POV – The Infiltrator
D-2 before infiltration
11:08 p.m. — Rented studio, East Marseille
The kitchen light flickers.
Once. Twice.
Like it's warning me.
I left the window open.
Just enough to hear Marseille breathe.
Not enough for them to hear me.
On the table: chaos disguised as order.
A puzzle made of paper.
Press clippings. Magazine covers. Torn-out interviews. Fragments of headlines.
Some yellowed with age.
Others smell like fresh ink.
I sorted everything.
By name.
By threat level.
Who kills me first.
Who kills me last.
CONTI, Gaëtan.
Businessman. Savior of the streets.
The kind who launders money in the tears of the kids he "rescues."
"Conti opens a boxing school for underprivileged youth."
"Marseille thanks its benefactor: Conti donates a park to the city."
"The Marceau Academy, founded by Conti, becomes a national reference."
"Gaëtan Conti: the man who restores nobility to the city of Marseille."
I flip the pages.
Upside down feels more honest.
ORTÉGA, Marco.
Nothing in the papers.
Which is never a good sign.
The men who get their hands dirty… never leave a trail.
I just know one thing:
He's married.
Three kids.
Two aren't biologically his.
And I'll have to shake his hand soon.
ROMANO, Layann.
Invisible. But everywhere.
Untraceable—even in your dreams.
No mistakes. No scandals.
Just prestige, power, and money so sharp it could slice skin.
"Layann Romano signs an economic agreement between Monaco and Milan."
"The silent financier who whispers in the ears of governments."
"Nicknamed the Devil by his rivals, yet he remains untouchable."
I stare at his photo.
Blurry. On purpose?
Three-piece suit. Locked jaw.
Eyes as hollow as a grave that hasn't been dug yet.
And then—
A detail hits me.
In every photo: gloves.
Always.
Black leather. Luxurious fabrics. Sometimes lined with cashmere.
Even in the dead of summer. Even indoors.
They say it's a compulsion.
That he can't touch anything with bare hands.
That he can't stand direct contact.
A control freak.
The kind that disinfects the air before entering a room.
The kind that locks his world down, piece by piece.
Move by move.
Layann Romano doesn't let anything slip.
Not a hair.
Not a mistake.
Not a heartbeat too many.
And me?
All I can think is—
Can't wait to see how he lives.
If he lets me climb that high.
NINA. Romano.
That's when the fireworks start.
"Romano Couture causes outrage with its launch: a runway show staged on a cross, accused of blasphemy."
"Nina Romano: from ballet to provocation, portrait of a disturbing icon."
"WHO IS NINA ROMANO, THE CONTROVERSIAL ADVISOR TO PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE SENATOR VERNIER?"
Paris Match: Nina dressed as Marilyn.
Ivory lingerie. Pink sunglasses. Blonde wig.
Scandal of the year.
"Nina Romano spotted leaving a prestigious obstetrics clinic in Marseille: pregnant by Vernier?"
"Nina Romano defends herself against 'Republic's slut' accusations by launching a viral TikTok trend: 'Raise your hand if you've ever been one' over Destiny's Child."
"New face of 2.0 feminism: 'I bought it myself. No man behind it.'"
"Nina Romano talks about Ghost: genius mastermind or megalomaniac fantasy?"
I stop on her photo.
Gray-green eyes. Light.
But they look at you like a weapon.
She smiles.
But there's venom in her gloss.
She poses.
But make no mistake—
She rules.
ZARA El-Fahmi.
Another piece of the puzzle.
"Zara El-Fahmi: Did she cover up an assault committed by a Saudi prince?"
"Ghost might be real, according to an investigation… and her face could be that of Zara El-Fahmi."
Everyone lies.
But not for the same reasons.
Some lie to cover.
Others—to kill.
GALIANO, Fernando.
Not a single article.
Not one official report.
Just photographs.
Always in front of a church.
Always in a suit.
Always that same smile.
A man of faith, they say.
Never misses a mass.
Always on time for confession.
A little too punctual, maybe.
Like he believes he can rinse off the worst sins
with a few whispered words behind a curtain.
Or like he's declared himself God's hitman.
That smile, again and again.
As if everything he does…
is righteous.
And then—
A crumpled sheet.
Wedged under the others.
RYAN Romano.
Like an old secret you keep
but never read again.
"Ryan Romano found dead in his office."
"Suicide? Murder?"
Case closed.
Then… silence.
