Chapter 47 Ghost
GHOST
GENEVA HASN’T SAID A WORD SINCE SHE WOKE UP.
Not because there’s nothing to say. But because she’s sorting through the wreckage.
She’s replaying all the memories. Her mother’s calm. Her father’s steadiness. And the kindness that got them killed.
I can see it: the slow, brutal recalibration of past and present. I’ve felt that type of betrayal. It’s the kind where the past wasn’t taken from you because it was never yours to begin with.
I’ve been watching her since last night. Since the moment everything clicked into place behind those haunted, wounded eyes. The diamonds. The man in the tent. The truth about what Stanton did to her parents. It rearranged something in her. Permanently.
Geneva doesn’t realize how every twitch of her fingers, every shift of her breath, gives her away. She’s fraying beneath the surface, held together by instinct and spite.
God, do I understand that.
Benedetto sits in the chair next to us, drinking whiskey at 9 a.m. He’s thinking hard. The rhythm of his finger tapping against the glass of his tumbler isn’t a tic. It’s the sound of someone rehearsing violence in his head.
“You’re talking about psychological warfare,” he says. “Not just murder.”
I don’t look at him. My eyes stay on Geneva. The soft arc of her profile. The way her hands are curled in her lap like they’re holding something. Imaginary diamonds. I had to pry the real ones from her last night when she went into shock.
“Murder is easy. Quick,” I say. “It’s also mercy.”
Geneva’s gaze flicks toward me, then away.
“What he did to her parents—what he did to her—deserves worse,” I say.
Benedetto grunts in agreement, but it’s Geneva I care about. What she wants. What she can live with. As much as I want to do this for her, I can’t.
It’s her battle to wage. To win.
She exhales, slow and uneven. “Then we make him lose everything. Not just his freedom. His name. His legacy.”
“We’ll need proof,” Benedetto says. “Something that links him to the mines. The diamonds aren’t enough, sweetheart.”
I glare at him. “Pick another nickname, asshole.”
Benedetto lifts his hand in mock surrender.
“The diamonds are a reminder,” I say. “Speaking of, I recall your family used to be in business with Stanton.”
Geneva stiffens beside me on the couch. I reach out and take her hand, running my thumb over her knuckles. She doesn’t pull away, but she won’t look at Benedetto now.
“Stanton stopped using the Malone channels decades ago,” Benedetto says, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “Built his own routes. His own ports. Got cocky and cut us out. Bastardo.”
“And the Malones let that slide?” I ask, knowing damn well they didn’t.
He smiles without humor. “We don’t chase ghosts.”
I point to myself. “I beg to differ.”
“We don’t chase ghosts that can’t be caught.”
“Fair.”
Geneva doesn’t lift her head. “So what’s Stanton worth to you?”
“To me?” Benedetto looks at her. “Not much. But to the family? He’s competition. That makes him a threat.”
“And threats get eliminated,” I say.
“Eventually.”
I quirk a brow. “Are you trying to tell me something?”
The enforcer smiles, but it’s all teeth. “You give them Stanton, and maybe the family stops thinking about how to get leverage on you.”
“I thought we cleared that up the last time they tried.” I shrug. “But I’m always up for a challenge.”
Benedetto shakes his head. “Handing over Stanton would go a long way toward soothing Giulio’s pride. And it would remind the Malones that you’re not our enemy.”
“I’m not your ally either.”
“No,” Benedetto agrees. “But you would be. The enemy of my enemy is still a dick. Or however the saying goes.”
Geneva bites her bottom lip. In this strange little lull between war strategies and whiskey, there’s a flicker of amusement and the normal amount of exasperation toward Benedetto. I’m relieved to witness it.
“Careful, Doc, or I’ll think you agree with him.”
“I’m sure she does.” Benedetto leans forward, setting the empty glass on the table. “Your diamonds? They’re leverage. But we need more. Names. Ports. Logistics. Anything that exposes his operations.”
Geneva finally looks at him. “Will you help us?”
“I’ll give you what won’t get me killed,” Benedetto says. “The rest? We take. But you need to understand something, sweet—”
I cough. Obnoxiously loud.
“Erm… sweet potato,” Benedetto mumbles. “Geneva, if you light this match, you don’t get to walk away when the fire spreads.”
She nods, the amusement fading from her gaze. “I won’t. I want to watch him burn.”
