Chapter 54 Ghost
GHOST
THE OCEAN WIND TASTES LIKE SALT AND VIOLENCE.
We crouch behind a row of manicured hedges that line the edge of Stanton’s beachfront property.
The bastard’s house rises above us, all sharp angles and glass, a monument to arrogance.
Spotlights sweep the grounds in slow arcs, and I count off the seconds between rotations.
Four guards on the perimeter. Two more at the rear.
A third patrol just inside the eastern balcony.
As expected.
I glance at the woman crouched beside me, her face pale in the moonlight. Geneva’s breathing is steady. But her wound still isn’t fully healed. Not to mention the stress radiating off her as she holds her emotions in check.
“You still good?” I murmur.
She gives me a short nod, eyes locked on the house like the man inside is already bleeding for her. “You’re not benching me.”
“I’m not stupid enough to try.”
But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to watch every step she takes.
Benedetto points. “North entrance is clear. Motion sensors are on a thirty-second loop. We move when I say go.”
I scan the perimeter again, adjusting for wind, for noise, for any fuck-up variables. Stanton’s beefed up security since I left him that diamond in the vault. Can’t blame him. If I thought the devil was coming for me, I’d add a few extra locks too.
Only locks don’t work on men like me.
“Twenty seconds,” Benedetto says. “Quiet and quick. No cowboy shit.”
“Don’t look at me,” I mutter.
“Wasn’t. Talking to Geneva.”
She smiles, just barely. And I hate how good it looks on her. Because the last time we went on a mission, I watched her bleed. And if I see that again tonight, I’ll fucking detonate.
“Ten seconds,” Benedetto whispers.
I adjust the strap of the blade against my back and meet her gaze one last time. “Stay behind me until we’re inside. No arguments.”
She opens her mouth… probably to argue.
I kiss her instead.
Fast. Hard. Just enough to shut her up and remind her that I’m still here. Still watching. Still planning to drag us out of this alive.
Benedetto moves. We follow. Our trio crosses the lawn like shadows. The guards don’t see us. They’re too busy scanning the wrong angles, watching for chaos, not precision.
And they forgot that ghosts don’t knock.
Benedetto reaches the service hatch that leads to the wine cellar and drops to a crouch. After several minutes he pries the cover loose, and we slip inside, one by one.
Before we crawl in, we strip out of the wetsuits we used to swim in from the neighboring property—a quarter-mile through freezing salt water.
Geneva’s fingers tremble slightly from the cold as she peels hers off, but she doesn’t complain.
Benedetto bundles them before tucking the pile under a crawl space beam where no patrol will think to look.
We’re down to black gear now. Tactical and dry.
Next is the tight, narrow crawl space. Just wide enough, if you don’t panic. The air’s stale, the kind that’s never been meant for breathing, and Geneva’s breath stutters once before she forces it steady again.
I stay close behind her, one hand on her calf as we move through the shaft, guiding her without words. Not because I think she’s going to freeze up. Because I need the contact. I need to know she’s okay.
When we reach an empty dumbwaiter shaft, I go first, pulling myself up, the metal frame groaning under my weight. The others follow closely behind me. When I reach the third floor, I crouch and listen. No footsteps. No voices. Just the hum of the air conditioner and the ocean wind beyond the walls.
I reach down and haul Geneva up the rest of the way. She lands quietly on her feet. Benedetto jumps out of the shaft less gracefully, but with a smirk that says he’s enjoying himself.
We step into Stanton’s house.
Polished floors. Decorated walls. Too much glass. Too much silence. The kind of place built not for living but for prestige. For power.
Geneva scans the hallway like I taught her, counting exits, cataloging cameras, and noting every detail the average person would miss. It’s not adrenaline driving her. It’s intent. She came here for answers. For reckoning. And no amount of pain is going to keep her from getting it.
Damn it, there goes my cock. Again.
Benedetto draws a blade from inside his jacket, keeps it low and ready as we move. He doesn’t crack a single joke. That alone conveys how serious this has become.
We follow the blueprint I memorized days ago, every step timed to the second. There are guards. Four of them, maybe more, but they’re all stationed on the lower levels or circling the perimeter. We avoid them. Not because we’re lucky, but because I made sure luck wouldn’t be part of the equation.
We reach the corridor outside Stanton’s private study. The light is on, creeping beneath the door.
“He’s in there,” Geneva murmurs.
