Page 2 of Her Dark Mafia Protector
We never got to do that, because my mother never made it home alive.
Parts of that night are still a blur, likely because of the trauma I endured. The therapist I saw for a while said that it’s a common thing for your brain to remember only parts of a traumatic experience and to block out others. I stopped seeing that therapist after a few months because it wasn’t helping. I know what I needed, and still need, to move past my trauma and heal, and it isn’t therapy sessions billed at two hundred and fifty dollars an hour. What I need is to find my mother’s killer.
The gunshot is burned into my memory. One second, my mom was smiling. Next, her shirt bloomed red, and she collapsed. The man who shot her turned the gun on me next. I remember the barrel, and the terror locking my body in place. And then—another gunshot.
I flinched, expecting to feel pain, to see blood. But I wasn't the one who was shot. The gunman dropped to the concrete, his weapon clattering beside him.
Behind him stood another figure. His gun lowered. His eyes—stone cold—locked on me for one second before he turned and disappeared into the shadows.
Even though it was years ago, the memory is fresh like it happened yesterday. I remember chasing him, feet pounding, rage and shock propelling me forward. But when I reached the end of the alley, there was nothing. No exit. No man. Just emptiness. As if he’d evaporated into the air itself. Just like a Ghost.
My therapist said it was my imagination. That I created an “antihero” to cope. That I needed to believe someone saved me. But the memories are too vivid. Too sharp.
And now, years later, whispers swirl about an assassin the underworld calls the Ghost. A shadow who kills in silence. A name spoken in hushed voices.
I can’t ignore that.
And if I’m right… then finding him might be the only way I’ll ever uncover the truth about my mother’s death.
CHAPTER 2
ELLE
Ishake my head to clear the memory and take a sip of my black coffee. This morning, I’m getting ready to attend aweddingof all things.
Later today, my childhood friend Valentina is getting married. I use the term “friend” loosely since that’s a long and complicated story. It was a shock just to have her reach out, doubly so to me there as security. Regardless, I’m attending her wedding for more reasons than one. Actually, I’m attending under the pretense of being there for security purposes, but I have myownpurpose for being there as well. I want to watch, observe the ceremony and, more importantly, the guests. I want to see what I can garner as far as surveillance intel in the midst of a high-profile wedding with mafia-aligned families. And since I get to attend under the guise of security oversight, that means I don’t even need to dress up.
Becoming a criminal profiler was destined for me. Not only have I made it my job to specialize in violent crime and organized crime syndicates, but I’ve also made it mylife. For some, pursuing truth and justice might be a passion. But for me, it’s anobsession. And since I’m exceptionally skilled in profiling andpsychological analysis, that means that I’m also damn good at my job.
I should probably thank my unresolved childhood trauma for pushing me toward dedicating my entire life and career to understanding killers and providing investigators with valuable insight into criminals’ minds in order to catch them. But my own scars embedded deep into my soul after witnessing my mother’s murder have kept me keenly focused on catchingonekiller in particular. One I’ve still yet to sniff out.
I tie my dark chestnut hair back into a loose ponytail, like I frequently do, and slide on my pants and a shapeless white button-down shirt that conceals my chest. Then, I slip my gun into its holster. I haven’t ever even fired it before, but I always wear it just in case the need arises. I intend to go to the wedding looking like a professional, favoring practicality over appearance as I always do. My job is to surveil, not to enjoy the ceremony as any other guest.
Granted, Luc and Valentina will have loads ofactualsecurity at their wedding, I’m sure. Mafia bosses and their men see to it that big events like these are well guarded, especially ones that have valuable people at them. My presence here is more of a gloss or a varnish to the security protocol than it is actual substance. Which is fine with me because that frees me up to do some snooping around on my own. My focus will be on searching the crowd for any hint ofhim. Even just thinking about finding the mysterious man from that fateful night sends me spiraling right back into an obsessive frenzy. If I’m not careful, I’ll let myself wander too far down the rabbit hole to a place I can’t return from. I try to balance rationality with obsession, but lately, it’s become increasingly difficult.