As if he never existed.
I lean back from the table.
I leave the clippings exactly where they are.
I want to find them tomorrow.
The last morning of a normal life.
I know their façades.
Their public masks.
But I'm going for what's underneath.
What stinks beneath the perfume.
What creaks behind the smiles.
In two days, I'll be one of them.
I'll climb to their summit.
Not for a throne.
Not for a crown.
For real power.
The kind they applaud on live TV—
And whisper about in dark corridors.
I'll get close.
I'll understand them.
Strip them bare.
And make them bleed.
From the inside.
POV – NINA
Do you know how Bernardo Provenzano, the real capo di tutti capi of Cosa Nostra, finally fell?
Not by bullets.
Not in a bloodbath.
Not in a clan war.
He lived in silence.
No phone. No photographs.
Just him… and his pizzini — little paper notes, hand-delivered.
Sober messages signed "God bless you", carried from one hideout to another.
He wasn't taken down by violence.
He was caught by… a bug.
Hidden in a flowerpot outside a church.
A cop crouched in a garbage truck.
A careless voice — too loud, too confident — in what was meant to be a harmless little conversation.
That's how kings fall.
Not by war.
By whispers.
By one wrong sound.
But us?
We never speak aloud.
And especially not without an alibi.
We don't announce ourselves.
You don't see us coming.
You feel us.
And you, reader…
We already know you're coming.
The mirror stares back at me.
I ignore it.
This morning, it doesn't get to decide who I am.
Ivory silk. Balmain.
I slip the blouse over my shoulders, leaving the top button undone.
That's not an oversight.
That's a message.
Black Mugler skirt. High-waisted. A slit sharp enough to cut through lies.
The fabric grazes my legs like a blade, each movement a promise.
Black. Always black.
It absorbs what I refuse to show.
12 cm Alaïa heels.
Not to walk.
To dominate.
To crush pride without asking permission.
I open the watch drawer.
Richard Mille. Audemars Piguet. Patek. Cartier.
Some were gifts from my brothers.
Others… trophies from enemies who trusted too easily.
But the most precious?
The ones I chose myself.
Paid in silence.
Bought with blood.
I pick the Patek Philippe Nautilus in rose gold.
Minimal. Rare. Dangerous.
It doesn't give the time.
It sets the tone.
Click. It locks around my wrist.
War attire, complete.
Today, I wait.
Someone's coming.
Someone thinks they can watch from a distance.
But here?
You don't observe.
You enter… or you fall.
The marble beneath me chills my heels.
White Calacatta, veined with smoke-gray rivers.
Luxury whispers louder than words.
I push the door open. The corridor is silent.
I descend the stairs.
Before I even reach the living room, I hear him.
Cesare.
My son.
My little soldier.
He's already charging invisible enemies, plastic sword raised high, his crooked Roman helmet slipping over one eye.
"Vercingetorix dies today!" he shouts.
I catch him mid-air.
He bursts out laughing, and it slices through the silence like sunlight.
I smother his face with kisses.
"My little conqueror…"
"Mama, let go!" he protests, wriggling free.
"Rome needs me!"
I let him go. He gallops away, foam sword swinging, ready to rule the world.
Kitchen door.
I push it open.
She's there.
Rhéa.
Pink plastic throne.
A crown too big for her head.
A cream Jacadi tulle dress, golden ballet flats, tights pulled perfectly tight.
Sitting tall, serious.
A little queen who knows exactly who she is.
Brown curls framing her face like a signature.
And her eyes.
Gray.
Like mine.
But also… like his.
Layann.
My brother.
My husband.
My mistake.
And my victory.
I walk to her.
She opens her arms and I melt into them.
Her scent hits me instantly — vanilla, shampoo, childhood.
A reminder of everything I fight for.
"I have to go to work, my love," I whisper against her curls.
She leans back, eyes wide.
"You're working with Daddy?"
I nod, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Yes. And tonight, we're coming home together."
"Do I sleep at Daddy's this weekend?"
"Yes. And do you know what he told me?"
She leans closer. I lower my voice, conspiratorial.
"He said… you're going to Disney."
Her gasp is pure magic.
"For real?!"
"For real, my princess."
Her arms tighten around my neck.
My chest aches.
My daughter.
My war won.
My reason not to fall.
I kiss her forehead, leaving her with Martha.
One last promise. One last anchor.
Then I walk away.
Outside, the Bentley Flying Spur waits.