I nod.
“How do you know?” Benedetto asks.
“Because paranoid men don’t sleep.”
Geneva’s hand brushes mine.
I look at her. “You ready?”
Her expression doesn’t waver. “Yes.”
The door swings open without a sound. He’s at his desk, hunched over a tablet. He doesn’t even look up.
“Jorge,” he says, “if this is about the perimeter lights again, I—”
He stops when I close the door. Stanton finally lifts his head, the color draining from his face.
“Hello, Victor,” I say. “Put your hands up and don’t fucking move.”
Geneva takes a step forward, standing next to me, eyes locked on him. Benedetto shuts the door, slides the lock into place, and leans against it like we’ve got all the time in the world.
I move around the room, checking for weapons, panic buttons, and surveillance feeds. Nothing unexpected. I already had Benedetto sweep for signals. We’re clean.
Stanton rises slowly, trying to summon that old arrogance. But his lifted hands are shaking. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“And yet,” I say, pulling out the chair across from him and straddling it backward, elbows on the backrest, “here we are.”
Benedetto’s quiet, his blade visible in his hand. Stanton sees it and swallows. Loudly. Then he looks at Geneva standing next to me, and for the first time, real fear flickers in his eyes. Not because of what I’ll do.
Because of what she will.
“Sit,” she says.
He does, dropping his hands to the desktop.
“Tell me,” I say. “Do you know why we’re here?”
Stanton’s mouth opens. Closes. His voice comes out thin. “I—I assume this is about the diamonds—”
Geneva slaps him.
Open palm. Hard. It echoes in the stillness like a gunshot. He jerks back.
“Try again,” she says.
He touches his cheek like he doesn’t understand what the fuck just happened. “I didn’t do—”
“Finish that sentence,” she interrupts, “and I swear to God, I’ll break your jaw before Ghost gets to your kneecaps.”
I smile. “True story.”
Stanton drags his wide eyes from me back to Geneva. “You’re here because of your parents.”
“Yes.” She folds her arms. “Say their names.” When he hesitates, her gaze narrows to little more than slits. “Say. Their. Names.”
“Samuel and Margaret Prescott,” he says, the words dry and brittle, like he’s coughing up bone fragments.
“You had them executed. For what? Diamonds that they didn’t know they had?”
Stanton’s lips twitch. “They were a liability.”
Wrong answer.
Geneva moves before I do. She draws the knife I gave her, walks over to Stanton, and drives the blade into the meat of his thigh.
He screams. High-pitched and loud. Benedetto shifts his stance before giving me a nod and slipping outside the office.
“Fuck,” Stanton gasps, hands flailing toward the wound. “You’re insane—”
I lift my hand. “No, that’s me actually.”
His body convulses, blood already pooling beneath the chair. Not fatal. Not even deep enough to do permanent damage. But I know it hurts like a son of a bitch.
“I didn’t come here to watch you lie,” she says, her voice eerily calm. “I came here to bleed the truth out of you.”
Stanton wheezes. “You’re not a killer.”
“Bisset’s dead,” she says. “So is Dominguez. Carter. And Telford.”
Stanton pales.
“One by one,” she continues, stepping closer, “I’ve hunted them. I’ve watched them die. And now you’re all that’s left.”
His mouth parts in shock. “You—? You’re the one who—”
Geneva kneels to meet him eye to eye. “You destroyed my family. But tonight, I’m not here to grieve them.” She leans in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I’m here to avenge them: first by ruining your reputation, then by killing you.”
His eyes bulge, panic bleeding into every line of his face. “I didn’t kill them myself—”
“No,” she says. “You just paid for it. Gave the orders. And when it wasn’t enough, you buried the evidence and smiled for the cameras.”
He glares at her, some pathetic version of bravado creeping back in. “What do you want from me?”
“An apology.”
Without warning, she rips the blade from his thigh and drives it into the padded flesh just beneath his shoulder, sharp and fast.
Stanton screams again.
“That one’s going to leave a mark,” I mutter to myself.
Stanton slumps in the chair, his breath rattling, the front of his shirt soaked with sweat and blood.
Geneva watches him with a coldness I’ve never seen before.
The blade in her hand gleams under the overhead light, and for a moment, I don’t think she’s breathing.
She’s like death, biding its time because the end is coming.
“You want me to say I’m sorry?” he sneers. “Well, I’m sorry.”
