Perfect Engagement

Valenti - Ghost POV

The newspaper in my hands feels like poison, each word seeping under my skin and clawing at my bones. The engagement. That damn engagement. It’s all anyone can talk about, as if the very world hinges on this spectacle of pomp and pretense. But they’re wrong. Dead wrong. It’s not the grandest union of the century—it’s the gravest mistake. And I know it.

The De Lucas parade their son’s engagement like a trophy, their arrogance spreading like wildfire. If there’s a corner of the earth untouched by their boasting, I’d be shocked. And the lovely Serena Castelli, the radiant bride-to-be? She has no idea of the monster she’s promised herself to. Not a clue.

The sharp rip of paper tears me from my thoughts, and my father’s voice detonates like a bomb in the room. “This is an embarrassment!” he roars, slamming his fists on the table, the newspaper now crumpled in his iron grip. “Their daughter is married, their son is next, and you—you’re nothing!” His voice is acid, each word slicing deeper. He leans forward, his glare scorching. “Do you enjoy making us look like fools?”

“I’m sorry,” I sneer, my voice thick with sarcasm. “But I couldn’t stomach Princess Isabella Romano and her ‘oh no, my nail chipped’ nonsense.” The truth is, I can’t stomach any woman—not in the way he demands.

“You didn’t try!” he snaps, spittle flying as his voice bounces off the walls.

“Didn’t try?” I spit back, my voice rising to match his. “I was fucking her every night—trying to feel something, anything—and it didn’t work!” The confession burns as it leaves my lips, but it’s the truth. Sleeping with men? That’s easy, natural, even pleasurable. But Isabella? She was a trial, a chore, a futile attempt to conform to his vision of perfection. The heir. A model son with the perfect woman draped on his arm, smiling for the cameras while rotting inside.

“Fucking isn’t trying!” he bellows, his words a sledgehammer to my composure. “You’re not marrying for love, Valenti. Love is a luxury! We don’t have the time for that. The De Lucas are moving faster than we are, and if we don’t act, they’ll crush us. You have another date with Isabella, and this time, you propose.”

His command is a death sentence wrapped in tradition, and it takes everything in me not to laugh in his face. “Sure thing, Boss,” I sneer, my words dripping with venom.

Before I can step back, he lunges, his hand fisting my collar and yanking me forward. His breath is hot, his eyes blazing. “Do not disrespect me!” he growls, shaking me like a doll. “I’ve given you time—two years! You said you had someone, but where is she? Now, you’ll do as I say. Follow my rules. Propose.”

The fury in his voice leaves no room for argument, and I know better than to push him further. “Whatever you say, Boss,” I reply coldly, stripping my words of emotion. It’s enough to pacify him—for now. He releases me with a snarl and storms out, leaving the tension heavy in the air.

I stare at the crumpled newspaper, the faces of the De Lucas mocking me from the page. Without hesitation, I hurl it into the fireplace, watching as the flames consume it. The engagement. The De Lucas. Their perfect little sham.

To hell with all of it.

The docks are quiet tonight. Too quiet. It’s the kind of silence that wraps itself around you, cold and suffocating, as if the city itself knows something’s about to happen. I like it. Silence makes people nervous. And nervous people make mistakes.

I lean against a stack of shipping crates, my gloved hand tapping idly against the hilt of my knife. The scent of saltwater mixes with the faint tang of oil from the cargo ships drifting in the distance.

The sleek black car pulls into the alley, headlights piercing through the gloom. A smirk pulls at the corner of my lips as I adjust my cuffs. My father’s words echo in my head: “Remind them who we are, figlio.” He doesn’t have to say it twice. I live for moments like this.

I step out of the shadows, my boots crunching against the gravel. Two of Lorenzo’s men—Mac and another guy whose name I don’t care to know—snap to attention as I approach. The younger one immediately reaches for his gun.

“Don’t,” I say, my voice sharp enough to cut through the mist. “You won’t even get the safety off before I put you down.”

Mac raises a hand to stop his partner, his expression shifting from surprise to thinly veiled panic. “Moretti,” he says, his voice unsteady. “What are you doing here? This… this isn’t your territory.”

I smirk, stopping a few feet away. “Territory is such a fragile concept, don’t you think? One misstep, one bad decision, and suddenly what’s yours…” I gesture to the crates. “…becomes mine.”

“This is De Luca business,” Mac says, his tone firm but his eyes darting nervously. “You have no right to be here.”

I chuckle softly, shaking my head. “You’re mistaken. See, the moment this shipment touched my docks without permission, it became my business.”

Mac glances at the other guy, clearly weighing his options. He’s a courier, not a fighter. I almost feel bad for him. Almost.

“You’ve got a choice,” I say, taking a step closer. “You walk away now, empty-handed, and tell Lorenzo to send a proper apology. Or…” I trail off, pulling the blade from my jacket and letting the sharp edge catch the faint glow of the dock lights. “…we make this messy.”

The younger guy shifts, his hand hovering near his weapon again. Brave, but stupid.

“Don’t,” I warn, leveling my gaze at him. “You won’t like how it ends.”

“Let’s… let’s just leave,” Mac mutters to his partner, sweat glistening on his brow. He knows they’re outmatched. Smart. He gestures toward the crates. “Take it if you want. Just know Lorenzo’s not going to let this slide.”

I grin, slipping the blade back into its sheath. “I’m counting on it.”

They retreat quickly, their footsteps fading into the distance. I watch them go, then turn my attention to the shipment. My men emerge from the shadows, silently waiting for instructions.

“Open it,” I say.

One of them pries the lid off a crate, revealing stacks of cash and a few carefully packed weapons. I grab a wad of bills and thumb through it. Lorenzo’s been busy. Too bad for him, I’m busier.

“Load it up,” I order, tossing the cash back into the crate. “And make sure the De Lucas know exactly who took it.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I ignore it. I can already guess who it is—my father, wanting a status report. He’ll get it soon enough. For now, I’ve got one more task.

I pull a knife from my jacket and carve a message into the wood of the nearest crate: A gift from Ghost.

Let Lorenzo come. I’ll be waiting.