CHAPTER FOUR

RICARDO

Ariana Viktor Advik was dead.

I was to be happy. I was supposed to be extremely happy, ecstatic, elated, grateful—but I wasn’t. Why? Her death was too easy.

She wasn’t supposed to die such a peaceful death after wrecking havoc in my own life.

She didn’t deserve a simple death.

For me, there was always a fine line between hating a person and just not liking them. But when it came to that conniving bitch, Ariana, I hated her with all that I was.

I loathed her existence to a point where I began fantasizing her death.

She had taken something from me, something of great value, and I couldn’t ever forgive it.

God, I desired to be her punisher. I desired to be the one who watched her breathe her last, but I had to be careful.

She was the daughter of a man whom I’d never make a mistake of crossing. The Godfather of Russia—Viktor Nikolai Advik.

They were only a few people whom I feared, and that dreadful man was on the top of that list. I had to be careful with him no matter what I did.

So when I met Ginevra Rodriguez, I saw an opportunity to carry out my plan discreetly without having to bear any of the consequences.

Ginevra was desperate for power, and I used her desperation against her. Played with her head so much that she so easily fell for the trap I had set.

She took out Ariana and I watched her execute my own plan without even knowing it. My heart was a burst of excitement, because now, if the true identity of the culprits behind Ariana Advik’s murder was ever discovered, all fingers would point to none other than Ginevra Rodriguez.

Even if the fingers weren’t pointing directly at her, there would be pointed at Gustavo Rodriguez—the rightful heir of Rodriguez famiglia.

This would stir up great trouble and Ginevra would be left to bear the burden all own her own.

She was after all the head of her famiglia.

Ginevra Rodriguez.

There was something about the lady that had me craving her presence. There was something so intimidating about her, something so challenging, perhaps her ability to hold my stare.

It was almost a miracle how I could breathe the first time my eyes met hers. Irises as dark as the midnight, powerful, monstrous, enchanting. . .she was out of this world. Her mere presence felt out of this world.

But as much as I enjoyed having her eyes glaring into mine in challenge, it aggravated me to think that a girl like her—a girl who had not what it took to breathe the same air as I, could look me in the eyes without faltering.

She had no fear, and I desperately needed to know why.

Why wasn’t she afraid of me?

Of course, I knew I was whining like a little bitch, but I wasn’t the type not to be feared by men and women. The mere presence of me in a room was enough to have people trembling and pissing their pants.

At the age of seven, I had already done a number of despicable things. I was born a monster—I operated dangerously to a point where my father feared I was becoming a serial killer.

And in order to tame me, my identity was stripped from me, hence, the name, Ghost. I was locked away and trained to suppress my anger—not to act out of anger. Not to be carelessly stupid.

And by the time I turned fifteen, I was the perfect soldier. I became even deadlier than I was and the people who knew of me made no mistake of crossing my path. No one dared to look in my direction longer than a second, no one spoke in my presence, no one rebelled openly against me. I was the bane of their existence.

But Ginevra Rodriguez, she was not afraid. She dared me, challenged me to battle, refused me, all whilst having a smile on her face.

I loathed that smile, wanted to wipe it off her face. Wiping that smile off her face was all I could think about until an idea popped in—make her powerful.

With great power, came great pain.

But people who were powerless craved power, unknowing to them that the people who held that power, loathed it.

Power equaled more enemies, more tears, more pain, and a quick death it you were stupid enough not to properly guard yourself.

Power was destruction, and I was going to give Ginevra Rodriguez what she desperately sought. Power. Her destruction. And I was going to stand by, and watch her diligently whilst she suffered the consequences of her own choices.

I snapped out of the daze when I heard sound of approaching footsteps—a woman’s heels clicking against the floor.

Here goes nothing.

“Mi amore?” I heard my mother’s voice—a voice that had me gagging. I loathed that voice, I loathed that fragrance, and I loathed the mere presence of that vile woman.

Why was she standing in front of me? Why was she here in my office? Why, why, why?

“Hm.” I hummed, not wanting to seem rude.

She stepped forward and laid her palms flat on my table, red, almond shaped acrylic nails almost digging into the surface of my smooth table.

The fuck!

“You have been away from me for too long, amore, why’s that?” She breathed.

I grunted under my breath. “Incase you haven’t heard, we have been at war with the Rodriguez’s.”

“A war that has long ended.”

“It has just been a week and a lot of damages has to be covered. A lot of families has to be compensated. I am busy.” I retorted, anger seeping from my voice.

“You have your underboss for this, dannazione! And there’s your consigliere and the middle man, I need you. I have missed you.” My supposed mother whined.

She missed me?

She missed me?!

Wasn’t it sick that my own mother would miss me?

She was a sick woman who didn’t care about any other person except herself. She didn’t even care for her own son except when she wanted. . .

I snapped. “Don’t fucking say that fucked up shit to me ever again! You’re sick! You need fucking help! And I’ve said this a million times, but I’ll do you a favor and say it again. This shit is over!”

“Ricardo Sanchez!” She raged, slamming her fist into the table.

“What?! What the fucking fuck do you want from me? What more would you threaten me with? She’s dead, okay? She has been dead for a very long time,” my breathing had betrayed me, coming out shaky and unstable, tears slipping down my cheeks. “Your daughter, whose existence you have used to blackmail me for years is gone, and I’ll no longer play by this sick game of yours. You have a husband, if you need to be fucked, go get fucked by your husband or perhaps pick a bodyguard and leave your fucking son alone!”

I was raging, I was sorrowful, I was in tears, I was in pain—I was dying slowly because of the sacrifices I had to make for this fucked up family of mine.

People on the outside had little understanding of the despicable things that took place under my roof.

They all judged me without understanding my plight, without understanding the things I had gone through in life—how I struggled to keep my head above waters.

No one understood.

And I was painted the villain in everyone’s mind, because I was destroyed. I had died before I had the chance to actually live.

“If you walk out on me, Ricardo Junior, I’ll cut you off this family’s name and legacy.” Mamà spoke and for the first time in forever, I laughed. I laughed so loud, amused.

I truly was amused.

I wanted out and having her cut me off would be the best thing that had ever happened to me.

“You should know by now, mamà, I always have been sick of this family’s name and its legacy. I never wanted a part in it. I stayed back because I had something to protect, but I failed, and I’d really appreciate it if y’all could leave me the fuck alone!”

I stormed out.

I stormed out in search of something that could take my mind off my shitty mother.

Ginevra Rodriguez was not available at the moment, seeing how she hadn’t returned from Russia after getting an invitation from The Godfather.

No surprise at all—I knew striking a deal with the man wasn’t going to be an easy one.

Ginevra was either going to return in a body bag or return broken beyond measure.

My phone vibrated in my pocket and I wasted no time in retrieving the device.

“Hm.” I hummed.

“Your girl has been dropped off at a clinic far out in the outskirts of the city. I’m sharing you the location as we speak.” The man on Ginevra’s tail informed.

“How long?” I asked.

“Three days now, boss.” He answered.

I scoffed breathily. “And you didn’t think to inform me sooner?”

The man went silent for a few minutes—silence that was induced by fear. “I’m sorry, boss, but she has been unconscious and I didn’t think it was necessary for you to be here.”

“Armani?” I hummed and the man answered with a whispered, “boss.” I continued, “next time, let me decide what is necessary.”

“Mi dispiace, Don.” I hummed in response and hung up.

Breathing out in relief, I rushed into my car and zoomed off.

Time to cloud my mind with something that had nothing to do with my sick excuse of a mother.