Glossy black. Camel leather interior.
Tinted windows as dark as secrets.
The driver opens the door without a word.
I slide in.
He closes it softly — no sound, no trace.
Destination: The Romano Tower.
Top floor. Presidential district.
The beating heart of the capital.
Where empires are built.
And destroyed.
The city falls away behind tinted glass.
The Bentley glides, silent, devouring the asphalt.
Marseille shrinks.
The Romano Tower rises.
A monster of glass and steel.
Everyone calls it "The Romano."
No one really knows what happens inside.
They only know one thing:
You don't walk in uninvited.
And if you do… you don't walk out the same.
I take out my phone.
The signal locks instantly. Perfect.
One swipe. One photo.
An old archive — Layann and me, side by side at a private official dinner.
Champagne flutes raised. Perfect lighting. Controlled smiles.
To anyone looking, we look untouchable. Unshakable.
Almost believable. Almost.
I type the caption:
"Together, always. The rest is silence."
Hashtag: #Untouchables
I hit post.
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
The notifications explode.
💬 "That look… This is what power feels like."
💬 "Dangerously elegant 🔥"
💬 "Teach me how to manifest this kind of control 😍"
💬 "Even the President's wife liked this 👀"
💬 "You call this love? I call it manipulation. And I love it."
I allow myself the smallest smile.
Let them talk.
It's all part of the game.
And I'm the one writing the rules.
The Bentley stops.
The driver steps out, opens my door.
I emerge, heels clicking against the polished concrete like warning shots.
I lift my chin.
Exhale once.
Then walk forward.
Because today, there's no room for hesitation.
Two guards straighten at the entrance.
"Madame Romano."
They bow.
Not to me.
To the power behind my name.
I enter the lobby.
Packed.
Tailored suits. Designer dresses. Lowered eyes.
Newcomers dare a glance.
The veterans know better.
They look down. Always down.
I walk straight to the elevators.
Silence follows me like a shadow.
The doors slide open.
I step inside.
Alone.
Ding.
Top floor.
Marble beneath my heels. Black onyx walls.
The corridor feels like a mausoleum.
Dead silent.
Except this place breathes.
Thinks.
And kills.
Eyes follow me behind glass walls.
Meet my gaze.
Drop instantly.
I'm not their boss.
I'm worse.
I'm the Devil's sister.
At the end of the corridor:
The black double doors.
The war room.
They're all here.
The Romanos.
Aunt Livia at the head of the table.
Rigid. Unmoving.
Her black suit sharp enough to cut bone.
Lips like two dry blades.
She rarely speaks first.
But when she does, the room dies with her words.
To her right: Dario.
The strategist. Cold. Calculated.
He'd sell you a war with the smile of a diplomat.
Enzo.
The youngest. The most violent.
Ex-military. Speaks little. Hits hard.
Lucian.
The accountant. The man who launders sins into gold.
Dead eyes. Brain on fire.
And Thomas.
The bastard.
Uncle's illegitimate son.
He has the blood, but not the name.
Just like I used to be…
Until Layann gave it back.
Not out of love.
Out of strategy.
Now I wear the name.
The ring.
The crown.
And Thomas?
He's still a bastard.
I step forward.
The room doesn't move.
Here, power doesn't rise to greet you.
It watches.
It judges.
It waits.
I scan the table.
One face missing.
I frown.
"Where's Layann?"
Silence.
Heavy.
Loaded.
Then I catch it.
Lucian.
A tic.
Barely a twitch of his eyelid.
But here, that's everything.
I lock on him.
"Where?"
No answer.
My voice sharpens, slicing through the air:
"Who's the Devil fucking this time?
Downstairs? A secretary? HR?
Or maybe he does it in the hallway so people can watch?"
A few smirks break across the table.
Tight. Nervous.
Good.
I want them uncomfortable.
I laugh. Dry. Sharp.
"Didn't he used to have OCD, that clean freak?
He's cured now?
Fucking in rooms that haven't been sanitized?
With germs… and fingerprints?"
Enzo exhales a short laugh.
Thomas doesn't.
I pivot toward him instead.
"Or maybe he brought her back.
One of his obsessions.
Latex gloves, bleach perfume… legs wide open.
Right, Thomas?"
He freezes.
Coughs. Swallows hard.
Avoids my eyes.
Guilty.
Or scared.
Maybe both.
I slam my palms against the table.
The sound cracks through the silence like gunfire.
"Say it! Speak!
