Married to the untouchable mafia lord

Chris POV

The hoodie of my black sweatshirt sat low on my head, brushing my cheekbone when I shifted.

Across my chest, the word Ghost was printed in clean white letters. Sharp and simple.

Exactly how I liked my work.

I lay flat on the rooftop, the concrete cold beneath my chest. My rifle rested steady against my

shoulder, familiar as a handshake I’d made a hundred times before. Below me, the hospital

parking lot glowed under harsh security lights. Ambulances idled. Nurses in tired uniforms

hurried to their cars, heads down, thinking about home.

On the third floor, through a wide window, I saw them.

Three doctors.

They stood close together in a small break room. One poured coffee into a paper cup. Another

leaned against the counter, scrolling through his phone. The third talked with his hands,

laughing at something I’d never heard.

They looked safe. Protected. Like the world outside that window didn’t apply to them.

I slowed my breathing.

Inhale.

Exhale.

My finger rested against the trigger, not squeezing yet. Just feeling the pressure point. The quiet

before the break.

The first shot tore through the night.

Glass exploded inward. The doctor with the coffee jerked back, the cup flying from his hand.

Brown liquid splashed across the wall behind him as he fell.

The laughter died instantly.

Screams replaced it.

The second doctor tried to duck. He didn’t make it far.

Second shot.

He dropped beside the first.

The third man froze, just for a second. Shock does that. It steals your legs before it gives them

back. His head snapped up, eyes searching, and somehow he found the broken window.

Found me.

Even from that distance, I saw it in his face. Real fear.

Third shot.

Silence followed, heavy and sudden. Then chaos flooded in. Alarms blared. People inside the

building shouted for help. Down below, someone’s car started screaming its own protest.

Sirens began to rise in the distance.

I didn’t rush.

I never rush.

I cycled the bolt, the metal clicking cleanly. Below, the parking lot dissolved into panic. People

ran without direction, some looking up, others dragging colleagues behind cars for cover.

By the time police vehicles turned the corner two streets away, I was already moving.

Down the fire escape.

Across the next rooftop.

Into the dark.

The city swallowed me like it always did.

---

My bolt-hole sat beneath an abandoned auto shop on the edge of Lawson City. The place had

been forgotten years ago. Rusted gates. Broken windows. Dust thick enough to write your name

in.

Perfect.

I lifted the trap door hidden beneath a stripped engine block and climbed down the metal ladder.

The smell of oil and metal greeted me. Cold. Familiar.

I placed the rifle on the workbench. It hit with a dull clang that echoed in the concrete space. My

sidearm followed. Then the thin blade from my belt.

A single bulb hung from the ceiling, flickering like it wasn’t sure it wanted to stay alive.

I walked to the cracked mirror by the sink.

My hood was still up. My eyes were steady. No shaking in my hands.

“Three,” I muttered to my reflection.

The water ran ice-cold over my fingers as I washed away the faint dusting of gunpowder. It

clings more than people think.

I turned off the light and lay back on the narrow cot, boots still on.

Outside, sirens wailed for hours.

I slept through them.

---

Morning came quietly. The city didn’t.

My phone vibrated against the metal table beside the cot, dragging me awake. I reached for it

without hurry.

The screen lit up with headlines.

Lawson City Terror: Three Doctors Slain by an Anonymous Sniper.

The Return of ‘Ghost.’

A quiet laugh slipped from my throat.

“Return,” I repeated under my breath.

I turned on the small mounted TV. A reporter stood outside the hospital, police tape fluttering

behind her. Flashing red and blue lights painted everything in harsh color.

“Residents of Lawson City woke up to horror today,” she said, voice tight. “The mysterious

assassin known only as ‘Ghost’ has struck again.”

I leaned back, arms crossing over my chest.

They always said the name like I was something unreal. A myth. A shadow with no skin.

I’m just a man.

“Authorities currently have no leads,” she continued. “No suspect description.”

Of course they don’t.

My phone rang.

Unknown number.

