His Ghost Knife

Katherine pov. 

"It’s all clear” a voice says through the wire in my ear, low and steady.

" Okay "

I step out of the sleek black van, one stiletto heel at a time, and onto the gravel leading to the massive estate ahead — the kind of place where men drink blood-red wine and speak in codes before pulling the trigger.

I was never invited to this grand mafia gathering — but that’s the point. I never wait for an invitation.

That’s what my people are for.

They handled it. Just like always.

Now it’s time for me to do what I do best.

Tonight, I’m not Katherine. I’m whoever they want to see.

Since my identity will always be unknown,

I'm wearing a red wig, short and wild.

A nose ring that glints under the chandelier lights.

Thick red lip stick shaped into something dangerous.

My face altered — slightly fuller lips, contoured cheekbones.

Green-brown contact lenses that make my stare almost inhuman.

The slit in my black dress teases up my thigh with every step, high enough to pull a knife from if I need to.

My cleavage is on full display, glossy and highlighted.

My skin glows with a fake softness, oiled to distraction, but under it—steel.

The moment I enter, heads turn.

I know I'm hot ..

Whispers.

Desire.

Suspicion.

Exactly what I want.

This isn’t just a party — it’s a goddamn masquerade of killers and liars.

Mafia kings, cartel lords, their mistresses, and enemies in disguise. Everyone in here has killed people or sent someone to die. Everyone is armed, even when pretending to flirt.

Men with tattoos that tell stories of loyalty and blood.

Women with eyes like poison.

And me? I’m the ghost they’ve heard of but never seen.

I felt the heat of every eye on my ass as I glide through the hall. Good. Let them look.

I reach for a glass of champagne from a passing tray and take a sip. Cold.

That’s when I hear the voice again in my ear.

“Target identified. Klaus De Luca — far end of the hall. Get closer.”

Bingo.

The man of the night.

Klaus fucking De Luca.

The one I took a fat deposit for. The one I’m supposed to kill and leave with my mark — a number carved into his flesh.

47.

I spot him as soon as the room quiets. He steps forward onto the upper balcony, above the crowd, A glass in one hand

God, he looks… different from the pictures.

Taller. Leaner. All-black suit that fits too well. A quiet kind of dominance.

But his eyes — they’re ancient. Cold. Calculating.

He starts a speech — something about power, legacy, and loyalty — but I’m not listening.

My attention is focused on the guards around him and the bodyguards standing on the stairs.

How the fuck do I get close when I'm not even invited.

Then his eyes locked onto mine, lingering a second too long.

Right through the crowd. Right through the noise. Right into my eyes.

And he smirked.

A slow, knowing smirk like he’s been waiting for me. Like he knew I was coming.

He lifts his glass .

" Enjoy” he says from a distance.

Then he turns and disappears behind the velvet curtain on the upper level.

My jaw tightens.

What the fuck was that?

“Get close to him ” the voice says in my ear again.

“ I fucking know that ” I whisper under my breath, keeping my eyes on the empty space he vanished into.

Then I feel a presence behind me.

A man. Cocky, well-dressed, and exactly the type who thinks he’s the main character in every room. He’s saying — something about how I look too beautiful to be alone. I pretend to smile, to laugh. But I’m not listening. I’m calculating.

And that’s when the idea hits me.

I lean in close, lips barely grazing his ear.

“I’m feeling hot,” I purr. “And… naughty." I bit my lower lips seductively

" Can we go somewhere….. private?”

His eyes darken immediately with lust. Pathetic.

He doesn’t even hesitate — grabs my wrist gently, like a gentleman.

He leads me toward the stairs, no guards could stop him . No one questions a man about to get laid.

Perfect.

Because I’m not here to fuck.

I’m here to finish the job.

The man’s cologne was overpowering—cheap and desperate—yet I let him lead me through the velvet-curtained hall. His hands were trembling—nervous excitement. He thought he was about to fuck a stranger in a locked room at a mafia banquet. Poor thing.

He opened the door, and I stepped in first.

The voice crackled in my ear again.

"Target is heading toward the east wing. Alone. Ten meters from your position. Now’s your window." I nod .

"You're beautiful," he breathed behind me, already unbuttoning his suit.

I turned around taking slow steps towards the man , placing my hand on his jaw , he  leaned down as if to kiss me , placing one hand on my waist ... then I pulled out my tranquilizer pen and jabbed it into his neck.

He barely had time to grunt before collapsing backward, dead to the world.

One problem down. The real one, ten steps away.

I adjusted my wig slightly, fluffing the fiery red strands. Sliding silently through the suite’s side door, I crept into the hallway. No guards.

The world inside the mafia den was loud and wild, but up here—up here was where the predators moved. And I was one of them.

Then I saw him.

At the far end of the corridor. Same sharp jawline. Same broad frame. Same face as the man who raised his glass to us earlier. But the suit was different—royal blue instead of black. Subtle, but I notice everything.

Klaus de Luca.

He didn’t see me as he entered a room alone. I didn’t hesitate. Silently, smoothly, I followed.

The door was just starting to close when—

CRASH!

A vase flew at my head.

I ducked instinctively, the ceramic shattering against the wall behind me. I straightened slowly, blade already drawn.

Then I heard his voice.

Low. Calculated.

“So... you’re the Ghost Knife. The woman with no past. No future. Who sent you ? .”

I froze.

How the hell did he know?

I didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. That was why he smirked at me?, then I lunged.

My knife caught his chest. A clean slice.

But he didn’t stagger.

He just… smiled.

As if the pain was nothing.

“Cute,” he muttered, reaching into his jacket.

He pulled out a gun. Pointed it at my head.

But his finger twitched—to the left. The bullet shattered the mirror behind me.

“I’m asking one last time. Who sent you?”

I didn’t answer.

I struck again. A different blade this time—coated in something special. The tip was laced with peanut butter oil, a tiny trick I was saving for Klaus. Word on the black market was he had a deadly allergy. Even a scratch could stop his heart.

I aimed for his neck. The blade slid across the skin—not deep, but enough to deliver the toxin.

He growled and threw me off, slamming me against the wall with a force that cracked my breath.

I didn’t wait. I ran.

My heels clicked furiously, echoing down the corridor. I reached up, trying to call into my earpiece.

“It’s a trap, I repeat—!”

Nothing. Just static.

Shit!.

Disconnected. I ripped it out and hurled it across the floor.

Before I could turn the corner—

Bang!

A bullet grazed my arm. Pain exploded through my skin. My leg buckled in my heels, and I dropped with a gasp.

Blood soaked through the silk of my gown. I gritted my teeth, trying to crawl.

Then I heard footsteps. Calm. Steady.

He crouched beside me, gun still in hand. That same arrogant smirk on his face.

“Who sent you, baby girl?”

I glared up at him. My vision blurring. My body trembling, either from pain or rage—I couldn’t tell.

Then I heard a new voice behind him.

“Elijah,” it called. Smooth. Deeper.

He turned his head slightly.

And that’s when I saw him.

Another man.

Exactly the same face.

Two of them.

Identical.

Twins.

My blood ran cold.

“What the f–”

Then everything went black.