As I head to the wedding, I take in the lovely late-afternoon Mediterranean sunlight. After the wedding, I’ll be heading right back to Vegas, as most of the esteemed guests, I assume, will be returning as well. Only a few of the high-profile players attending live in Italy; the rest of the families live in Las Vegas and own various pieces of the city in the form of casinos, hotels, or even storefront businesses that double as illicit cartel operations. I’m well-versed and familiar with how the mafia works, both thanks to my complex friendship with Valentina Ricci and from watching my father work as a detective in Vegas withquestionableinvolvement with some of these families and their activities. To be honest, my father and I have adifficultrelationship. And even though I may not know what all the kingpins and their families attending this wedding have done, I know who andwhatthey are. It’s a fine line that I walk—balancing morals and politics in the city.
Whispers have been abounding lately in Vegas, and I wonder whether they will run rampant through this wedding too—whispers that speak of an underworld assassin who goes only by the name “The Ghost”. In my investigative circles, in conversations that I overhear on the streets, and even sometimes on the mouths of random passersby in the city, I will catch a word or two whispered in quiet voices about this man—thiskiller. Thus far, I haven’t been able to tie this rumored “Ghost”to a crime. I haven’t been able to complete a solid profile of him or figure out who he is or what makes him tick, and Iwantto. Others in my field office say that he’s not even real, that he’s a fictitious character created by some of the most powerful Mafia bosses in the city in order to throw the cops off their scent. But I disagree. I think this Ghost is real, and I want to find him.
Despite the fact that I’m frequently chided by others in my field office for not always aligning with the moreconventionalwaysof doing things, I’m driven by my complex ethical code. I don’t feel the need to answer to anyone other than myself. And even if my ways of relentlessly pursuing the truth might risk my sanity and safety, I'm determined to find the answers that I seek. I’m not exactly the kind of girl who backs down, even if it’s to my own detriment.
Sometimes, I wonder if this “Ghost” might have any connection to the man who murdered my mother or the other man in the alley that night—the man whose eyes still haunt me to this day. Those eyes have followed me in my every waking and sleeping hour. When I close my own eyes, I seehisstare looking back at me in the same way that he looked at me that night. My heartbeat thunders in my chest as I relive that horrific experience again and again. But the one thing that still wraps itself around my soul is the question ofwhyhe saved my life that night. If my memories are to be trusted, then the man with the evocative eyes was the man standingbehindmy mother’s killer.
When I arrive at the cathedral, I stand outside for a few minutes before going in. It’s awkward for me to be here for more reasons than just my heightened sense of alertness and my goal of multitasking this wedding alongside my personal goal of profiling the guests in attendance.
My friendship with Valentina is at best complicated and strained.
Part of me wonders whether she even wants me here today, or whether seeing me in the crowd will upset her. We weren’t always this much at odds. In fact, we used to be the best of friends. We had a lot in common back in our teen years when both of our fathers sent us off to an elite private academy in Vegas. I believe both of our fathers told us the academy would “nurture the brightest minds,” but Valentina and I both knewwhy they were sending us there. The private academy was also the perfect place for us to finish our educations while also hiding the dark secrets of our families. She and I would find common ground—me being the daughter of a respected detective with secretlyquestionableties to mafia corruption and a wife who had just been murdered, and her being the privileged daughter of a mafia-aligned hotel magnate. We were both emotionally isolated, and because of that, we formed a bond.
“You going inside or are you going to stand out here all night?” I feel a friendly pat on the side of my shoulder and look over to see Vincent Moretti. Beside him, his wife, Isla smiles softly at me.
“Yeah, I am,” I nod. “Good to see both of you.”
“I hear that you’re working security,” he says as the three of us walk inside the church.
“Don’t work too hard, though. Weddings are supposed to be enjoyable events. And if I know Luc, he’s overestimated the amount of security he has here today.”
I muster up a chuckle and pretend that I’m not here for my own purposes. Vincent Moretti is averyconnected mafia boss, which means that he has not only heard all the rumors that circulate around him but also probably knows thetruthabout most of them. So, I go out on a limb and press him with a superficially casual remark.