I answered but said nothing.

A smooth, deep voice filled the silence. “Exquisite work.”

“You sound pleased,” I replied.

“It was clean.”

“They didn’t see it coming.”

“That is why you are paid.”

I tapped my fingers lightly against the table. “Speaking of which.”

“You will collect your compensation.”

“Where.”

“Old warehouse by the docks. Locker room inside. The satchel will be waiting.”

“And I just walk in and take it?”

A pause.

“Yes.”

The line went dead.

I stared at the blank screen for a moment.

Docks. Old warehouse.

Too simple.

I strapped on my pistol and tucked two spare magazines into my jacket pocket. Switched

knives—smaller blade this time. Close-quarters.

I glanced at myself in the mirror again.

Chris Lee.

But to them?

Ghost.

I pulled the hood up and left.

The docks smelled like salt and rust. Gulls cried overhead, fighting over scraps. Most of the

warehouses stood abandoned, their paint peeling, their doors sagging.

The one I wanted sat at the far end. Wide sliding door partially open. Too inviting.

I didn’t use it.

Instead, I circled wide, keeping my distance. Checked the windows. Watched the reflections in

broken glass.

Then I saw it.

A black SUV was parked two blocks back. Windows tinted dark. Engine off—but someone was

inside. Watching.

Fresh tire tracks cut through the dirt behind the warehouse.

I smiled faintly.

They really thought this would work.

I slipped through a narrow gap where the metal siding had pulled loose. Inside, dust hung thick

in the air. Sunlight streamed through holes in the roof, cutting bright lines across the floor.

In the center of the space, a table stood alone.

A bag sat on top of it.

Obvious bait.

I stayed in the shadows behind a concrete pillar and waited.

Five seconds.

Ten.

Then I heard it.

A scuff of a boot to my left. A faint shift behind a stack of crates. The metallic creak of someone

adjusting their stance on the balcony above.

Six men.

“All right, Ghost,” one of them called out. “Took you long enough.”

I didn’t answer.

Another voice, rougher. “Boss appreciates your service. But you’ve become… inconvenient.”

I tilted my head slightly.

“So this is retirement?” I asked.

“Drop your weapon.”

I slowly raised my hands.

They moved closer, forming a loose circle.

“Kneel,” someone barked.

Instead, I moved.

Hands dropped. Body twisted. Pistol cleared my back in one smooth motion.

First shot—throat.

The man to my right choked on his own blood before he hit the ground.

Second shot—center mass.

Gunfire exploded around me. Wood splintered. Metal rang as bullets struck the scaffolding

overhead. I rolled behind a steel drum, the air filling with smoke and dust.

“Spread out!” someone shouted.

I leaned out just enough.

Shot.

The man on the balcony jerked backward and toppled over the railing, crashing onto the floor

below.

Four left.

One rushed me, firing wildly. A bullet grazed my shoulder, heat slicing through fabric and skin.

I stepped into him before he could correct his aim and fired upward under his chin.

He dropped at my feet.

Two.

Another tried to flank me. I saw his shadow shift before he moved.

Shot.

He fell behind the crates.

The last one broke.

He turned and ran for the open doorway, boots slipping against the dusty floor.

I followed at a steady pace. No rush.

He reached the doorway and spun around, panic written across his face.

“Wait—”

I fired once.

He collapsed forward, halfway through the exit.

Silence returned slowly. The ringing in my ears faded. The smell of gunpowder hung heavy in

the air.

Six men.

I rolled my shoulder once. The graze burned, but it wasn’t deep.

Walking back to the center of the warehouse, I picked up the satchel from the table. It was

heavy. I unzipped it slightly.

Stacks of cash.

At least they brought the money.

I pulled out my phone and dialed the number.

It rang twice.

“…Yes?” The smoothness in his voice was gone.

“Next time,” I said calmly, stepping over one of the bodies, “if you plan to set a trap...” I looked

around the warehouse once more. “Send more than six.”

Then I ended the call.