Meret stepped out of the small neighborhood grocery with two paper bags tucked in her arms. One packed with dry food and canned goods, the other full of fresh meat, bones, and a ridiculous amount of treats. All for one very spoiled golden retriever.
It had been three days since the heist.
Three days since she'd walked out of that glittering excuse for a gallery with the real coin tucked neatly against her ribs, slipping past security and silk gowns like smoke.
And yet… silence.
No headlines. No breaking news. No frantic "Ghost Strikes Again" alerts splashed across morning screens. The coin hyped for months, marketed with all the pomp and arrogance money could buy had vanished without a trace, and no one seemed to be talking about it.
But she was certain they knew what had gone amiss.
Because the exhibit had been scheduled to end the gala with the display of the rare coin. Instead, the display never launched. Events were canceled. The gallery's socials went dark.
And still no one was talking about it.
Meret crossed over toward her street, the one that led to her apartment. She liked this part, walking among people, anonymous, invisible. The city buzzing with its small, safe lives while she moved past, carrying secrets no one would dare dream of.
While the neighbors had been used to seeing her around, they didn't know who she was. Not really.
Once, she was the daughter of a well-known architect and a museum curator. They didn't have everything, but they had enough: a warm home, quiet dinners, and weekends filled with laughter. She was the kind of girl who owned more books than clothes, asked too many questions, and whose bedroom always smelled faintly of rosemary and old paper
Then everything shattered.
It happened during dinner. Two men broke into their home with one goal—to retrieve a necklace. Not just any necklace, but the same one a foreign prince had gifted her mother months earlier after she'd helped him during a diplomatic scandal. Her parents hadn't known it was worth millions. They thought it was a gesture of gratitude.
The men had been sent by that same prince to collect it quietly, without bloodshed. But her mother refused. She had promised the necklace to an organization she supported and didn't want to break her word. The refusal turned into an argument. One of the men got nervous, then angry. He shot her. Her father lunged toward him and was shot next.
She remembered the blood on the table and how the room had gone quiet so fast.
Then they turned to her, probably to take care of her but it was at that moment the prince called to ask if the job was done. Over the phone, he told them not to kill her. To bring her in.
To the public, she died that night with her parents. In reality, she was locked in a cold basement for two days while they prepared to move her. The plan was to send her to a private island used for trafficking.
But that was where it started.
All she had on her was a hairpin. It was enough.
She picked the lock, ran through the back corridors, and found the necklace packed in a shipment box. She took it. She didn't know why at the time. She only knew that if she left it behind, it would be like none of it ever happened.
That was the night she disappeared. Not as a victim. But as a thief.
She never stopped.
Not for revenge. Not for justice.
Just to remind the world that nothing—not vaults, not men, not price tags—was ever truly safe.
Just like her family hadn't been.
Meret finally reached her building and climbed the stairs to the third floor. The lock clicked, and Meret shouldered the door open with a quiet huff. Grocery bags crinkled against her jacket as she stepped inside, nudging the door shut with her hip.
"Cray Cray," she called lightly, setting the bags on the counter.
Silence.
She glanced toward the hallway. "I brought the meat you like. The good stuff."
Still no sound.
She pulled off her jacket and tossed it onto the stool by the counter. The apartment was exactly how she left it; curtains half-drawn and one sock still hanging off the edge of the couch from their morning tug-of-war. But it felt… stiller than usual.
Cray cray always came running when she came home. Tail smacking into furniture, tongue out, ears flopping like he'd never been so happy to see a person in his life. He never missed a return. Not even when he was asleep.
She shook it off and started unloading the bags. Milk. A bag of rice. The pack of raw beef she bought just for him.
"Come on," she muttered, smiling to herself as she opened the fridge. "Don't act like you suddenly got boundaries."
But something pulled at her gut — a dull thread of wrongness tugging tighter the longer the quiet stretched.
Groceries unpacked, she rinsed her hands, dried them slowly, then turned and walked to the hall.
"Cray Cray?"A little sharper now. "Hey, come out."
She checked the bedroom. The closet. Even crouched to glance under the bed.
Nothing.
A frown tugged at her face as she stepped back into the main room.
She wasn't panicking yet, but her stomach was starting to twist. Something was off. Off enough that she turned toward the living room again, more alert this time.