Where's the Devil?!"
A voice cuts through the room.
Cold. Precise.
"I'm right here, my love."
I turn.
Slowly.
Layann.
Leaning against the secondary doorway.
As if he's been there all along.
Listening.
Waiting.
Charcoal gray suit. Tailored to perfection.
Not a wrinkle. Not a thread out of place.
Black lambskin gloves.
Thin as second skin.
The kind of detail that tells you everything:
He controls what he touches.
And what he destroys.
His eyes?
Frozen.
Glacier blue.
They don't blink.
They watch.
He steps forward.
Each movement deliberate.
Each step a warning.
Aunt Livia rises immediately.
Sharp. Controlled.
Not out of respect.
Out of instinct.
She says she doesn't play favorites among nephews.
But when Layann walks in, she changes.
She loves him.
Too much.
He greets her with a brief embrace.
One second. No more.
Then lets go.
Business, not blood.
He scans the room.
Silent.
Then his voice cuts, sharp as a blade:
"I have a question too."
He locks on me.
Ice meeting fire.
"Where's Ryan?"
The name lands like a grenade.
Silence detonates.
I freeze.
"Ryan took some distance," I answer carefully.
He steps closer.
"Not when there's a problem."
Another step.
"He should be here."
Another.
"He's our brother."
He leans in.
"Family over everything. United."
Even Enzo looks away.
Thomas fidgets with his chain.
Lucian shuts his notebook, pen capped tight.
Livia doesn't breathe.
Inside, I burn.
Ryan.
The ghost.
The missing piece.
The storm we've been avoiding.
I step forward.
Sharp heels on marble.
I lock eyes with him.
"We'll contact him. Later."
He opens his mouth.
I raise a hand.
One gesture.
He freezes.
I turn to the others.
"We have a bigger problem."
The silence changes.
Thickens.
Suffocates.
Then I drop it.
"OCLO has us in its sights."
The reaction is instant.
Dario's jaw locks.
Lucian freezes mid-note.
Enzo leans forward, fists clenched.
Thomas' smirk dies on his lips.
Even Livia blinks once — and here, that means everything.
"How do you know?" Dario asks.
"Since when?" Lucian demands.
"Who told you?" Enzo growls.
The table explodes into chaos.
Voices overlap.
Fear spreading like gasoline.
I slam my palm down.
"Silence."
The room obeys.
Every breath holds.
I lower my voice.
Measured. Precise. Deadly.
"They've been watching us for months.
Not just us. Our networks. Our allies. Our routes.
And someone… is feeding them."
The word hangs.
Toxic.
Burning the air between us.
Thomas mutters first.
"A mole."
I nod slowly.
"Exactly."
Layann hasn't moved.
Not a muscle.
His arms crossed, gloves creaking softly.
But I know him.
He's thinking.
Calculating.
Killing.
I turn to him.
"What do you think?"
His voice drops.
Cold steel.
"We don't warn anyone.
We don't cut anyone.
We don't move."
He scans the room, his gaze slicing each face open.
"We let them feel safe.
Let them think they're clever.
That's when they talk.
When they slip.
When they fall."
He leans forward, gloved hands on the table.
"And when they fall… we burn them alive."
A muscle jumps in Enzo's jaw.
He likes that plan.
Thomas smiles faintly.
Lucian writes nothing — which means he's already plotting everything.
I step closer to the table.
Heels sharp on marble.
Final. Unstoppable.
"We build a ghost unit."
All eyes turn to me.
"Two men. Invisible. Even we won't know who they are.
They'll watch everyone.
Every call. Every deal. Every word."
I pause.
"And if the mole makes one wrong move…
they'll cut his throat before he breathes twice."
Enzo leans back, nodding slowly.
"A silent hunt," he murmurs.
Layann glances at him. Approves without speaking.
I continue.
"And while we watch… we bait the trap."
I meet Lucian's eyes.
"You'll leak something. A delivery. A warehouse.
Cash. Diamonds. Whatever looks real enough."
I sweep the room with my gaze.
"The mole won't resist.
He'll bite.
And when he does…"
I lower my voice.
"…we'll bury him alive."
Layann smiles.
Barely.
Predator's smile.
"A rat trap," he murmurs.
"Exactly."
Then I drop the second bomb.
"This isn't just us.
If OCLO can't reach us directly,
they'll hit our alliances first."
Silence again.
Eyes sharpen.
I let the names fall, one by one.
