Ghosts of the Past
The study smelled of smoke and gunpowder. A thin curl of smoke still rose from the carpet where Lucian's gun had fired, the traitor's body sprawled at his feet. The silence pressed heavy, suffocating, until Lucian finally exhaled through clenched teeth.
The name still echoed in his head.
Ellington.
He hadn't heard it spoken aloud in years. Not since the night he'd watched their empire burn. Not since he swore he had ended them.
But the dead didn't stay buried.
---
"Elena."
Her voice drifted from the doorway, soft and uncertain. She stood there in her robe, eyes widening at the body on the floor. For a moment, she couldn't breathe.
"What happened?"
Lucian wiped the blood from his knuckles with a handkerchief, his expression unreadable. "He was a traitor."
Her gaze flicked between Lucian and the corpse. "A traitor?"
Lucian's jaw tightened. He didn't want to tell her. Didn't want to drag her into the darkness of his past. But one look at her — the worry etched into her face, the way she clutched the doorframe to steady herself — and he knew he couldn't lie.
"They're back," he said quietly.
"Who?"
His eyes met hers, cold as steel. "The Ellingtons."
---
The name meant nothing to Elena. But the way Lucian said it — like a curse, like poison on his tongue — made her blood run cold.
She stepped into the room, her bare feet silent on the hardwood. "Tell me," she whispered. "Who are they?"
Lucian turned away, staring into the fire as if it could erase the past. "Old enemies. Older than Dante. Older than the Marinos. They weren't just another family. They were an empire. Ruthless. Untouchable."
Elena waited, silent, sensing this was a wound he rarely opened.
"I was young when I went to war with them," he continued, his voice low. "Too young. But I had no choice. They tried to take everything — my men, my city, my bloodline. So I destroyed them first. I burned their homes, slaughtered their soldiers, and buried their name."
His hand trembled slightly as he poured himself a drink, though his voice never wavered. "Or so I thought."
Elena's heart ached at the shadow in his eyes. "And now they've returned."
Lucian nodded once, sharp and certain. "Stronger. Smarter. And if they sent Dante to soften me, then they've been playing a longer game than anyone realized."
Elena felt the floor tilt beneath her. "What do they want?"
Lucian's gaze finally met hers. His answer was chilling. "Everything."
---
The hours that followed were restless. Lucian's men disposed of the traitor's body, burning it before dawn. Word was sent through the streets: betrayal would be met with fire. But beneath the surface, fear lingered. The Ellingtons were a ghost story whispered in criminal circles — and now they were flesh again.
By morning, the estate felt like a fortress. Guards doubled. Windows locked. Gates reinforced. Yet even with the walls high, Elena sensed danger pressing in from all sides.
She found Lucian in the war room, maps spread across the table, red ink circling docks, warehouses, border points. His underbosses leaned in, voices urgent.
"They've been quiet for too long," Matteo said. "If the Ellingtons have been hiding in the shadows, they've built resources. Connections. Money. We can't fight them blind."
Lucian's voice cut like a blade. "Then we rip the shadows apart. I want every informant, every rat, every contact flushed out. Find me where they're hiding."
"Yes, boss."
The men scattered, leaving Lucian alone with Elena.
She approached cautiously, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Lucian… you can't fight ghosts with rage. You'll burn yourself alive."
His head tilted, eyes dark. "If that's the price of keeping you safe, then I'll pay it."
Her throat tightened. "I don't want your ashes, Lucian. I want you."
For a moment, the storm in his gaze softened. He cupped her face, his thumb brushing her cheek. "Then pray this ends quickly. Because if it doesn't…" His words trailed off, unfinished, too heavy to speak.
---
That night, the storm came.
Not at the gates. Not with bullets or fire.
But with a message.
A black car rolled up to the estate under the cover of darkness. Inside was no army — only a single box, left on the driveway.
When Lucian opened it, Elena's heart nearly stopped.
Inside lay a chess piece — the king. Its crown was stained red, its wooden body scorched.
Beneath it, a note written in elegant, precise script:
"You killed a Marino. But the Ellingtons will bury a Moretti."
Elena's blood ran cold. Lucian's hand crushed the paper until it shredded.
The war had returned.
And this time, it wasn't a fight for empire. It was a fight for survival.