GHOST SHOOTER

Martina's POV

Night had already fallen on the Argento estate, but sleep was far from me as I leaned against the glass window. My gaze fixated on the empty night outside, the cool feel of the knife by my thigh doing little to calm my nerves.

I had waited all day for him to return home since he left in a rush after my reaction. How could I not react?

His scars haunted me—there were more scars than flesh across his tanned skin. Lines upon lines intersected, heaps of raised tissue ran across his body. It was inhuman.

I couldn’t fathom such cruelty inflicted on an animal, let alone a living, breathing human being. And yet, this was the reason the Argentos were feared. This was why their name paraded unfalteringly through the mafia world for years—they were cruel.

The image of Silvio as a young boy, running around only to be met with the cruelest of punishments, weakened me to my bones. Yet, amidst the pity, a sense of relief settled on my shoulders.

Relief that it was me here and not Serafina. She wouldn’t have been able to handle this. She was too fragile. And fragile things broke far too easily in this world.

I settled myself onto the bed, the gun beneath the pillow now a mocking figure. Sliding it out, I felt its weight in my palm, an unsettling reminder of the dangers around me.

Memories of my first night here resurfaced—the way his lips had met mine with such intensity, the weight of his body hovering over mine before an intruder burst in and I shot him.

I lay in bed, turning the gun over and over in my hands, testing its weight, until eventually, I drifted into a restless sleep.

---

Silvio's POV

The sound of my gun firing echoed sharply in the air, the bullet penetrating the intruder's head with precision.

Amateur.

Wrapping a towel loosely around my waist, I moved closer to inspect the lifeless body. The first rule of the mafia was never to be unarmed—always be prepared for an attack, anytime, anywhere.

Blood from the bullet wound seeped into the carpet, turning its matcha-green color into a dark crimson shade. Kneeling down, I checked the body for anything that could hint at who had sent him.

In his pocket, I found a scrunched-up note. The words written on it sent a chill down my spine:

"Next time, you won’t be so lucky."

My jaw clenched as I stood, rushing over to review the security footage.

Nothing.

The footage showed no sign of movement in the last five days. There was no way this man could have known I’d be here. And yet, he was.

Picking up my gun, I did a quick sweep of the house. The silence was unnerving, but I wasn’t going to take any chances.

The thought crossed my mind—could it have been Nicolas? But even that didn’t make sense. Nicolas didn’t know about this off-base penthouse. If he did, he would’ve sent someone to tail me, and the security system would have picked up a trace of movement.

For a man who had more enemies than friends, the mere thought of being hunted sent goosebumps rippling across my skin.

Then her name came to me—Martina.

It was like a faint call in my head.

Pulling random clothes from the drawer, I dressed hurriedly and stormed out of the penthouse, the weight of the note heavy in my pocket and my mind already spinning with what this meant.

The drive back to the Argento estate was tense, the roads eerily quiet under the veil of night. My grip on the steering wheel tightened with every turn, the memory of the note playing on a loop in my mind.

"Next time, you won’t be so lucky."

Whoever sent him wanted me rattled, and they’d succeeded. But rattled wasn’t the same as scared. Fear was a luxury I couldn’t afford.

By the time I arrived, the estate was shrouded in darkness, except for the faint glow of the perimeter lights. My guards nodded as I passed, their hands resting on their weapons, eyes scanning the surroundings. I knew they wouldn’t have seen the intruder; whoever had sent him wasn’t careless enough to leave traces.

I stepped through the grand doors, the quiet inside unnerving. Normally, the estate felt alive even at night—footsteps in the hallways, the hum of distant voices. But tonight, it felt different.

As I climbed the staircase, a strange unease settled in my chest. Was she awake? Did she feel it too?

The door to our shared room creaked softly as I pushed it open. She was there, lying in bed, her chest rising and falling steadily with each breath. The moonlight streaming through the window painted her features in a soft glow. For a moment, I paused, watching her.

In her hand, she still held the gun—loosely, as though she’d fallen asleep.

Her brows furrowed slightly in her sleep, as if the tension of the day had followed her into her dreams. My eyes softened for just a moment, before I forced myself back into control.

I crossed the room silently, my footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. Gently, I reached out and took the gun from her hand, careful not to wake her. I placed it back under the pillow, where she could reach it if she needed to.

“Martina,” I murmured, my voice barely audible.

Her eyes fluttered open, sleepy but instantly alert. She sat up quickly, her gaze darting to me.

“You’re back,” she whispered, her voice low.

“I’m back.” I pulled off my jacket and draped it over the chair near the window.

She gave a faint smile, but her eyes studied me carefully. “You look… tense.”

I didn’t answer immediately, my hands running through my hair as I leaned against the edge of the bed. “There was an intruder.”

Her eyes widened slightly, but she quickly masked her reaction. “Did you—”

“He’s dead,” I interrupted, my tone flat. “But there was something strange about it. No sign of how he got in, and no record on the security footage. It’s like he appeared out of thin air.”

Martina’s hand instinctively went to the knife by her thigh, her fingers curling around the hilt.

“I don’t think they’ll come here,” I said, trying to sound more certain than I felt. “But we’ll increase security just in case.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes narrowing. “Who do you think sent him?”

I hesitated. Nicolas was the obvious choice, but I couldn’t ignore the possibility of an outside player. Someone who knew enough about me to know where I’d be.

“I’m not sure yet,” I admitted. “But I’ll find out.”

Martina’s gaze lingered on me, as though she could see the weight I was carrying. Without a word, she slid over, leaving space on the bed.

“Sit,” she said softly.

For a moment, I considered brushing her off, but something in her tone made me comply. I sank onto the edge of the bed, her warmth radiating close by.

“Are you okay? she murmured, her voice almost too quiet to hear.

I didn’t respond, my eyes fixed on the floor.

The scars she had seen earlier—it was clear they had left an impression on her. But what she didn’t know was that the scars she couldn’t see—the ones inside—were far worse.

I turned to look at her, her expression softer than I had expected. At that moment, she wasn’t the fragile girl I thought she was. She was stronger than I gave her credit for.

“Get some sleep,” I said finally, standing.

I left her with those words, retreating to the adjoining study where I could keep watch over her. The weight of the note in my pocket was a stark reminder that the threat was far from over.

Whoever was playing this game was closer than I wanted to admit. And they’d made one critical mistake.

Messing with me.