Leo's POV
Silence was a commodity. In Leo Moretti's world, it was rarer than diamonds, more valuable than cash. In his penthouse at the top of the Aurora Tower, he bought it with thick concrete walls, soundproof glass, and a reputation that made even the building's staff whisper instead of speak.
He stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, a crystal glass of amber whiskey in his hand, untouched. Sixty stories below, the city was a twinkling grid of red and white Christmas lights. Cars crawled like glowing beetles. On the pedestrian level, he knew there would be music, laughter, the chaotic, messy joy of the season. Up here, there was only the hum of the climate control and the weight of his own thoughts.
They called him "The Ghost." It was a name earned not because he was dead, but because he was unseen. He moved through the city's underbelly without leaving a trace; his decisions felt like seismic events by people who never saw his face. He was thirty-five years old and owned more than most men dreamed of, yet the penthouse felt less like a home and more like a very expensive, very empty cage.
Christmas. He took a slow sip of whiskey, letting the burn travel down his throat. It was just another day on the calendar. Another day where the legitimate world shut down, and the illegitimate one grew hungrier, more desperate. Another reminder of family dinners he'd never had, of gifts that were never just gifts, but always transactions.
His phone, a sleek, black, encrypted device, lay on the steel-gray sofa beside him. It was for business. For orders. For threats. It rarely buzzed with anything that wasn't a problem to be solved or a person to be dealt with.
Bzzzt.
It vibrated against the leather cushion, a short, sharp sound in the silence.
Leo didn't move. He watched the reflections of the city lights in his glass. It was probably Marco, his second, with an update on the shipment from the docks. Or it could be the lawyer, finalizing the takeover of that nightclub. Another piece on the chessboard.
Bzzzt.
Again. An insistent, double buzz. A message, not a call.
With a sigh that was more habit than emotion, he set his glass down on the windowsill and picked up the phone. He tapped the screen, his face illuminated by its cold, blue light.
The message was from a number not in his contacts. Unknown. His first instinct was razor-sharp suspicion. A trap? A wrong number from a rival, trying to lure him into a conversation that could be traced? The Vitelli family had been getting bold lately. This could be a new trick.
He read the two lines.
He broke my ribs.
The words were simple. Terrifyingly simple. There was no context. No "help me" or "call the police." Just a stark, horrific statement. He broke my ribs.
Leo's mind, trained for decades to assess threats and angles, immediately began to dissect it. A woman, likely. The phrasing. A domestic situation. Ugly. Common. The kind of messy, personal violence his organization sometimes profited from but never personally engaged in. It was beneath him.
He should delete it. Block the number. It was a civilian problem. A police problem. Not his problem.
He went to tap the delete command. His finger hovered over the screen.
But something in the raw, unadorned terror of the message stopped him. There was no manipulation here. No request for money, no blackmail attempt. It was the digital equivalent of a whisper from a dark room. A pure, unvarnished truth sent out into the void, not knowing where it would land.
He thought of the silence in his own apartment. The heavy, expensive silence. He thought of the countless times he'd issued commands that led to violence, to broken things. He was a man who built his empire on knowing when to apply pressure, when to break something to make it obey.
This message was from someone who had already been broken.
A strange, almost forgotten feeling stirred in his chest. It wasn't pity. Pity was weak. It was… recognition. The recognition of a fellow broken thing. But where he was made of hardened scar tissue, this unknown person was freshly shattered.
His thumb moved. Instead of deleting, he tapped the message field. He stared at the blinking cursor. What was he doing? This was insane. Reaching out was a vulnerability. A Ghost did not have vulnerabilities.
Yet, the image wouldn't leave his mind. Someone, somewhere, in pain, typing those words. Maybe hiding in a closet. Or a bathroom. Alone.
His fingers typed three words. They were the only words that made sense. A statement of fact, just like hers.
I'm on my way.
He hit send before he could think better of it.
The moment the message whooshed away, his operational mind snapped back into place. This was a monumental risk. He was committing to walking into an unknown situation, based on two lines of text. He needed information. Control.
He strode to his study, a room of dark wood and screens. He woke his laptop, his fingers flying across the keyboard. He had a guy, a wizard who lived in a basement surrounded by servers. Leo sent him the unknown number with a single command: TRACE. OWNER. LOCATION. NOW.
A reply came back in under sixty seconds. Number registered to an "Ava T. Clarke." Billing address: 224B Maple Lane, Apartment 3. GPS pings last hour place the phone at that location. Clean record. No flags.
Ava. He had a name. An address. A clean record. This wasn't a Vitelli trap. This was just a woman named Ava, who was hurt.
