Emily's Pov
The glass doors of the FBI office slid open, and I and some officers walked in together.
The place smelled faintly of coffee and printer ink, and the low murmur of conversations blended with the soft clicking of keyboards.
Some agents in dark suits moved with quick, purposeful strides, some carrying folders, others disappearing into rooms marked Restricted Access.
I wasn't here for anything official, just to meet my father for lunch, but the building always made me feel like I had stepped into another world. A world where every word carried weight.
"Miss Carter," a young receptionist who always calls me my dad's name but not my name "Emily,"greeted me with a polite nod. "Agent Carter will be with you in a moment. You can wait in the lobby."
"Thanks." I took a seat, crossing my legs. My eyes naturally drifted toward the large glass wall that separated the lobby from the operations area.
Inside, two senior agents stood near the coffee machine. One of them was with my dad at the meeting yesterday. But for the other, I didn't know him from anywhere.
Their voices carried just enough for me to catch bits of their conversation.
"Moretti family's still a step ahead of us," one said, his tone low but tense. "Every time we close in on them, they slip away."
The name Moretti snagged my attention, but before I could dwell on it, the second agent's voice dropped even lower
"The Don's son is the key. No paper trail, no fingerprints, nothing on him. They call him The Ghost for a reason."
"Because we don't even have a trace or proof of him."
The words The Don's son made my pulse skip. My mind instantly flashed back to last night—the mysterious stranger who had helped me.
I remembered sliding into his car, still shaken, but while he was turning around to get in the car, my eyes darted around the sleek leather interior.
On the passenger seat, half buried under a folded jacket, I saw a file. The paper had a printed name at the top corner. I hadn't been able to read all of it, but the first three bold letters stood out, DON.
At that point of time, I thought it might have been some company name… but now, hearing these agents talk, the coincidence felt too sharp to ignore.
I swallowed hard, forcing my expression to stay neutral.
"If we find him," the first agent continued, "the whole family crumbles. But catching him? Might be the hardest thing we ever do."
"And how do we even want to get him...? When people call him The Ghost, you think it'll be easy?"
The elevator chimed and that drew my attention. My father, Agent Carter, stepped out looking tall, his shoulders were broad and flexed and he wore his badge clipped to his belt like a second skin.
His stern expression softened the moment he saw me. "Emily," he greeted warmly, leaning down to kiss my cheek as he always does. "Sorry to keep you waiting."
"No problem, dad ," I smiled.
He sat very close to me, putting a smile on his face.
But then his gaze sharpened slightly, the way it always did when he was about to bring up something serious.
"Where were you last night?" he asked. "I saw your calls, but I couldn't answer. I was stuck in an operation. When I finally got home, you were already asleep. What happened?"
At this point I was wondering if I should tell him about what happened and who came to save me.
My lips parted, ready to explain, but my mind flashed again to the conversation I'd just overheard… and to that mysterious paper with DON at the top. I swallowed hard and decided not to tell him.
"It wasn't anything important. I just… wanted to remind you of something but I don't remember it anymore."
He studied me for a moment longer, then gave a small nod, though I could tell he didn't quite believe me.
"Alright," he said. "Let's get lunch. Whatever you hear here, stays here, alright? Don't go poking your nose somewhere else."
"I know... Don't worry." I replied, forcing a smile on my face.
As we walked toward the exit, the name Moretti and those three letters, DON, echoed in mind like a quiet, persistent drumbeat.
After getting to the restaurant to get some food, my dad and I were talking, sharing moments about my life and his cases with ourselves because he was always busy with his work and barely spend enough time with me.
During the conversation, my mind drifted back to that stranger from yesterday, but I had to make the decision not to see him again, at least that had been my plan.
He was just a stranger, a mystery man I wasn't planning to get involved with. But for some reason, he was kind to me last night.
He dropped me off close to the house and insisted I got in before he left, as though my safety mattered to him. I refused, obviously, but he was persistent, I went in, thinking to myself that there was no harm in going in first.
Before he drove away, he handed me a sleek black card with his number on it inscribed on the back. But I left the card untouched under my pillow, not giving it a second thought.
Even this morning, as the words The Don's son echoed in my head from the FBI office, I told myself to ignore it. But after finishing lunch with my dad, something pulled me back.
I have went home, found the card exactly where I had left it, and turned it over in my hand. The bold, confident font seemed to almost dare me to call.
I told myself I only wanted answers, nothing more. I would invite him to meet, watch his reactions, and listen to his words as he spoke. And maybe, just maybe, I could confirm whether my suspicion was true.