Conner

“Boss, there’s another package for you.”

Liam’s voice is laced with amusement, that damn smirk of his already in place as he strides into my office, cradling a sleek black box wrapped in a blood-red ribbon like it’s a birthday gift. He sets it down on my desk with exaggerated care, and I don’t miss the way he lingers, hovering beside me, shifting from foot to foot like a kid waiting for fireworks. He’s been quietly enjoying this twisted little game. Watching it unfold over the past three years with barely contained glee, like it’s the best show on earth. And maybe it is. I lean forward in my chair, letting a small smile crack my usually cold façade. “Another gift?” I murmur, fingers brushing the ribbon. “So soon. I must’ve been good.”

The last package came just four days ago. Before that, it was a week. Whoever they are, they’ve become bolder, more frequent. Like they can’t help themselves. The silk ribbon slides free with a whisper, falling to the desk in a crimson ripple. I lift the lid slowly, savoring the moment, and peer inside. Another pair of severed hands. Pale, mutilated, perfectly placed in the box like some grotesque art installation. One still wears three gaudy gold rings, confirmation enough. The arms dealer from Prague. The one who thought he could skim two million off my last weapons shipment and disappear into the wind. Guess he didn’t make it far. How thoughtful. Liam whistles, long and low, hands on his hips as he leans in to get a better look. “Another problem solved without you having to lift a single finger.”

I chuckle under my breath. “Efficiency is a rare gift these days.”

He snorts. “A little too rare, considering your mystery woman seems to be outpacing our entire crew.”

I hum, setting the lid gently back onto the box, careful not to smudge the blood still drying along the inner edge. “Take it to the freezer with the others.”

Liam raises a brow. “You sure you want to keep collecting them, boss? It’s getting a little… Silence of the Lambs downstairs.”

I shrug, leaning back in my chair. “They’re gifts. And you don’t throw away gifts.”

But I already know. She’s gone. Like smoke. Like she always is. I stand there a moment longer, watching the tree line sway in the breeze. She couldn’t have gotten far. But she always escapes me. Every time I get close, she slips right through my fingers. Eventually, I lower the gun, exhale slowly, and head back inside, jaw tight. She outplayed me. Again. I re-enter the kitchen, the scent of the food even stronger now. It’s warm and rich, perfectly timed, like she knew when I’d be done.

When I’d be alone. When I’d be vulnerable enough to feel the full weight of her absence, and grateful for the twisted little reminder that she was just here. Dinner waits on the counter. Pasta, perfectly plated. Warm bread wrapped in a cloth napkin. A bottle of red wine already opened, breathing beside two crystal glasses. I walk over slowly, staring at the place setting. It looks… romantic.

Like a date. A first date, if you ignore the part where she broke into my house. A laugh bubbles up in my throat, sharp, bitter, but real. She’s insane. She’s dangerous. She’s absolutely, unapologetically mine. I sit down, pour myself a glass of wine, and raise it to the empty chair across from me.

“To the ghost in my walls,” I murmur with a crooked smile. “You make one hell of a lasagna.”