Chapter 1: The Rooftop Ghost
Emilia Hart – Night – Manhattan
The city was a live wire beneath her, a mass of pulsing lights and whispered sin. From the vantage point of the surveillance van, Emilia Hart watched the skyline as if it were breathing. Manhattan never slept—and neither did the devils who ran it.
Through the long-range lens, she had eyes on him. Luca Moretti.
He stood at the edge of his rooftop, the very image of power and composure. Black suit, shirt unbuttoned just enough to show he wasn't afraid of the cold. Bourbon in one hand. A cigar glowing faintly in the other. Like a king surveying his kingdom.
But Emilia knew better. She had his file memorized. Blood, racketeering, smuggling, bribery—if there was a crime worth money, Luca Moretti had monetized it. His operations were so clean, so buried under shell companies and ghost networks, that even the FBI's best forensic analysts only scratched the surface.
She watched the way he turned his head slightly, as if sensing something.
"He's got the instinct," she murmured under her breath.
Agent Keene looked up from the second monitor beside her. "You sound impressed."
"I'm cautious," she replied coolly.
Cautious wasn't the half of it. Luca had become an obsession. Not just because he was the most wanted name on her board, but because there was something unshakable about him. Controlled chaos. Refined violence.
Behind him, his capos took their seats. The camera's resolution was high enough to catch the glint of gold chains and the nervous tension in their body language. One of them—Rafa DeLuca, his right-hand—was already speaking, lips moving in tight urgency.
Emilia adjusted the audio feed.
"…hit on the West Side," Rafa was saying. "No survivors. No goods. No trace."
Luca didn't flinch.
"Who?"
"No one's claiming it," Rafa said. "Could be the Delgados. Word is they're trying to muscle upstate."
Luca walked slowly to the table, his movements deliberate. Emilia found herself leaning in, studying his body language. Every motion was calculated but fluid, like he was part predator, part politician.
"We've operated on the West Side for six years without interference," he said. "Someone doesn't make a move like this without knowing they're lighting a fuse. So either the Delgados have grown a new pair of balls… or someone gave them permission."
Silence followed. Even from afar, Emilia could sense the shift in the room.
"Meaning," Luca continued, "we might be bleeding from the inside."
Emilia wrote that down.
Inside leak.
Keene scratched his jaw. "If one of his own's feeding intel, we could have an in."
"Or a war," Emilia muttered.
On the monitor, the meeting dispersed. Capos slipped out one by one. The camera lingered on Luca and Rafa, who stayed behind.
"You think it's internal?" Rafa asked.
Luca poured another bourbon. "Someone knew that route. That schedule. That it wasn't heavily guarded. You tell me."
Emilia leaned back, letting the conversation fade. She didn't need to hear the rest.
Her gut twisted. The more she watched, the more it felt like watching a wolf stalk a forest you thought you knew.
She turned off the audio and stared out the van's window. The real skyline shimmered in the distance. Somewhere above, Luca Moretti stood alone again.
She didn't just want to catch him anymore.
She wanted to understand him.
Later That Night – Briefing Room, FBI Field Office
The war room was buzzing. Maps of Manhattan projected onto the wall, with red zones blinking where gang activity had spiked in the last forty-eight hours. Photos, names, times. All tied to the West Side ambush.
Emilia stood by the board, arms crossed, eyes on the center.
Luca Moretti. The man who walked away from federal charges like smoke slipping through fingers.
"Everyone's talking about the hit like it's a territorial play," Keene said. "But Emilia caught something—Luca suspects internal betrayal."
She stepped forward. "We've seen a pattern. Every time a hit happens, it's clean. No chatter, no preamble. That kind of precision suggests the enemy knows Moretti's routes, his blind spots."
"You think someone inside Moretti's outfit is leaking?" another agent asked.
"I think Moretti thinks so. And if he's paranoid, we can use that."
Keene nodded slowly. "We'll push our assets on Delgado. But our real shot? Getting someone close to Luca. Earning his trust."
The room went still.
Emilia already knew what was coming.
Keene turned toward her. "You've been tailing him for weeks. You got close at the bar. He remembers you."
"We don't know that."
"He let his guard down. And you didn't blow your cover. He thinks you're just some smoky-eyed stranger."
Emilia's jaw tensed.
"Let's make that stranger permanent," he said. "We want you to go back in."
The implication was clear.
"Are you asking me to seduce him?"
"I'm asking you to be smarter than him. Get inside his head. Make him want to talk."
Emilia stared at Luca's photo on the wall. Dangerous. Intelligent. A man who didn't trust easily. And yet—
He'd let her in once.
"Fine," she said quietly. "I'll be his ghost."
Luca's Car
He hadn't driven far. The Maserati idled quietly in the dark, tinted windows reflecting nothing.
Luca sat still, jaw tight, fingers resting on the steering wheel. In his mind, the woman's face lingered—smile sharp, eyes unreadable.
He hadn't asked her name.
She hadn't offered it.
That should've been enough to walk away. It wasn't.
He lit another cigar and watched the smoke curl toward the roof.
Something about her didn't sit right.
But something else about her wouldn't leave.
Emilia Hart – Evening – Midtown Manhattan
The first time she saw him up close, he had blood on his cuff.
It had been nothing more than a brush of dark red on a starched sleeve, quickly hidden beneath the tailored line of his suit. But Emilia had clocked it. And like everything about Luca Moretti, it lingered—just long enough to raise questions, never long enough to answer them.
Now, as she adjusted the clasp of the pearl choker around her neck, Emilia looked into the gilded mirror and practiced her smile. The invitation had come through Cole Brennan, her undercover partner posing as an art investor. Apparently, Luca had a taste for paintings—and people who could talk about them like they mattered.