He grins. “You’re just as ruthless as Ghost is. You’re just quieter about it.”
She doesn’t deny it. Her silence is more than confirmation. It’s connection. And fuck, I feel it in my bones.
She’s fierce, yes. Vengeful, absolutely. But underneath all of that, there’s still the same woman who held my hand in the dark. In return, I told her my real name, hoping for a confession of love.
Someday…
Sitting across from her in the soft morning light, I feel something I haven’t since before Abby was murdered: hope. Not the kind that lives in daylight and fairy tales. The kind that is born from darkness, shaped by pain, and sharpened by purpose. The kind of hope you don’t just believe in.
You fight for it.
You kill for it.
You die for it.
Benedetto grabs his tumbler from the table and gets to his feet. “I’ll put out some feelers. But be ready. Once word gets out that you’re looking into Stanton, the clock starts ticking.”
“Then you need to move your ass,” I say.
He scoffs, heading for the kitchen. The clink of ice against crystal is loud in the quiet as he refills his glass. “By the way, you owe me for babysitting Telford.”
I wave a hand in dismissal. “Don’t act like you don’t enjoy torturing people.”
Benedetto chuckles. “Yeah, well, this one was twitchy and smelled like piss. Little bastard kept asking if you were coming back to finish what you started.”
“He should’ve given me a name when he had the chance.” I shrug. “What about you?”
“Nope. Not even when I got creative.”
Geneva sighs. “I guess he really didn’t know who hired him.”
“Guilty by association.” I wink at her. “Kind of like you and me.”
A knock interrupts us. Three fast raps against the apartment door. Geneva flinches. Both the enforcer and I reach for our weapons.
Benedetto slowly pushes away from the counter. “You expecting someone?”
Geneva shakes her head.
The knock comes again. I move to the door and check the peephole. “Oh, boy.”
Geneva’s on her feet instantly. “Who is it?”
“Your best friend. Looking judgmental. Holding caffeine.”
Her face drains of color. “Shit. Sarah.”
I arch a brow. “Are you going to let her in, or should I fake a hostage situation?”
Geneva glares at me and bolts for the door. She hesitates just before unlocking it, whispering, “Don’t say anything weird.”
“Define weird,” I whisper back.
She opens the door just a little, with a forced smile that looks closer to a grimace. “Hey!”
Using the peephole, I watch Sarah launch into a rant that could wake the dead. “You better have a damn good reason for ghosting me, Geneva Lynn Andrews, because I’ve been one crime documentary away from filing a missing person—”
“I’m fine. Everything’s fine.” Geneva plants herself in the doorway like a human barricade. “You didn’t need to come all the way here.”
Sarah gapes. “You were in New Orleans and dropped off the radar for three days to experience Mardi Gras, when you’ve never so much as attended a birthday party. I thought you were having a psychotic break.”
I mean… she kind of did.
“I’m sorry I worried you,” Geneva says quickly. “I just needed to get away for a little bit.”
Sarah leans to the side and frowns when Geneva steps into the hallway, trying to close the door behind her. “Let’s go grab breakfast. I’ll explain everything—”
Sarah ducks under her arm and strides into the living room.
She stops.
Her gaze sweeps across the room, finding Benedetto leaning casually against the kitchen counter with a tumbler of whiskey, and me behind the door. Documents, maps, and high-resolution surveillance photos are strewn across the table.
I grin, waiting for Geneva to explain this shitshow.
Sarah crosses her arms. “Do you care to explain why there’s a serial killer here, along with an unscrupulous-looking individual drinking alcohol in your kitchen?”
Benedetto lifts his glass. “We’re planning a party.”
“The theme is vengeance chic,” I say.
Geneva throws me a look that could eviscerate planets.
“Get inside and shut up,” she hisses at Sarah through clenched teeth, grabbing her by the elbow and yanking her the rest of the way in before slamming the door.
Sarah blinks. “Okay, geez. Also, ouch.”
Geneva pivots and marches toward the living room like she’s preparing for battle. “You shouldn’t have barged in like that!”
“I brought coffee!” Sarah yells, holding up the two cups like a shield.
Geneva snatches one of the coffees and downs half of it like it’s sedative-grade. “Sarah, I love you. I do. But please, just… sit down and don’t freak out.”
“Too late,” Sarah says, flopping onto the armchair. “I’m already mentally drafting your obituary.”