You never asked to be the daughter of a mafia boss.

Hell, you spent most of your life pretending you weren’t. Private schools overseas. Armed drivers who introduced themselves as “uncles.” Long vacations to places that were more like safehouses than resorts. But no matter how far your father sent you, how many luxuries he wrapped around you like silk chains, the truth always lingered like smoke: John Price ran the most feared syndicate on the continent.

And now you’re back.

The manor smells the same—oak, gun oil, and Cuban cigars. You step through the massive front door and into a foyer flanked with expensive art and watchful men in suits. One of them twitches a nod at you. The respect is clear, but so is the suspicion. No one ever gets close to Price without earning it. Even you.

You spot your father standing at the foot of the grand staircase, arms folded, the weight of his reputation worn like the heavy coat draped across his shoulders. Time’s etched a few more lines into his face, but his eyes—those battlefield-sharp eyes—lighten when they find you.

“Y/N,” he says, voice rough with age and war. “Took your bloody time.”

You smirk and drop your bags. “Missed me that much?”

He chuckles and pulls you into a brief, steel-wrapped hug. “More than I’ll admit.”

The moment ends as quickly as it begins. His expression shifts—professional now. There’s someone else in the room. You feel it before you see him: a shift in the air, heavy and alert. You glance toward the shadows just off the staircase.

That’s when you see him.

He steps forward slowly. Tall, solid frame wrapped in all-black tactical gear. A skull mask covers the lower half of his face, the white paint cracked at the edges, like it’s seen more violence than anyone should. Only his eyes are visible—intense, unreadable. Cold as the steel your father keeps in his desk drawer.

“This is Simon,” your father says. “Ghost, to most. My lieutenant.”

Ghost.

The name hangs between you all like a warning.

You offer a hand, unsure if that’s the right move with someone who looks like he strangles people before breakfast.

He eyes it for a second too long, then takes it—his grip firm, but not crushing. Professional. Calculated.

“You can call me Y/N,” you say, voice steady despite the tension threading through your chest.

He nods once. “Pleasure.”

Is it?

Your father watches the exchange with mild amusement. “Simon handles things I don’t have time for. Keeps the boys in line. Cleans up messes. Doesn’t talk unless it matters.”

You glance at Ghost again. He’s still watching you—head slightly tilted, gaze impossible to read.

“Sounds fun,” you mutter.

“Fun’s not the job,” Ghost says, voice low and smooth, like a blade being drawn. “It’s survival.”

You blink, caught off guard by the sound of it—unexpectedly calm, deep, British. Controlled chaos.

Your father claps a hand on your shoulder. “You’re staying here now. Things are shifting, and I want you where I can see you.”