Page 1 of Bride of Vengeance
Chapter one
Ghost in the Flames
Mariana
The warehouse is on fire, and I'm going to die.
The smoke burns my throat as I press my back against the concrete wall, my Glock trained on the only exit that's not blocked by flames. Sweat pours down my face, mixing salt and soot until I can barely see. The air tastes like chemicals and burning wood and my own fear.
Fuck.
I've been in bad situations before. Shootouts with cartel members. Raids gone wrong. That time in Detroit when the whole building came down around us. But this? This is different. The heat is so intense it feels like my skin is shrinking. Everybreath burns. The tactical vest that's supposed to protect me feels like it's cooking me alive.
Think, Mariana. Think.
But there's nowhere to go. The main exit is blocked by a wall of flames that reach up to the ceiling. The windows are too high and probably barred anyway—this is Queens, not some suburban mall. The back door I came through has collapsed under burning debris.
I'm trapped like a rat in a maze that someone lit on fire.
Get in, arrest Viktor Orlov's lieutenants, get out. Clean and simple. The kind of operation I've run dozens of times. Intel said three targets, minimal security, standard Bratva warehouse setup. What could go wrong?
Everything, apparently.
The whole place went up in explosions the moment we breached the door—not accidental, but deliberate, strategically planned. Someone knew we were coming. Someone wanted us separated, vulnerable, trapped. The coordinated timing was too perfect, too professional. This wasn't just bad luck or faulty intelligence. This was a setup.
Rodriguez's voice crackles through my earpiece, static and desperate. The signal keeps cutting in and out, making his words sound like they're coming from underwater.
"Castillo, what's your location? We can't reach you!"
I try to respond, but smoke fills my lungs the moment I open my mouth. The coughing fit doubles me over, making my ribs ache against the tactical vest. When I finally catch my breath enough to speak, all that comes out is a rasp.
"Rodriguez—" Cough. "Trapped in—" More coughing. "Southeast corner—"
But I don't think he hears me. The radio crackles once more and then goes silent.
The ceiling above groans ominously, a sound like bones breaking. I look up and see cracks spreading across the concrete like lightning frozen in stone. Chunks of debris rain down, forcing me to press deeper into the corner of this death trap.
Two years.For two years I've been hunting the phantom they call Ghost, obsessing over every detail of his kills, memorizing his patterns, dreaming about the day I'd finally corner him. And I'm going to die before I ever see his face.
The irony would be funny if I wasn't about to be cremated alive.
My mother always said I was too stubborn for my own good. "Mariana, mija, you chase impossible things," she'd say in that mix of Spanish and English that still makes me homesick. "Some wolves are meant to stay in the shadows."
Sorry, Mamá. Looks like you were right.
"Agent Castillo." The voice comes from behind me, low and accented, and definitely not from my earpiece.
Russian accent. Definitely Russian, with that particular cadence that comes from money and education, and years of speaking English as a weapon instead of just a language.
I spin around, weapon raised, heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape. Through the smoke and heat shimmer, I see him.
A man emerges from the shadows like he materialized from the fire itself. Tall, maybe six-three, with shoulders broad enough to fill a doorway. Silver hair catches the orange glow of the flames, and I realize it's not gray from age—he can't be more than forty-two, forty-three. It's that pale, almost white silver that some Eastern Europeans have, the kind that makes women stupid and men jealous.
His face is all sharp angles; high cheekbones, strong jaw, full mouth that looks like it could do unspeakable things to a woman. And dangerous beauty; the kind of masculine perfection that belongs on magazine covers or Renaissance sculptures. But it's his eyes that steal my breath—dark, almost black, with an intelligence that seems to see straight through me.
This is him. I know it without being told, the way you know lightning is about to strike. The Ghost I've been chasing throughtwo years of crime scenes and dead ends and sleepless nights spent staring at case files.
He's even more impressive in person than I imagined. And I've imagined him plenty.
