, while slapping my free hand over his mouth.
His body jerks in my grip, breath stolen before it can become a warning.
I keep him upright long enough to drag him behind the velvet partition.
Two down.
The moment the guy at the bar sees me emerge from the shadows, he pivots and strides toward the balcony staircase. I keep my bloodied knife by my side, shielding it from view.
The man doesn’t face me until he’s nearly at the top of the staircase, the velvet curtain just a breath away, blocking us from the ballroom’s occupants.
Then he spins. Fast.
I duck under the first swing, his knife whizzing past my cheek, and slam my shoulder into his gut. We crash into the wall, the sound lost in the music and conversations below.
He’s stronger than the others. Trained.
Finally, a challenge.
He slashes again, this time lower, the blade slicing through the fabric of my shirt. Emboldened by the near-fatal strike, he tries again. I catch his wrist mid-swing and twist until I hear his bone crack. His knife hits the ground.
I drive mine into his side with precision, angling up. Then yank it out. Air rushes out of him as he stumbles back, eyes wide and mouth gaping.
I step over him and push the curtain aside.
Geneva is gone.
The champagne glass she left behind sits on the ledge, still kissed with condensation, her imprint barely fading from the stem.
No broken glass. No signs of a struggle. Absolutely nothing.
“Fuck!”
I scan the space, eyes narrowing. There has to be something I’m missing. Bisset wouldn’t have exposed himself to a roomful of people by descending the staircase with a reluctant Geneva.
Unless she was willing…
For a second, I just stand there, heartbeat drumming in my ears. She wouldn’t. She’s not reckless.
Except when it comes to her parents.
I pace the length of the balcony, hands curled into fists, scanning every corner, every crease in the drapes, every inch of marble for something. Anything.
Near the base of the curtain, where the velvet brushes the floor, the fibers have been crushed in a pattern too deep to ignore. A partial shoe print, angled awkwardly, like someone stepped back with weight.
I follow it, my eyes sweeping across the balcony floor. Another impression, softer this time, farther along the edge. And then another. Faint, but there. A line of shallow depressions trailing toward the far wall, just beneath a lattice of ivy and decorative molding.
Geneva didn’t walk out of here.
She was carried.
My chest tightens as I cross the space, each step syncing with the tempo of my growing panic. When I reach the wall, I skim my fingers along the molding, searching until I detect a hairline gap between panels. And a switch.
Click.
A soft release of air, cool and musty, spills through the narrow crack as the hidden door creaks open. It’s the old bones of the building, tucked behind centuries of renovations. And not listed on the floor plans I obtained earlier.
The door closes behind me as I replay the last ten minutes in reverse. Every attacker. Every position. Every fucking mistake I made.
Those men were instructed to take me out if possible. Slow me down if not. Regardless, Bisset would get away.
Because that’s how the Planner operates. With every outcome accounted for.
And I—always three moves ahead, a self-proclaimed genius—didn’t see this coming.
If anything happens to Geneva because of me…
The corridor is narrow, lit only by the flicker of emergency sconces mounted deep into the stone. The air is cooler here and thick with the scent of mildew.
I move quickly, the sounds of my boots hitting ancient flagstone echoing in the space around me as I descend into the belly of the historical structure. The walls close in with every step. No windows. No alternate exits. Just one path forward.
Geneva was here. Carried. Her perfume clings to the air, fragile and fading. I imagine her limbs slack, her head tilted, and lips parted. Did Bisset incapacitate her physically or with drugs?
I want to kill him.
Sllllllooooowwwllllly.
The pathway bends left. Then right. A rusted gate looms ahead. I pass through, stepping outside and finding nothing.
No blood. No torn fabric. No body.
And no fucking idea where she is.
I curse and slam my fist against the wall. And again when it fails to soothe the rage consuming me. Along with the fury directed at Bisset. And myself.
Then my burner vibrates. I yank it out.
No number. No name. Just a message.
Bring the diamonds to Lafayette Cemetery No. 1. Come alone. You have one hour.
Bisset thinks I’m desperate.
And he’s right.