chapter Three

AMARA

The first thing I felt was the pounding behind my eyes—a brutal, throbbing ache that made my skull feel like it was splitting in two. My tongue tasted like ash and cheap chemicals, a lingering reminder of the sweet-scented cloth that had stolen my consciousness in the rain.

The alley. The black car. The men.

Memory slammed into me like a physical blow, and my eyes flew open. I bolted upright, my heart hammering violently against my ribs as I braced myself to fight, to scream, to run.

But the words died in my throat.

I wasn’t in a dark alley. I wasn’t tied to a chair in some damp basement.

I was lying in the center of a bed larger than my entire bedroom at home, buried beneath a duvet of silk and heavy velvet that felt like liquid wealth. The air in the room was warm, smelling faintly of expensive cedar wood, premium tobacco, and a sharp, masculine cologne that made my stomach knot in a confusing twist of anxiety.

I scrambled backward until my spine hit the plush, tufted leather headboard, pulling the heavy blankets up to my chin like a shield.

My eyes swept over the space in sheer disbelief. The room was breathtaking—and terrifying. High ceilings with intricate crown molding, dark mahogany furniture that looked centuries old, and massive arched windows draped in heavy velvet curtains. Through the glass, the dark, rainy Italian night was still visible, but the city skyline looked distant. Isolated.

I checked my clothes. My sneakers were gone, but my damp jeans and jacket had been replaced with a set of oversized, incredibly soft silk pajamas.

Someone had changed me. Someone had touched me.

Panic, cold and sharp, flooded my veins. “Hello?” I called out, my voice raw and cracking. “Is anyone there?”

Silence answered.

I threw the covers off, my bare feet hitting the heated hardwood floor. I rushed to the massive double doors of the room and grabbed the brass handles, twisting them frantically.

Locked. From the outside.

“Let me out!” I screamed, slamming my fists against the heavy wood. The sound dulled against the thick timber, rendering my cries useless. “Help! Somebody let me out!”

“Screaming will only ruin your throat, Zoya.”

I gasped, spinning around so fast my vision blurred.

But standing near the edge of the shadows by the arched window was a man. Where did he come from? How long has he been there?

He took a slow, deliberate step out of the shadows and into the light of the chandelier.

He was towering—easily six-foot-three—with a broad, imposing frame that seemed to swallow all the air in the room. He wore a crisp, tailored black shirt with the top two buttons undone, revealing a hint of a sharp collarbone and the edge of a dark tattoo snaking up his neck. His hands were tucked casually into his trouser pockets.

But it was his face that made the breath freeze in my lungs. He was devastatingly handsome, with a sharp, angular jawline, high cheekbones, and hair the color of midnight. But his eyes… his eyes were an uncanny, piercing shade of icy blue that looked entirely devoid of warmth. They were the eyes of a predator that had finally cornered its prey.

“Who are you?” I demanded, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to sound brave. I backed away until my calves hit the edge of the mattress. “Why am I here? If this is about my uncle’s debt, I don’t have the money! I told Marco’s men I just need more time—”

“Marco Rossi won’t be asking you for anything ever again,” the man interrupted. His voice was a low, velvety baritone that vibrated straight through the floorboards. He spoke fluent Italian, but there was a heavy, gravelly texture to his words—the unmistakable shadow of another accent.

The realization hit me like a bucket of ice water. The rumors from the café. The bullet through the mouth. The demon of the underworld.

Oh sweet God, no!!!

“You…” My breath hitched, my eyes widening in sheer terror as I looked at the beautiful monster standing in front of me. “You’re Him. The Ghost”

A faint, ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips, but it didn’t reach his freezing eyes.

“The streets call me many things,” he murmured, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that felt entirely physical, pinning me to the spot. “But you will not call me that.”

