The Mafia Don's Sweetest Sin

/Elio/

The shutter of my Sony A7R clicked, a sound that usually made me feel elated, but it was different today.

"Elio, seriously, look at the engagement!" Sarah was practically vibrating beside me, shoving her phone toward my face. "The beach reel hit two million in three hours. The brands are going to be clawing at your door by morning."

I forced a smile, tucking a stray hair behind my ear. "That’s great, Sar. Really."

But my eyes weren’t on the number of views, if anything, that was the least of my concern. They were fixed on the banner notification at the top of my own screen. It was from a private account with no profile picture—just a grey, empty profile.

TheGhost: You looked beautiful in blue today, Elio. But you look better when you’re alone.

A chill that had nothing to do with the studio’s AC crawled up my spine. I was wearing a blue silk wrap dress. I had been wearing it for exactly forty minutes, and I hadn’t posted a single photo of it yet.

"You okay?" Sarah’s voice softened, her excitement dimming as she noticed my pale face. "Is it the 'Ghost' again?"

"It’s fine," I lied, quickly swiping the notification away. My hands were shaking. "Just tired. I think I’m going to head out early."

I didn’t wait for her to argue. I packed my gear with jerky movements. For a month, I’d been living in this hyper-vigilant haze. Every shadow in the parking lot looked like a person; every car behind mine felt like a tail. I was a professional photographer—I spent my life looking through a lens—but lately, it felt like the lens was turned on me.

I hopped into my car and dialed Marcus. Pick up. Please, just pick up.

It went straight to voicemail. Again.

The drive home went by in paranoia. I kept checking the rearview mirror, searching for a pair of headlights that stayed too long, but the road was empty. That almost made it worse. The Ghost didn't need to follow me; he was already where I was going.

When I reached the apartment, I didn't even get to the door before the smell hit me.

It wasn't the scent of the expensive lilies I kept in the foyer. It was the heavy, metallic sting of gunpowder mixed with the thick, cloying aroma of premium cigars. My stomach did a slow, painful flip.

I pushed the door open. The apartment was bright—too bright. Marcus was sitting at the dining table, but he wasn't alone. Three men stood behind him like statues, their jackets flared just enough to reveal the holstered Glocks at their hips. Their eyes were cold, empty, and fixed on me.

"Marcus?" My voice was small, echoing in the large room.

He didn't look up from the map spread across the table. He was marking sections of the city with a red felt-tip pen. "You're late, Elio."

"Who are these people?" I gestured to the giants in my dining room. "You said you were done with the street stuff. You said we were safe."

Finally, he looked up. There was no warmth in his gaze, only a weary kind of irritation. "Safe is a fairy tale, El. Get used to it. The Virelli family is pushing the borders. We’re at war."

"I didn't sign up for a war," I said, my voice gaining a sharp edge of desperation. "I signed up for a life with you. Not a life where I have to step over bodyguards to get to my kitchen."

Marcus stood up, the chair screeching against the marble floor. He walked over and gripped my shoulders. His hands were heavy—too heavy. "This is the life. My world is your world. You don’t get to pick and choose the parts you like."

I looked at him—really looked at him. I saw the bloodstain on his cuff. I saw the callousness in his eyes. And then I thought of the message on my phone. I was being hunted by a ghost on the outside, and I was being caged by a monster on the inside.

"No," I whispered.

"What?"

"I said no." I stepped out of his grip, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"I’m done, Marcus. You can fight your war. But you’re going to do it without me."

He laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "And where are you going to go? You have nothing without me. You’re a girl who takes pictures of sunsets."

"I’d rather take pictures of sunsets in a motel than watch you bleed out on my rug," I snapped.

I didn't give him time to process it. I turned and walked into the bedroom, slamming the door. My hands were flying now, pulling a suitcase from the closet. I didn't grab everything—just my cameras, my hard drives, and enough clothes to last a week. My breath came in short, jagged gasps. I expected him to burst through the door, to drag me back, to show me exactly why people feared the name Valenti.

But he didn't come. The silence from the living room was more terrifying than a shout. It meant he didn't think I’d actually go. He thought I was weak.

Ten minutes later, I rolled my suitcase into the hallway. Marcus was back at the table, a cigar clamped between his teeth. He didn't even look at me as I walked toward the elevator.

"You'll be back by morning, Elio!" he called out, his voice muffled by smoke. "The world is a scary place for a girl like you."

The elevator doors slid shut, cutting off his voice.

I sat in my car in the basement for a long time, my forehead resting on the steering wheel. I was free. I was terrified, homeless, and shaking, but I was free.

“Where do I stay though?” I muttered to myself, banging my head on the wheel.

I didn't go to a motel. That’s the first place Marcus’s men would look when he finally thinks he should bring me home. Instead, I drove to PALMLAKE, a high-rise I’d scouted for a shoot months ago. It was sleek, expensive, and used biometric security that even Marcus’s tech guys would struggle to bypass.

I paid the deposit and six months of rent upfront in cash—money I’d been hiding from my social media influencing and photography contracts for exactly this reason. As the concierge handed me the key fob, I felt a weight lift off my chest. No more cigars. No more gunpowder.

I made it up to the thirty-second floor. The apartment was minimalist, all glass and large windows, looking out over the city. I leaned my forehead against the cool window. I was finally anonymous.

I pulled out my phone and posted a single, blurry photo of the city lights to my Story. Fresh Start.

I set the phone on the marble counter and went to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. When I came back, the screen was glowing. One new DM.

TheGhost: I’m glad you chose PALMLAKE, Elio. The view from the thirty-second floor is much better than your boyfriend's house.

My heart stopped. I looked at the floor-to-ceiling windows, suddenly feeling like I was standing on a stage. I lunged for the remote, hitting the button to close the heavy blackout curtains. As the fabric hissed shut, my phone buzzed again.

TheGhost: What a nice attempt to shut me out. If it were that easy, I wouldn't still be here. Go to sleep, Elio. You’re safe now. I’ve made sure of it.

I stayed frozen in the dark, my back against the kitchen island. He was here. Somewhere.

A soft thud came from the hallway outside my front door. I crept toward the peephole, my breath hitching. The hallway was empty, but sitting on the floor, directly in front of my door, was a single white lily. It was fresh, the petals pristine, looking exactly like the ones I used to keep in my old foyer.

I didn't open the door. I couldn't. I just watched through the tiny lens as the door to the apartment directly across the hall—3205—clicked shut.

“I'm probably overthinking things right now. This is my fresh start and he's only trying to get into my head,” I took deep breaths to calm myself down.

My phone screen lit up one last time, a text from an unknown number this time, not the Ghost.

Unknown: I saw you moving in. I’m in 3205 if you ever need a hand with the heavy lifting. – Caius.