That's when she saw it.
The coin.
It sat on the coffee table—out in the open.
She hadn't left it there. She'd locked it in the compartment under her drawer. Hidden. Safe.
Now it was here.
And beneath it, a folded piece of paper.
Her chest went still.
She crossed the room, picked up the coin with one hand, the paper with the other.
Unfolded it.
Five words, written in careful, unmistakable handwriting:
Found you, Meret Quinn. – L.M.
Her pulse kicked.
Lucien Moretti knew. And he wanted her to know it.
What she didn't understand was why he hadn't taken the coin back. Or why she wasn't dead. Or plastered across every news headline with her identity exposed.
She stared at the note, then at the coin, still cold in her palm, trying to figure out how he'd found her.
But what unsettled her most wasn't that he'd broken in. It was that nothing had been touched. No drawers pulled open, no mess left behind. He hadn't searched for the coin—he'd gone straight to it.
He knew exactly where to look.
Her head tilted slightly.
Then a slow smile curved her lips.
If Lucien Moretti wanted a game—fine.
She'd play.
******************
Meanwhile, in Lucien's penthouse,
the city sprawled out beneath him in glittering silence, but his attention was on the grainy video loop paused on the screen in front of him.
She'd picked up the coin with steady fingers, read the message without blinking…
And then she smiled.
He'd been staring at that image for over three hours.
Lucien had watched the live feed, waited for her next move, but nothing had happened. She simply dropped the coin back on the table and it's been radio silence since then.
So he went back to the footage. To the moment that mattered.
Just then, Matteo stepped in, dropping a small black case and two folders onto Lucien's desk.
"Everything you asked for," he said.
Lucien didn't look up.
Matteo lingered a moment, then asked, "Boss? It's been hours."
Lucien leaned back in his chair, still watching the screen. "She smiled."
Matteo bit back a grimace.
"You expected her to cry?"
"I expected her to run," Lucien murmured. "Most people do."
Matteo dropped the last folder with a thud. "She's not like most people. You've known that since the gala."
Lucien said nothing. He simply rewind the video again as he watched her face when she picked up the coin. Frame by frame. From the hidden coin-cam embedded in the very thing she'd stolen.
"Boss, what if she doesn't take the bait? It's been hours. She dropped the coin back on the table. No movement, no contact. For all we know, she's already on a plane."
Lucien didn't respond. He simply replayed the video again.
Matteo didn't take the cue to shut up.
"I still say take her out and air her to the media. It'd help your rep, and shut down the whispers about why the coin wasn't showcased at the gala."
"I want her here."
That made Matteo pause. "Here…?"
Lucien didn't answer immediately. He clicked the remote, pausing the footage on her face — that half-smile she'd given the camera when she read his note.
"I've spent years watching thieves pretend to be legends. She didn't pretend." He leaned back. "She disappeared in plain sight, took something guarded by thirty men, and didn't trip a single alarm. That's not luck."
"She's dangerous," Matteo muttered.
"She's valuable," Lucien corrected. "If we can turn that kind of mind to our side, we change the game."
Matteo raised a brow. "And if we can't?"
Lucien gave a thin smile. "Then we remind her she doesn't hold the leash."
A beat of silence.
Matteo took a breath. "You really think she'll trust you?"
Lucien's voice was quiet, almost amused.
"You can't trust a weapon. But you can aim it."
He stood, fixing his cuffs with a flick of his wrist.
"Keep surveillance on her building. Don't let her leave without us knowing."
He paused. "And make sure no one gets in."
Matteo nodded. "No one's getting through the penthouse floor, boss. Not without a small army."
A soft voice cut in from behind them.
"Fuck," she muttered, stepping into view. "I knew I forgot something.
Lucien turned and came face to face with her– The ghost.
Meret was already inside.
Standing just beyond the threshold, calm, poised with her fingers gloved.
She glanced at Matteo's stunned face, then back at Lucien.
"You left the door open," she said lightly. "Metaphorically."
Lucien's brow lifted slightly. "How long have you been here?"
She smiled.
"Long enough to hear about the leash."
Her gaze flicked toward the paused screen of her own face frozen mid-smirk.
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing just slightly.
"And to know that… the big bad mafia has a little crush on me…"