“I want to go home,” I whispered, tears of frustration and fear finally pricking the edges of my eyes. “Please. I can pay the money, I just need some more time. I can’t work on my back, please just give me a year”

In a flash of movement so fast I couldn’t even track it, he crossed the room. Before I could flinch, he was standing directly in my space, his sheer height casting a shadow that completely enveloped me. The scent of cedar wood and danger filled my senses.

He raised a hand, his long, elegant fingers brushing a stray lock of dark hair away from my face. His touch was surprisingly gentle, but the raw power radiating off him was suffocating. His thumb trailed down to my jaw, gripping it firmly but without pain, forcing me to look up into those terrifying, beautiful blue eyes.

“You will be on your back Zoya, only for me,” Prizrak whispered, his voice dropping into a deep, fiercely possessive purr that sent a violent shiver straight down my spine. “Moya Zhizn.”

The words hung heavily in the air, thick with a dark, suffocating promise that made my breath catch in my throat. Only for me.

I pulled away from his touch, my heart hammering violently as I slapped his hand away from my jaw. The slap echoed sharply in the quiet room. The moment my hand made contact with his skin, terror seized me. I had just struck a monster. A man who put a bullet through an underboss’s mouth just hours ago. And in my experience, monster’s always strike back.

I braced myself for the blow, scrambling backward onto the massive bed until my back hit the headboard again, my chest heaving as I stared at him.

Prizrak didn’t move. He didn’t flinch. He simply slowly tilted his head, his face turning back toward me as those piercing, icy blue eyes locked onto mine. He looked down at his hand, where the slight redness of my slap was already fading, and then back up at me.

A dangerous, quiet amusement danced in his gaze.

“You have fight in you,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that gravelly, velvety texture that made my skin prickle. “Good. You will need it to survive in my world, Zoya.”

“Stop calling me that,” I choked out, wrapping my arms tightly around my knees. “My name is Amara. And I don’t want to be in your world. Let me go. If you took my debt from Marco, I will pay you back. Every single cent. I’ll work three jobs, four—whatever it takes. Just let me leave.”

Prizrak stepped closer, the weight of his presence pressing down on the bed as he leaned one knee against the edge of the mattress, towering over me like an apex predator evaluating a cornered prey.

“Your debt is gone, Amara,” he said smoothly, the sound of my real name on his lips sending a strange, confusing thrill through my chest. “I bought the ledger. I burned the papers. You don’t owe the Rossi family, and you don’t owe the commission.”

I blinked, a hollow spark of hope flaring in my chest, only to be instantly crushed by his next words.

“You owe me,” he whispered, leaning down until his shadow completely swallowed me, his face inches from mine. “And I don’t take cash. I don’t take interest rates. I took you.”

The words echoed in my ears, settling in my bones like concrete. Heavy. And I knew that was much worse. The promise of a bullet brought more freedom than being owned. And everyone knew that.

“Why?” I sobbed, a single tear escaping and tracing a hot path down my cold cheek. “Why me? You don’t even know me.”

Prizrak’s hand reached out again, his thumb catching the tear before it could fall, his touch deceptively soft against my skin. He leaned in closer, his scent of cedar wood and tobacco filling my lungs, paralyzing me.

“Because in a city full of monsters, you are the only piece of heaven I intend to keep,” he murmured against my lips, his breath warm and dangerous. “You are safe here, Moya Zhizn. Safe from the streets. Safe from the debts. But you are never leaving this room.”

He stood up straight, adjusting the cuffs of his tailored black shirt with an agonizing, elegant slowness. He turned on his heel and walked toward the massive double doors. He paused at the threshold, looking back over his broad shoulder at me one last time.

“Sleep, Amara. Tomorrow, your new life begins.”

The heavy doors shut, and the sharp, definitive click of the lock turning from the outside echoed through the room like a gavel striking a death sentence.

I was trapped. In a gilded cage, guarded by a beautiful, ruthless ghost.

I pulled the velvet duvet tightly around myself, buried my face in my knees, and wept into the quiet, terrifying luxury of my new prison.