The weight of his decision settled on him. He had told her he was coming. A Moretti did not go back on his word. It was the only currency, besides fear, that he truly valued.
He walked to his bedroom, to a panel that looked like part of the wall. He pressed a sequence, and it slid open, revealing not clothes, but tools of his trade. Neat, severe, organized. He bypassed the heavier artillery. This didn't call for a war. He selected a compact, matte-black pistol, checking the magazine with practiced efficiency before sliding it into a holster at the small of his back. He pulled a simple black sweater over it.
He was at his front door, a long wool coat in his hand, when his phone buzzed again. Not Ava. Marco.
Boss. Got a whisper. Vitelli's guys are stirring. They're moving a bunch of product from their warehouse on the west side. Looks like they're trying to move it before the holiday cops set up. Want us to intercept?
Business. Always business. A chance to strike a rival, to seize profit. This was his life. This was what he should be doing tonight.
He looked at the door. On the other side was the elevator, the garage, his car, and a trip to 224B Maple Lane. To a stranger named Ava.
On his phone screen was the familiar path of power, violence, and money.
He typed a reply to Marco, his jaw tight.
Stand down. Monitor only. Do not engage. I have an errand.
He could almost feel Marco's confusion through the phone. An errand? The Ghost didn't run errands.
Leo didn't explain. He opened the door, stepped into the private elevator, and pressed the button for the garage. As the doors closed, sealing him in the silent, descending box, he had the distinct feeling he was stepping off a cliff.
The elevator opened to his private garage, cool and smelling of concrete and motor oil. His car, a dark SUV with windows tinted to midnight, sat waiting. He got in, the engine purring to life with a soft push of a button.
He entered the address into the navigation system. A route lit up in blue. Twelve minutes away.
He pulled out of the garage and into the slow, festive traffic. Christmas music drifted from other cars. Through their windows, he saw couples laughing, kids waving from back seats. A world he observed but was never part of.
He was a man who dealt in secrets and fear, now driving toward a single, desperate secret sent into the night. He didn't know what he would find. A setup. A tragedy. Or just a scared, hurt woman.
All he knew for certain was that he had given his word.
And as he turned onto Maple Lane, a quiet street lined with old brick buildings and iron railings, he saw the building. Apartment 3 would be on the front, second floor. A light was on.
He parked a few spaces down, killed the engine, and sat in the dark. He scanned the street. No suspicious cars. No lookouts. It was just a cold, residential street on Christmas week.
This was the moment to turn back. To let the police handle it. To be the Ghost.
He saw a shadow move past the lit window of Apartment 3. A frantic, jerky movement.
He got out of the car, the cold air biting his face. He didn't bother to lock it. He crossed the street, his footsteps silent on the salted pavement. He walked up the two short steps to the building's main door. There were three buzzers. 1 - Miller. 2 - Johnson. 3 - Clarke/McCarthy.
McCarthy. That must be the "he." The rib-breaker.
Leo didn't buzz. The main door was unlocked, typical for a building in this neighborhood. He pushed it open and stepped into a dim, warm hallway that smelled of old carpet and someone's dinner.
He took the stairs two at a time, his hand resting lightly near the small of his back. At the door to Apartment 3, he stopped. He could hear a television inside. A sports channel. The volume was loud.
He raised his fist and knocked. Three firm, solid knocks that brooked no argument.
The TV went silent.
Heavy footsteps approached the door. "Who is it?" a male voice yelled, thick with annoyance. Mark McCarthy. The hockey player. Leo recognized the name now, a mid-tier talent known for aggressive plays.
"Delivery for Clarke," Leo said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.
"At this hour? Leave it outside."
"Needs a signature," Leo replied, not moving.
He heard a grumble, the sound of a chain lock sliding, and then the door was yanked open.
Mark McCarthy filled the doorway, wearing a team sweatshirt, his face flushed. He looked Leo up and down, his eyes narrowing. Leo saw the instant assessment, the athlete's sizing-up of a potential threat. Leo stood perfectly still, giving away nothing.
"There's no package," Mark stated, suspicion dripping from his voice.
"No," Leo agreed calmly, his eyes already scanning the apartment behind Mark, looking for signs of her. "I'm here for Ava."
Mark's face transformed from suspicion to defensive rage. He moved to slam the door, but Leo's foot was already in the way, blocking it with immovable force. From the dark hallway behind the door, Leo saw a flicker of movement. A pale, terrified face peering from the stairs. Ava. Their eyes met for a split second. And in that moment, Leo knew his errand had just become a war.