"The Navarros. The Delchis. The Bogdans."
I pause.
"And the Contis."
A wave of tension ripples through the room.
Livia straightens, sharp.
"You exiled him. He's gone.
Why would they target him?"
I glance at Layann.
He hasn't blinked.
Finally, he speaks.
Low. Measured. Dangerous.
"Because if they get to Gaëtan Conti…
they get to us.
Through him.
Through his routes. His men.
And we won't see it coming."
Dario leans forward, voice flat.
"So what's your solution?"
I meet his gaze.
Calm. Certain.
"I want Gaëtan back in Marseille."
The table erupts.
"No."
"Impossible."
"He'll never agree."
"He'll burn the city down."
I raise a hand.
Silence slams back into the room.
"I'm not asking him to come back."
I lean forward.
Smile sharp as a blade.
"I'll make him believe…"
A pause.
Deadly. Precise.
"…it was his idea."
POV – GAETAN
Standing.
Naked.
No shame.
No tenderness.
Just her mouth on my cock.
And that's all I fucking want.
Estela.
She thinks we're something.
A story. A connection.
I let her believe it.
As long as she gets on her knees when I need her,
she can dream all she wants.
She sucks like a pro.
Not out of love — out of obsession.
She likes the taste of my anger.
The silence in my veins.
She likes it when I grab her head like a leash.
When I control every fucking thrust.
I watch her drool, messy and ruined.
I like that sound —
wet, sloppy, mine.
She wants to please me.
She wants to own me.
But me?
I just want to empty myself.
My hand's in her hair.
Tight. Commanding.
She knows: don't move.
My hips slam forward.
She follows. Takes it.
Doesn't pull back, even when she's choking.
I don't give her the choice.
A growl rips from my chest.
No sweetness.
No care.
Just this.
My need.
Raw.
Animal.
She looks up at me like I'm a god.
Like I'm everything she wants inside her.
But I've got nothing to give.
Nothing.
Just my dick.
And my void.
I get bored fast.
I don't keep anyone.
I don't want a we.
I don't want hearts.
I just want a full throat
and an empty mind.
I grip harder. She whimpers but doesn't stop.
Good girl.
My thrusts get rougher.
Deeper.
Harder.
I want to hit the edge of myself until everything fades.
Until it burns.
She gags. Nails dig into my thighs.
I don't care.
I'm close.
Too close.
Too far gone to stop.
I growl.
Again.
Again.
And then I unload.
Once.
Twice.
Three fucking times.
Deep.
Rough.
Unfiltered.
She takes it.
All of it.
I keep her there, buried deep.
I want her to feel every last drop dripping inside her.
Fuck.
I filled her like a bitch in heat.
I pull out slow. Calm.
She looks up. Swallows.
Good little slut.
Then she licks her lips —
like she doesn't want to waste a single drop.
Not one.
And without a word,
she goes back down.
Licks me clean.
From tip to base.
Slow. Precise.
Then lower. My balls.
Like they're holy. Like they belong to her.
She knows I won't keep her.
But right now?
In this moment?
Yeah.
She's perfect.
I straighten. Step away.
"I'm gonna shower."
She gets up slowly.
Red knees.
Bruised throat.
She still thinks she can steal something from me.
A kiss.
A glance.
A promise I'll never make.
She steps closer.
Lips slightly parted.
Ready to invent a story.
I raise my hand.
Not hard — just firm.
My palm brushes her cheek.
My thumb slides to the corner of her mouth.
"You still got a bit there."
And I walk the fuck away.
No look back.
No regret.
The water hits hard in the shower.
Scalding.
Almost painful.
I lean forward, forehead against the wall.
I wash.
I erase.
I try.
A few minutes. No more.
I don't linger.
When I shut it off, towel around my waist —
I'm already somewhere else.
But she's not.
She's still there.
Naked.
Sitting on the edge of my bed.
My phone in her hand.
Pressed to her ear.
My stare goes cold.
"…What the fuck are you doing?"
She jumps.
Tries a guilty look.
"It's Fernando…"
I walk straight to her.
Take the phone from her hand.
"That's my fucking phone."
I press it to my ear.
Silence.
He hung up.
She murmurs like that'll save her:
"He said… the Romanos. They're back. In Marseille."
I freeze.
Not a word.
Just the pressure in my jaw.
And in my head —
Everything goes off.
Blurry.
Red.
Like an alarm screaming in the dark.