To The Wraith In My Walls

**Ronan**

"Boss, we got another delivery."

Declan kicks the heavy oak door of my office shut behind him. He wears a grin that borders on a smirk, his eyes dancing with dark, unrestrained amusement. In his hands, he carries a sleek, matte black box. A thick, blood-red ribbon wraps around the center, tied into a pristine bow. He treats it like fragile crystal, setting it right in the middle of my polished mahogany desk. He steps back, crossing his arms, shifting his weight from foot to foot like a kid waiting for a fireworks show. He loves this twisted little game just as much as I do. He has watched this dynamic play out for three long years, treating it like a ringside seat to madness. Maybe he is right.

"Another gift?" I trace the sharp edge of the desk, leaning forward in my leather chair. My usual iron-clad composure cracks, allowing a faint, genuine smile to surface. "So soon. I must have been on my best behavior."

The last delivery arrived barely four days ago. Before that, it was a week. My unseen admirer is growing bolder. Her tempo is increasing, matching the dangerous rhythm of my own life. I reach out, hooking a finger under the crimson silk. One sharp tug, and the ribbon unravels, pooling onto the dark wood like spilled blood.

I lift the lid. I take my time, savoring the raw anticipation, letting the silence stretch before I look down into the velvet-lined interior.

Two severed hands rest inside.

The flesh is pale, drained, and brutally hacked at the wrists. The cuts are jagged but deliberate, showing a disturbing level of dedication. They are arranged side by side, a grotesque museum display meant only for my eyes. I spot three gaudy, oversized gold rings embedded into the thick, swollen fingers of the right hand.

I know those rings.

They belong to an arms dealer out of Prague. The same greedy bastard who decided to skim two million dollars off my latest shipment of tactical rifles before vanishing into the wind. I put out a quiet, high-priority hit on him yesterday morning. I expected my team to track him down by the end of the month. I did not expect results this fast.

"Looks like he didn't run fast enough," I say. My voice is calm, rough around the edges.

Declan leans over the desk, letting out a low, impressed whistle. "Another loose end tied up. You didn't even have to lift a single finger to authorize the strike team."

I let out a low breath, deeply amused by the sheer audacity of it. "Efficiency. A rare trait in our line of work."

Declan snorts, shaking his head. "A bit too rare. Your mystery woman outpaces our best hitmen. She tracks down targets we are still trying to locate on the grid. She breaches secure compounds just to chop off parts and mail them to you."

I place the lid back onto the black box. I make sure not to smear the dark, tacky blood coating the inner cardboard edge. "Take this down to the freezer. Put it with the rest of her offerings."

Declan arches an eyebrow, grabbing the box. "You sure you want to keep stockpiling these, Boss? It is getting a little morbid down there. Real Silence of the Lambs territory."

"They are gifts," I tell him, leaning back and resting my hands on my stomach. "You never throw away a gift. It is disrespectful."

Declan chuckles. He turns toward the heavy oak door, shaking his head. "One of these days, she is going to waltz through the front gates wearing nothing but a red ribbon. Then you can finally thank her face-to-face."

The heavy door clicks shut, leaving me alone in the dead silence of my office.

Declan's words echo in the quiet room, painting a vivid, dangerous image in my mind. A shadow wrapped in silk. A woman who watches me from the dark corners of the world, killing my enemies without a second thought. She leaves behind the scent of burnt gunpowder and spun sugar. It is a terrifying, intoxicating mix. My ghost. My stalker. My wraith. I wonder what her eyes look like when she watches me sleep. I wonder what her mouth tastes like. One day, she will step out of the shadows. I just have to wait.

A week crawls by. Seven agonizing, silent days.

Not a single whisper of her. No faint trace of sweet perfume lingering on my pillowcases. No blood-soaked boxes waiting on my desk. No rearranged books on my shelves, and no smudged fingerprints on the glass of my bathroom mirror.

Nothing.

I search for her signs. I wait, tracking every shadow in my estate. I know she will return. She always does. She is addicted to this game as much as I am. I hate how much I crave the chaos she drags into my life. I have grown reliant on the electric tension, the jagged thrill of the unknown. The quiet is deafening when she is gone.

