Page 5 of Ruthless Scar
Third floor. Corner unit.
The stairs make no sound under my feet. Check the corners. Listen for movement. The second-floor landing has a creaking step. I skip it without looking down.
Someone has been picking locks no one should know exist. Poking at firewalls across every family in New Orleans, slipping through the gaps, pulling threads. Our tech caught the edges of it. Faint. Deliberate. Precision built over years, not luck.
Dante wants to know what Ghost is after. I don’t give a fuck what Ghost is after. I end problems.
Third floor. The hallway is quieter up here, a single bulb casting everything in dim yellow. The sitcom fades to a murmur. Someone coughs further along the corridor. Then nothing.
Apartment 3C. Light bleeds under the door.
All those months of building a profile. Male, probably. The forum posts read masculine, the technical jargon thick with male arrogance. Untouchable. Mid-thirties based on the coding patterns. Arrogant enough to think he could poke around in our systems without consequence.Damnarrogant.
I press my ear to the wood. Inside, the clicking of a keyboard. Rapid, focused. The hum of multiple computers running hot. A chair creaking as someone shifts.
Ghost is in there. Working. No idea the hunt just ended.
Standard lock, no deadbolt. One kick. I’ve done this a hundred times.
She’d hate this. She’s not here.
The keyboard stops. A chair rolls back. Footsteps, moving closer.
Doesn’t matter. I’m faster.
One breath. The stillness that comes before violence. My body knows what to do. No thought. No feeling. Just the work.
One kick. The door crashes inward.
3
ISABELLA
The door explodes inward and my world crashes. Wood splinters. The frame cracks. I’m on my feet before I register the movement, chair rolling away behind me, spinning to face the threat with my heart slamming against my ribs.
And then he’s there. Filling the doorway like he was built to block out light. Gun raised and steady and pointed at my head.
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
Years of hiding, of being invisible, of being Ghost, and the scream won’t even form.
My back hits the edge of my desk. My hands fly up on instinct. Palms out. Universal surrender. The monitors glow blue behind me, casting my shadow toward him like an accusation.
My mind defaults to its natural setting under pressure. Catalogs. Parses. Breaks down the threat into manageable data points. Male. Tall. Broad across the shoulders in a way that suggests muscle gained through everyday use, not vanity. Dark hair, face shadowed by the hallway light behind him. Each step is measured. Economical. Controlled. A man who doesn’t rush. He already knows how this ends.
The gun hasn’t wavered. Not even a tremor. Professional.
Which means one of the families tracked me down.
I keep my hands up. Keep my back pressed against the desk. No sudden movements. The knife taped underneath wouldn’t do shit against a bullet anyway. Instead of begging, I do what I always do when the situation is hopeless.
I open my mouth.
“If you’re going to kill me, at least tell me which family sent you.” My voice comes out steadier than it has any right to. “Professional curiosity.”
He doesn’t answer. Just steps into the apartment, silent and controlled, moving past the ruined frame without a glance. The door itself hangs crooked on one hinge, useless now.
The blue glow catches his face as he moves closer, and my stomach drops through the floor.
