Chapter 1:
The smoke in the private lounge of The Obsidian didn't just hang; it clung to the wood-paneled walls like a shared secret, a thick veil of grey that obscured the faces of men who preferred to remain in the shadows. This was the sanctuary of the elite and the depraved, a place where the air tasted of expensive Scotch and unspoken threats. The velvet curtains were heavy, dampening the frantic pulse of the London streets outside, leaving only the low hum of the ventilation and the distant clink of crystal.
Dante Vane sat in the corner booth, his presence a weight that seemed to thin the oxygen in the room. He wasn't moving much, just peeling a tangerine with a silver pocketknife, his movements precise and surgical. Each slice of the blade was deliberate, a testament to a man who lived his life in the narrow margins of perfection. To the world, he was the "Ghost of London," the phantom architect of the city's underworld, the man who controlled the flow of everything from the Thames to the deepest underground vaults. He was a myth whispered in the ears of desperate men, a figure of icy resolve and calculated violence.
"Dante breathe" Leo muttered leaning back with a grin that was far too relaxed for someone sitting across from a man who had buried three rivals in a month. Leo was the only one allowed such liberties a brother in arms who had survived the trenches of the rise to power alongside him. He took a long drag of his cigar the cherry glowing bright in the dim light. "You look like you're calculating a hit and we're supposed to be celebrating the North End acquisition."
"I'm eating Leo" Dante replied his voice a low gravelly rasp that felt like sandpaper on silk. He didn't look up from the fruit his focus entirely on the orange rind. "If you don't stop talking I'll start calculating yours. It would be a short equation."
Leo laughed a deep genuine sound that was unfazed by the threat. Underneath the power the designer suits and the bloodstains on their souls their bond was the only thing that felt human. It was a tether to a reality that didn't involve ledger sheets and body counts. "I brought a distraction Dante. Something better than your brooding. My girl Vida finally convinced her friend from Uni to come out. They're downstairs now."
Dante's grey eyes flickered with cold annoyance finally lifting from the tangerine. The silver blade snapped shut with a definitive click. "We're in the middle of a delicate territory shift with the Italians and you're bringing Oxford students to my private lounge? This isn't a social club Leo. It's a command center."
"Relax. They think we're 'Asset Managers' with a flair for dramatic lighting and expensive habits" Leo winked checking his watch. "They're harmless. Besides you need to remember what a woman looks like when she isn't trying to slip a wire into your collar."
Dante began to protest but the heavy oak doors swung open cutting him off.
Vida walked in first her South African confidence radiating like a physical heat as she adjusted her designer blazer. She knew this world or at least she knew how to navigate the edges of it without falling into the abyss. She walked with the stride of someone who belonged greeting Leo with a possessive hand on his shoulder.
But it was the girl behind her who stopped the air in Dante's lungs.
Bree stepped into the room looking like a literal angel who had taken a wrong turn into purgatory. Her Nigerian heritage was evident in the regal curve of her features and the way her braids were swept back into a neat intricate crown. She wore a simple cream dress that seemed to glow against the dark mahogany of the lounge. She was clutching her canvas tote bag as if it contained the secrets of the universe her eyes wide as they swept the opulent darkened room with a mixture of awe and healthy skepticism.
When her gaze landed on Dante she didn't flinch. She didn't look down in the way most did when faced with the predator in the room. She just blinked her expression shifting from confusion to a strange soft curiosity that was entirely out of place in The Obsidian.
"Is he the one in charge of the assets?" Bree asked her voice carrying a melodic lilt that cut through the tension like a fresh breeze through a tomb.
Dante froze a slice of the tangerine halfway to his mouth. The room seemed to contract. No one spoke about him like he was a common clerk. No one spoke at all in his presence without a direct invitation let alone addressed him with such casual scrutiny.
"He's the head consultant" Leo said biting his lip to suppress a smirk that would surely get him punched later. "The big boss of the books."
Bree stepped closer invading Dante's personal space with a total lack of self-preservation. She leaned in slightly squinting at him as if he were a difficult passage in a textbook. She smelled like vanilla and rain a sharp contrast to the stale tobacco and iron that usually defined his world.
"You have a very intense stare for someone who works in finance Mr. Consultant" she noted her head tilting to the side. "You look like you're trying to find a mistake in a decimal point that doesn't exist. Also," she pointed a slim finger toward his arm "you missed a bit of peel on your sleeve. It's ruining the lines of your suit."
The guards by the door shifted their hands hovering near their jackets eyes darting to Dante for the signal to remove the intruder. The room went silent enough to hear a heartbeat or the ticking of the clock on the mantle.
Dante felt a sharp unfamiliar spark hit his chest not the cold heat of a kill or the rush of a successful heist but something far more volatile. He looked at the tiny orange speck on his dark grey wool then back at the girl who dared to notice it.
"Is that so?" Dante asked his voice dropping to a dangerous silken register that usually made grown men tremble.
Bree nodded earnestly her eyes bright and unafraid. "Yes. It's distracting. May I?"
Before he could answer before he could process the sheer audacity of the gesture she reached out. Her fingers were warm as they brushed his sleeve flicking the tiny piece of peel off his arm with a practiced grace. Her skin made contact with his for a fraction of a second and for the first time in ten years, the Ghost of London forgot how to speak.