Geneva doesn’t blink. “I want you to mean it.”
Stanton huffs out a bitter, broken laugh until she twists the blade in his shoulder. He chokes on his breath, his whole body seizing.
“God—fuck—okay! Okay!”
Geneva pulls the knife free with a ruthless tug, and blood spills in a slow rivulet down his chest.
Stanton shrieks. “I’m sorry!”
The door clicks open behind us. I spin, already reaching for the gun I said I wouldn’t use unless necessary. It’s Benedetto. Calm. Controlled. But not relaxed.
“We’ve got company,” he says casually.
“How many?” I ask, rushing to Geneva and pushing her behind me.
“Three guards. Headed this way. Probably heard the screaming.”
“No guns,” I remind him. “Not unless we have no other choice.”
He flashes me an impish grin as he pulls a curved blade from inside his jacket. “Who said anything about guns?”
Geneva doesn’t move from where she stands, blood-slicked knife still in her grip. Stanton sobs quietly, trying to shrink into the chair like it’ll swallow him whole.
“Keep him quiet,” I tell her. “We need five minutes.”
She nods once and presses the tip of the blade to Stanton’s throat, not deep, just enough to make him shut the hell up.
I turn to Benedetto. “We meet them before they can knock.”
He opens the door a crack, peeks out, then looks at me. “I’ll take the two on the left. You get the one who looks too eager.”
“Got it.”
We slip out of the study and down the hallway, past the priceless art and polished marble. The guards come into view, mid-conversation, hands near their belts but not yet raised.
I’m on mine before he finishes turning his head. I place one hand over his mouth, while using the other to drive the blade clean into his side, sliding between the ribs, angled upward. He jerks once, then drops.
Benedetto is already finishing his second.
Three bodies in twenty seconds.
We drag them to a service alcove and leave them there, crumpled and silent.
Benedetto wipes his blade on one of their jackets. “Quiet enough for you?”
“That’ll do.”
He scoffs. “Says the guy who killed one in the time it took me to take out two.”
We step back into the office, blades cleaned, adrenaline still humming in our veins. Except Geneva isn’t like we left her. She’s still standing, the knife in her hand, and with blood on her shirt. But her expression is dazed.
“Geneva?” I cross the room quickly, reaching for her elbow.
She doesn’t jerk away, but her grip on the blade loosens. That’s enough for me.
With a pointed look at Benedetto, I guide her into the hallway, away from Stanton’s stench and the copper-scented air, until the door is shut behind us.
Her breathing is strangled, like it’s trying to climb out of her throat. “There’s no point to this. I thought… I needed to be the one to end him, but it’s not enough. Killing him won’t bring them back. And I don’t feel better. I don’t feel anything but tired. So fucking tired.”
Her eyes meet mine. They’re wide, haunted, and searching for something she can’t find. I take her face between my hands, my thumb brushing the blood-splatter on her cheek.
“That’s because justice doesn’t heal you. It only gives you the silence to grieve.”
Her lip trembles.
“You don’t have to kill him,” I say. “You just have to survive him. And you did. You’ve already won.”
She nods slowly.
“You should do this, but not to feel better,” I say. “Not to erase the pain. You do this because he took everything from you, and this is how you make sure he never takes anything again.”
I don’t move. Just watch. Because I recognize the moment she decides.
She straightens, throwing her shoulders back. Her body language isn’t filled with rage or vengeance, but with clarity. The kind that comes only when you finally accept that closure isn’t a chance. It’s a choice.
She looks at me one last time. Then she turns and heads back into the room. I’m right behind her, always her shadow.
Stanton lifts his head when she reenters, his skin gone to ash, chest rising in short, shallow pulls of air. Blood darkens his shirt like a spreading bruise.
Geneva crosses the room with even steps, no hesitation in her limbs, the blade firm in her hand once again. Stanton flinches, barely audible words falling from his lips. Maybe another apology. Maybe a prayer. It doesn’t matter.
She steps behind him and slides the knife across his throat with a motion so precise, it’s like a gentle caress. He gasps, body jolting once, blood spilling in liquid ribbons down his chest. And then he’s falling forward, lifeless and inconsequential.
It’s over.
Geneva doesn’t move. Just stares at him. So I come to stand behind her, resting a hand against the back of her neck, pulling her to me.
“It’s done,” I murmur.
She exhales, long and slow. “He won’t take anything else from me.”
“No, he won’t.”