Warning Him

Lorenzo - Prince

The estate feels suffocating tonight. The chandeliers hang heavy with their false brilliance, illuminating a world of polished wood and expensive lies. My father’s men move like shadows along the edges of the room, their presence more of a threat than a comfort.

When I hear the roar of tires on wet cobblestone, my chest tightens. Mac is late. He’s never late.

The car screeches to a halt outside, and I move to the window, watching as Mac stumbles out. Even from here, I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands shake as he adjusts his jacket. Something’s wrong.

“You’re empty-handed?” My father’s voice cuts through the room like a blade, sharp and full of accusation. He’s already standing by the door, the commanding presence that has ruled this family for decades.

“I’ll handle this,” I say, raising a hand to stop him. There’s no use in letting him go off now—not until I know what’s going on. I step out onto the front steps, my shoes echoing against the stone.

Mac looks up as I approach, his face pale, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

“You don’t have the case of money or the shipment,” I say, my voice measured but laced with irritation. “What the hell happened?”

“It… it was Ghost,” Mac stammers, his words tripping over each other. “He showed up at the docks. He knew about the shipment. He… he took everything.”

The name hits me like a slap. Valenti Moretti. Ghost. Of course it’s him. Always him.

“He took it?” I repeat, my voice dropping dangerously low.

Mac nods frantically. “Said it was his docks, that we crossed a line by moving the shipment there. He left a message—carved it into one of the crates. ‘A gift from Ghost.’”

My jaw tightens, fury bubbling just beneath the surface. Ghost doesn’t just steal. He taunts. He wants me to come after him, to play his little games.

My father steps out behind me, his heavy footsteps halting at my side. “Moretti,” he spits, his tone dripping with disdain. “That bastard thinks he can undermine us?”

“He doesn’t think,” I say sharply, turning to face him. “He knows. And he’s daring us to respond.”

My father narrows his eyes, his face a mask of controlled rage. “Then show him what happens when someone dares to cross us. Teach him a lesson he won’t forget.”

I nod once, my mind already racing. If Ghost wants a fight, he’ll get one. But this won’t be some reckless display of violence. It will be calculated, precise—just like him.

“Where’s the shipment now?” I ask Mac.

“They… they were loading it onto their trucks when I left,” he says hesitantly. “It’s probably gone by now.”

“Of course it is,” I mutter, turning away from him. The shipment doesn’t matter. What matters is the message Ghost is trying to send—and the one I’m about to send back.

I grab my jacket from the hall and head for the garage, ignoring the voices calling after me. This is personal now.

---

The mist hangs heavy over the water as I step onto the docks, my boots sinking slightly into the damp wood. The place is deserted, save for the faint sound of waves lapping against the pylons. But I know he’s here. Ghost never runs.

“Moretti!” I shout, my voice cutting through the night. “Show yourself! Or are you wanting to live up to the name Ghost?”

Silence.

Then, a figure emerges from the shadows, his stride slow and deliberate. He’s dressed in black, his movements casual, but his eyes are anything but.

“Lorenzo,” he says smoothly, his lips curving into that infuriating smirk. “You came.”

“You made sure I would,” I snap, stepping closer. “Taking the shipment? Leaving your little message? What do you want, Ghost?”

He shrugs, as if the answer is obvious. “What I always want. To remind you that you’re not untouchable.”

My fists clench at my sides. “You think this is a game?”

He laughs softly, the sound low and dangerous. “It’s always a game, Lorenzo. The difference is, I’m better at it than you are.”

I take another step forward, the space between us charged with tension. “You’ve crossed the line this time, Ghost. And you’re going to pay for it.”

His smirk fades slightly, and for a moment, something flickers in his eyes. It’s not fear, not anger—something else entirely. But it’s gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his usual arrogance.

“Then take your best shot, Princess,” he says, spreading his arms as if daring me to strike.

And for a moment, I consider it.

“I have to say,” Ghost drawls, his voice laced with mockery as he steps closer, “beautiful picture in the news today. Your little friend—does she know the truth about you, Prince?”

He takes a step closer, his grin feral, and I shove him back hard.

“Back the fuck up!” I snap, my voice sharp enough to cut through the humid air.

His smirk widens, a deranged glint in his eye. “Why? Will you hit me, Princess?” His tone is syrupy and mocking, each word dripping with condescension.

“Stop calling me that,” I snarl, the words ripping out of me like a growl.

“But why? I think it suits you.” He tilts his head, the light catching his face in a way that makes his grin look even more unhinged. “The Prince—ugh, so overdone. So predictable. You could be my princess, though. Don’t you like that better?”

His words taunt, slithering under my skin, and my control snaps. My hand flies out, clamping around his throat as I slam him into the wall.

“This game ends now, Moretti,” I hiss, my fury pounding in my veins. “You leave our shit alone, or I guarantee there will be a body on your doorstep. And it’ll be yours.”

He doesn’t flinch. No, the bastard laughs. It’s not a nervous laugh—it’s full, deranged, and completely at odds with the threat I just leveled. Then, in one smooth motion, he twists us, slamming me against the wall, his body pressing into mine like he owns the damn space.

“Now, now, Princess,” he murmurs, his tone low and maddeningly amused, “no need for all the dramatics. Or are you trying to get a rise out of me? Want me to make a move?”

His breath is hot against my ear, and I swing without thinking. My fist connects with his face, hard enough to feel the crunch, but instead of recoiling, he grins wider, blood trickling from his lip.

“So fucking predictable, Princess.”

“Leave our shipments alone,” I snarl, swinging again. My knuckles slam into his jaw this time, but he doesn’t even try to block it. He takes the hit like it’s foreplay, like he’s enjoying every second.

“Why would I do that?” he laughs, the sound wild and sharp. “You think I’m going to give up the only thing that gets you this close to me? Come on, Lorenzo, we both know you love this.”

“You’re out of your goddamn mind,” I seethe, and his smirk only deepens.

“Maybe. But then again, you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you … Princess?”

He pushes closer, his body radiating heat, and I shove him back with all the force I can muster. I need distance—space from whatever the hell he’s doing to my head.

“This is your last warning, Moretti,” I spit, my voice razor-sharp. “You mess with my shipments again, and I’ll make sure the message is loud and clear—with someone’s severed fucking head in your lap.”

He claps, slow and mocking, before giving me a theatrical bow. “My sincerest apologies, Princess. I must’ve been confused. You see, this is Moretti territory. And those docks? They don’t have your name on them. So maybe next time you should think twice before stepping on my turf.”

I step forward again, rage boiling over. “Next time, I’ll collect my shipment myself. And if you even think about laying a finger on it, I’ll slice each one off and make you eat them.”

Instead of fear, that twisted, delighted grin spreads across his face like a virus. He looks like I’ve just told him his birthday came early.

I turn on my heel, done with this psychotic dance, but as I pass a crate of cigars stacked near the docks, I pause.

“Nice stash,” I call over my shoulder, pulling out a match. Ghost doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch, as I strike it and toss it into the crate. Flames roar to life, devouring the contents, the heat licking at my skin as I step back.

When I turn to look at him, he’s leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed, watching the inferno like it’s some cozy little bonfire. His grin doesn’t falter—not even once.

“You’ve got serious fucking issues,” I mutter, my voice full of disgust.

“And you’re just now figuring that out?” he shoots back, laughing like a maniac as the fire burns.

I’m done. He got the message, hopefully.