He was still inside her when Charlène decided he was going to die.
"I want to be on top," she whispered, her voice a velvet trap.
He didn't argue. Men like him—bloated with ego and expensive wine—never did. He let her shift, his hands greedy on her hips as she climbed over him. He thought he was the hunter. He thought this was a game of pleasure where he held the cards.
Charlène began to ride him, the motion masking the way her fingers drifted upward, tracing the line of his jaw until they settled around his thick throat.
"Tell me you love me," he whispered.
She smiled. And lied beautifully.
"Tight," he wheezed, a delirious smirk tugging at his mouth. "I like it tight, sweetheart."
"You have no idea," she murmured.
Then she squeezed.
His eyes went wide, pupils dilating as air vanished from his lungs. He tried to throw her off, but his limbs were heavy, unresponsive. The spiked scotch she had poured into his glass minutes earlier was finally doing its work, draining the fire from his muscles.
Charlène watched the life flicker in his gaze as he gasped for a breath that refused to come. She didn't look away. A Ghost didn't flinch at death.
She sat back on her heels, catching her breath slowly, admiring the way moonlight struck the gold necklace resting against his chest.
She took her time unfastening the clasp. Heavy. Twenty-four karat. Far too elegant for a man like him.
Charlène rose slowly, her body silhouetted against the Roman skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows. She didn't care if anyone saw. She was a ghost; she only existed when she chose to. She crossed to the vanity and picked up her silk slip, sliding it over her head with deliberate slowness, letting the fabric settle against her skin.
There was no rush. The poison would keep his heart quiet, and the hotel staff wouldn't knock until noon.
She grabbed the briefcase under the desk—packed with rows of cash he had shown off earlier like a fool.
Finally, she reached into her bag and pulled out the blackened-gold key.
Charlène walked to the heavy oak door of the suite and slid the key into the lock. She didn't turn the handle. Instead, she closed her eyes and pictured the high-end boutique on Rue Montaigne.
She twisted the key. The lock didn't click; it exhaled, like a secret being kept.
When she pushed the door open, the humid hotel room was gone. She stepped through and found herself in the back storage room of a shop in Paris. She withdrew the key, tucked it away, and smoothed down her hair.
She walked into the main showroom, heels clicking softly against polished glass. A sales assistant looked up, startled by the woman who had appeared from nowhere.
"I need something for a masquerade," Charlène said, her voice smooth and perfectly composed. "And nothing below the price of my briefcase."
The assistant didn't ask questions. No one asked questions when a woman walked out of a back room carrying stolen wealth and the kind of presence that owned the street outside.
Charlène selected the most expensive piece in the store—a floor-length gown of deep black silk and smoky grey lace. It looked like a storm held together by thread.
She moved into the changing room and pulled the velvet curtain shut. Her gaze fell briefly on the briefcase. She could have paid. There was more than enough money in it to buy the entire store. But power didn't need receipts. Stealing felt more honest.
She removed the slip and slipped into the gown. It fit as if it had been made for her, silk cool against her skin. She reached for a masquerade mask—grey filigree edged in gold, dark feathers arching over her eyes like a predator in flight. It didn't hide her gaze; it framed it.
Her eyes drifted back to the briefcase on the floor. She couldn't walk into a high-end gala carrying stolen cash.
Charlène lifted the key and slid it into the changing room door.
Home.
The boutique vanished, replaced by her apartment. She stepped through, dropped the briefcase onto her bed, and moved down the hall. She checked on her brother, Leo. He lay pale and still, breathing sustained only by machines funded by her "blood money."
"I'll be back soon," she whispered.
She closed his door, slid the key into the lock, and shut her eyes. Not a boutique this time. The belly of the beast.
The De Rossi Estate. Italy.
She turned the key.
The sound hit first—an orchestra alive with expensive elegance. The air smelled of aged bourbon and heavy perfume. Charlène stepped out onto a second-floor balcony of the De Rossi ballroom.
A man nearby leaned against the railing, glass of scotch in hand. He froze when he saw her emerge from a closet door. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, looked between the door and her, then back again. Alcohol had clearly stopped being enough explanation for what he was seeing.
Charlène didn't acknowledge him. A slow, controlled smirk curved her lips as she walked past.
She began her descent down the grand staircase, heels striking marble in a steady rhythm. Below, the ballroom stretched into a sea of masks and shifting bodies. The De Rossi annual masquerade—where Italy's most dangerous names pretended to be civilized.
She wasn't here for champagne. She was here as a ghost embedded in the system, mapping exits, reading security, preparing for what came next.
Her gown moved like smoke behind her, black and grey lace catching chandelier light. She felt like a shadow moving through a room full of noise.
Then she felt it—pressure at the edge of her awareness. A gaze that didn't wander.
Charlène turned her head slightly.
By the marble fountain stood a man who didn't need a mask to be dangerous. He wore one anyway—simple black, sharpening the burn of his hazel eyes into something molten. He wasn't dancing. He wasn't drinking. He was still, watching as if the entire room had narrowed into her.
Lucien De Rossi.