Tonight, the silence is broken by grueling business. I wrap up a long, tense meeting with the Italian syndicate. We share territory here in New York. For years, our families maintained a solid truce. We kept our shipping lines clean, our bank accounts full, and the city streets relatively free of bodies. It worked seamlessly. But lately, they are testing the boundaries.

They want more product. They demand wider territory. They push for total control over the docks.

The subtle jabs have turned into blatant disrespect. I have known these men since I was a teenager bleeding on the training mats. They represent the old guard, the structure that kept this city balanced. But if they cross the line, I will put them down. I am not the only one monitoring their moves. If my wraith decides they are a threat to me, I might not get the chance to handle things through diplomacy. I will wake up, step out my front door, and find another neat little box containing an Italian head wrapped in a rosary.

The thought makes my stomach tighten with a grim, twisted anticipation.

I walk the syndicate bosses out through the grand foyer. The crystal chandeliers cast long shadows over the cold marble floors. We shake hands. They flash fake smiles, puffing on expensive cigars, arrogant enough to believe they still rule this city.

I watch their black SUVs roll down the long driveway. I push the heavy double doors shut. The deadbolt slides into place with a heavy, metallic click.

I roll my shoulders, taking a deep breath of the quiet hall.

I stop.

The air in my house is different.

I inhale again. Garlic. Melted butter. Crushed rosemary.

My heart stalls in my chest. She is here.

The realization hits my bloodstream like a shot of raw adrenaline. I move. I abandon the quiet, calculated steps of a boss and sprint down the long marble corridor. My boots slam against the stone. Every nerve ending is wired, hyper-focused. This time, I will catch her. I will finally drag her out of the dark.

I near the kitchen archway. A sharp click echoes through the space—a door closing.

I push myself harder, rounding the corner without slowing down. "Fan out!" I bark into my lapel microphone, drawing the Glock from my waistband in one fluid motion. "Lock down the perimeter. Check the grounds. She is in the house."

I tear through the massive kitchen. The heavy back door is unlocked. I smash it open, bursting out into the cold night air. The wind whips past my face. I raise my weapon, scanning the dark tree line, the manicured hedges, the shadows clinging to the high stone walls.

Nothing.

My security team swarms the back lawn, tactical flashlights cutting through the dark. I stand on the patio, gripping my gun, chest heaving with exertion.

She vanished. Again. Just like smoke slipping through an open window. Every time I get within breathing distance, she turns into a ghost.

I stand in the cold for a long time. The wind rustles the oak leaves. I lower my weapon. A dark, reluctant smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth.

She beat me again.

I turn around and step back inside. The heavy door shuts, sealing the winter air out. I holster my gun, my jaw clenched tight. I walk back into the center of my kitchen, letting my senses adjust to the warmth.

The smell of roasted garlic and rich herbs is overpowering here. Her timing is impeccable. She knew exactly when my meeting with the Italians would end. She knew the exact minute I would be alone in this part of the sprawling estate.

I look at the massive marble island counter.

A meal waits for me.

Two plates of steaming, freshly cooked pasta sit opposite each other. A basket of warm bread rests in the center, wrapped neatly in a dark linen cloth. Next to the food, a bottle of expensive red wine is already uncorked. It breathes quietly next to two pristine crystal glasses.

I approach the counter slowly. I stare at the second plate. The empty space.

It looks like a date. A quiet, romantic dinner for two. It would be domestic and sweet, if you ignore the fact that she breached a billionaire's security grid, infiltrated a mafia stronghold, cooked a gourmet meal, and sprinted out the back door just to leave me a message.

A low, rough laugh claws its way up my throat. It fills the empty kitchen, bouncing off the stainless steel appliances.

She is unhinged. She is lethal.

And she is undeniably mine.

I pull out the heavy wooden stool and sit down at the counter. The heat radiating from the food smells like heaven, a stark contrast to the severed, bloody hands she delivered last week. I grab the heavy glass bottle and pour a generous measure of the dark red wine into my crystal glass.

I pick up the glass by the delicate stem. I raise it, holding it out toward the empty chair across the marble counter.

"To the wraith in my walls," I murmur, a crooked, dark smile spreading across my face. "Thank you for the dinner, Sweetheart."