The gallery opening was a calculated choice. Public, elegant, crowded. But still his turf.
Everything was always his turf.
She let her fingers glide down the silk of her navy evening gown, smoothed the fabric over her hips, and stepped out into the night.
De Rossi Gallery
The De Rossi name meant something in the underground world: money, old blood, clean crime. They were art world royalty—with a rotting empire stitched beneath the canvas. Emilia didn't have to fake her distaste as she passed a sculpture labeled "Restraint" that looked more like a torture device.
Luca was already there.
Not center stage—he never was. But the room bent around him anyway.
He wore a charcoal-gray suit this time. Classic. Understated. The kind of wealth that didn't need to announce itself. His hair was slicked back but not overdone, and his expression was the same unreadable calm that made her skin itch.
She didn't walk straight to him. That would be a mistake. Instead, she circled, giving him a profile view across the room while pretending to admire a series of moody oil landscapes. She knew the moment he noticed her—because his posture shifted by a single degree.
Like a panther scenting something familiar.
"Thought I'd never see you again," he said behind her.
Emilia turned slowly, keeping her expression light. "I have a habit of disappearing."
He didn't smile. Not really. His lips curved, but there was no warmth in it. "And reappearing in the exact gallery I happen to be attending. Coincidence?"
"Fate," she said with a shrug.
He studied her for a long moment, then gestured to the bar. "Drink?"
"Only if it's real champagne."
"I don't do anything halfway."
He guided her through the crowd like he owned it—and maybe he did. She recognized at least three faces from the surveillance boards: De Rossi associates, a weapons broker, and someone who was definitely on Interpol's radar.
Luca handed her a flute of Dom Pérignon and touched the rim of his own glass to hers.
"To fate," he murmured.
They stood at the edge of the room, just close enough to be private. She played her part well—curious, amused, a little bold.
"You follow art?" she asked.
"I follow investments," he said. "Art just happens to look better than stock certificates."
Emilia tilted her head. "So you buy what appreciates."
"I buy what survives."
Their eyes locked for a breath too long. Then someone called his name—a sharp voice from behind them—and he turned, just slightly, enough to let her exhale.
Cole's Voice in Her Earpiece – Surveillance Van, Nearby
"Careful," Cole muttered. "He's running a background scan on you. De Rossi's guy is working facial recognition."
Emilia raised her glass again, buying time. "That's fast."
"Quicker than us. But we built your alias clean—he won't find anything unless he digs deeper than he should."
"Which he will," she whispered.
"Then make him want to protect you before he finds a reason to bury you."
Back Inside – Conversation Resumes
"You came alone?" Luca asked.
Emilia smiled over the rim of her glass. "Are you asking as a gentleman or a threat assessment?"
"I don't believe in gentlemen."
"Good," she said, stepping a little closer. "Neither do I."
She was walking a wire and she knew it. But that was the trick with men like Luca. Confidence was a kind of currency—and the only one they respected more than fear.
He studied her again, this time with something bordering on intrigue. "You don't flinch easy."
"I don't get close enough to be hit."
Something flickered in his eyes—something she couldn't quite name. Curiosity? Admiration? Or just the cold math of assessing danger?
And then, abruptly, he changed tactics.
"There's an afterparty," he said. "Not the kind with press."
She arched a brow. "You inviting me?"
"I don't invite," he said simply. "I offer."
Emilia's heart thudded once in her chest—but her voice came out steady.
"Then I accept."
Midnight – Private Penthouse, Midtown
The space was glass and stone, with dim lighting and expensive silence. Luca poured whiskey, not offering a tour. There were only four others present—two men in tailored suits and dead eyes, one woman draped across a velvet couch, and Rafa DeLuca, standing in the corner like a coiled threat.
Rafa looked at Emilia like he already didn't trust her. Good.
"I'm surprised you brought a guest," Rafa said to Luca.
"She's not a guest," Luca replied. "She's an observer."
Emilia took the cue. "I don't take up much space."
"Depends where you're standing," Rafa muttered.
Luca ignored the comment. He gestured for Emilia to sit. "Tell me something real."
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You're good at the dance," he said. "But I don't care about rehearsed lines. I want something real."
Emilia leaned back in the chair, the soft velvet catching against her spine. "I once watched a man drown because no one wanted to call the cops. Everyone assumed someone else would."
Luca's eyes didn't leave hers. "What did you do?"
"I took his watch," she said flatly.
A slow, dangerous smile crept onto his lips. "Liar."
She tilted her head. "Was that not real enough?"
"It was real," he said. "Just not true."
The air between them thickened.
"Your turn," she said.
Luca drained his glass and stood. "I don't tell stories."
"Pity," she said softly. "I bet yours are better than mine."
Rooftop Balcony
The city glittered below them like broken glass. Emilia stepped out for air, but he followed.
"I don't trust you," Luca said behind her.
She didn't turn. "Good. I'd worry if you did."
He came to stand beside her. Close. Too close.
"But I want to," he added.
That made her pause.
He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek, and Emilia forced herself not to pull away.
"Are you going to give me a reason to?" he asked.
"No," she said. "But that doesn't mean I'll give you a reason not to, either."
Silence.
Then he said the most dangerous thing of all.
"I want you around."
Her chest tightened.
He didn't mean for a night. He meant for a purpose. A use. A place in his world.
She was in.
But being in meant being watched.
Being tested.
Being seen.
And maybe—just maybe—being lost.
Back in the Van – Surveillance Feed
Cole exhaled shakily. "You just got invited into the lion's den."
Emilia stared at the screen, where her own face was now reflected in the feed.
"No," she whispered. "I just became the bait."