Ana Nicholas didn't believe in ghosts.
But as the cab pulled into the heart of Rome and the lights of the Eternal City spread before her like a painting come alive, she felt it—something old and cold crawling along her spine.
She rolled down the window, letting the warm Italian air spill in. The smell of espresso, traffic, and lemon trees hit her like a memory she hadn't asked for. She hadn't been here since she was ten. Since the fire. Since the night her father had grabbed her hand and told her not to look back.
She hadn't.
Not until now.
The cab driver was talking, pointing out monuments and bridges, but she barely heard him. Her fingers tightened on the sketchbook in her lap, the leather edges worn and frayed. She hadn't drawn anything since the plane took off. Her hands had trembled too much.
*You're just here for the gallery residency,* she told herself. *Three months. In and out. Professional. Simple.*
But it didn't feel simple.
Rome had teeth. It whispered secrets. And it remembered her.
She tried not to think about the old house. The fire. The screaming.
Tried not to think about the boy who had stood frozen in the smoke, watching her like he wanted her to burn, too.
---
Twenty minutes later, Ana stood in front of her temporary apartment—an elegant, centuries-old building in Trastevere, with ivy curling around the balconies and wrought-iron doors. The keycode worked on the first try.
Inside, it was small but charming. Warm wood floors. Tall windows. A narrow balcony overlooking a cobbled alley below.
She dropped her suitcase and wandered toward the window. Rome pulsed beneath her like a living thing—laughter echoing from the café down the street, mopeds whining like bees, voices in Italian rising and falling like a lullaby.
Her fingers brushed the glass.
And somewhere, far below, a car was parked with tinted windows. Unmoving.
Watching.
---
Hayden sat in the back of the matte-black town car, eyes fixed on the balcony above.
She was here.
*She's real.*
After all these years of distance, surveillance, and shadows, Ana Nicholas now existed not just in files and security footage—but in flesh and blood.
She had no idea he was near. That he had orchestrated every detail of her arrival—arranged the gallery program through a shell organization, bought the building where she'd live, selected the exact apartment she'd step into.
He wanted control. He needed it.
And soon, she would learn what it felt like to be owned.
Not by her past. Not by her father.
*By him.*
His phone buzzed once. A message from Marco, his top enforcer.
**"She's alone. No signs of surveillance. The apartment is secure."**
Hayden didn't reply. He didn't need to.
Instead, he watched as Ana stepped out onto the balcony, barefoot, a glass of red wine in her hand. Her long blonde hair was pulled up messily, soft strands falling around her face. She leaned on the railing and sighed.
She looked… peaceful.
And he hated it.
Because she didn't deserve peace—not yet. Not when his mother had died choking on smoke while her father escaped.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the photo again—his mother's smile, frozen in time. That same ache bloomed behind his ribs, the one that never left. But now, it burned with new purpose.
Tomorrow, he'd make his move.
Tonight… he'd let her sleep.
She wouldn't know it yet.
But she already belonged to him.
---
Ana didn't sleep well.
The bed was comfortable. The linens soft. But her skin felt restless, as if someone had run a finger down her spine while she wasn't looking. Her dreams were filled with heat and smoke, with eyes that glowed like wolves in the dark.
When she woke, it was still early. The sun was just beginning to bleed into the sky. Rome glowed with gold and quiet.
She threw on a white linen dress and pulled her hair into a low braid. No makeup. Just lip balm. She didn't need to impress anyone—yet.
The gallery wouldn't expect her until noon. So she decided to walk.
The streets welcomed her with old stones and morning mist. Street vendors were setting up. The aroma of fresh bread and espresso drifted through the air. She let herself breathe. Let herself pretend, just for a moment, that this was just a city. Just a job.
Not a graveyard of memories.
She found a small café with ivy-covered walls and ordered a cappuccino. Sat at a corner table and pulled out her sketchbook.
It was quiet.
Safe.
Until she felt it.
A presence.
Someone watching.
She looked up—and locked eyes with a stranger.
He stood across the street in a dark suit, talking on the phone, one hand in his pocket. His profile was sharp, aristocratic. Cold. He looked powerful in the way oil is slick and velvet can choke you.
And when his gaze flicked toward her—just for a second—her breath caught.
He wasn't just watching her.
He *knew* her.
She looked down quickly, heart hammering. By the time she dared look again, he was gone.
Just like a ghost.
---
Hayden sat in his office that evening, reviewing her movements.
Marco placed a tablet on his desk—video feed from the café, zoomed in on her expression when she saw him.
"She noticed," Marco said. "Do you want us to stay subtle or escalate?"
Hayden studied the image.
Ana's mouth slightly open. Pupils dilated. Fear—or curiosity?
A slow smile curled his lips. "Escalate."
"How far?"
Hayden picked up a pen and wrote one word on the back of his mother's photo.
**Soon.**
Then, without looking up, he answered.
"Make her fall."