Ghosts Don’t Stay Buried

Present day

Los Angeles, United States. 

Lucien’s POV 

The gates creak open before the car stops.

I step out slowly, letting the wind hit me full in the face—sharp, fresh, biting with spring rain and expensive stone. The smell of home. 

It’s been five years.

Five years since the government locked me in a hole and threw away the key, since I lost my freedom.  Five years since she disappeared.

And now, I’m back.

I move slowly through the gravel drive toward the main estate, taking in my surroundings. Nothing’s changed in my absence, except the smell of death behind the walls. As I walk to the front door, it swings open and Jamie, my best friend and consigliere, steps out. 

“Lucien,” he says from the top of the marble steps, his voice tight. “Jesus. You look like hell.”

“I feel fantastic,” I reply dryly, reaching the top. “Where is he?”

Jamie doesn’t need to ask who. “Inside. Waiting. Barely. The lawyers are downstairs cleaning up the last of the mess.” 

I nod once and walk past him, straight into the foyer. “I should warn you,” he calls out, doubling his stride to catch up with me. “It’s not a pretty sight. He deteriorated quickly after you went to prison and he’s been going downhill ever since. He’s not the same person you knew, Lucien.” 

His voice tightens as he speaks, carrying an edge of nostalgia and regret. 

But I’m not interested in offering sympathies. My father’s the reason I was in Barcelona in the first place—because I had to clean up the mess he created. I was his saving grace…the son he never wanted until he realized just how useless the others were.  

My shoulders straighten as I walk into the second living room, nodding curtly to the lawyers perched around him. Vultures, the lot of them. 

But he’s not any different. 

The old man sits in his throne of a chair near the fireplace, a blanket draped over his legs and oxygen tubes in his nose. His face is paler than I remember. Smaller. Dying, finally. 

“Lucien,” my father rasps. “I had them bring you home.”

“You had them bury me first,” I answer coldly, eyes never leaving his. “Don’t pretend we’re starting over.”

He smirks, faint and sickly. “Still bitter. That’s good. You’ll need that if you want to take back what’s yours.”

I’m not quick to believe that he wants to hand it over to me, even though he’s one step away from death’s door. It was from my father I learned that everything came with a price. 

Carrying his last name came with the burden of being the Moretti family’s lapdog. 

The price for one night with the most beautiful, captivating woman I’d ever met was five years behind bars. I don’t regret it, though. I only wish I could’ve stopped her from vanishing off the face of the earth. 

“What do you want?” I ask, my voice flat. Cold.

He gestures—one withered finger pointing toward the lawyer standing stiffly nearby. The man snaps into motion, reaching into a leather briefcase and producing a thick envelope, bound with an official seal.

He hands it to me like it’s sacred.

“What is this?”

My father tries to speak, but dissolves into a harsh, grating cough that rattles through his hollow chest. I turn my head, not out of concern but to hide the disgust curling on my face.

He finally manages to rasp, “A marriage proposal.”

I blink, once. “A what?”

He lifts his eyes, pale and yellowing. “I’m willing to leave everything to you—control of the syndicate, the offshore holdings, Salieri, Rome, all of it—if you marry Giuliana Virelli.”

My brow shoots up. Virelli?

I haven’t heard that name in years. The Virellis and Morettis have been at war longer than anyone can remember what began it. My father’s pride would rather let his men die in large numbers than reach for a truce—I know that from experience. 

“Her father wants peace,” my father croaks. “So do I.”

My laughter rings hollow and bitter. “You want control, not peace.”

He doesn’t deny it. “Call it what you want,” he breathes, eyes gleaming despite his decay. “But marry her, and the empire is yours. Say no…”

He shrugs, as if to say someone else will take it.

Someone who isn’t me. Once again, I’ll be passed over like a lap dog, good enough for cleaning up split milk and nothing more.  

“Everything?” I ask, needing him to repeat the words so there’ll be no mistaking their meaning. 

His head bobs as he nods, almost falling off his shoulders. “Yes. Everything. The Moretti empire was never up for parts, Lucien. You know that.”

I don’t. All I remember were the leftovers handed to me, while my half-brothers made fools of themselves. “I’ll need it in writing,” I say firmly. “Before,” I’m quick to amend before he speaks, “the wedding. I’m assuming you want it happening sooner than later.”

“A month,” he croaks, clearing his throat loudly. “In the meantime, news of your engagement will be…communicated to interested parties.”

I don’t miss the unspoken words in his short pause. He’s going to control everything. My father doesn’t think he’s dying any time soon. 

I scoff quietly. Classic denial. 

“Sure,” I mutter, slipping the envelope under my arm. “Send out whatever smoke signals you want. Coordinate the illusion.”

He narrows his eyes, but I’m already turning toward the door.

“I have other things to do,” I add coolly, pausing just long enough to make the next part sting. “So I hope you don’t mind if I leave right away.”

He doesn’t answer. Good. Because I don’t have any plans on taking orders from him. 

As I walk down the corridor, I hear another set of footsteps behind me, trying to match mine and remain undetected. I roll my eyes. “Jamie.”

“You’ve been behind bars for five years,” he says, skipping any pretense. “And now you’re off again to God knows where. I’m not trying to sound hurt—” he pauses, footsteps falling into line beside mine “—but it feels like you didn’t care if your absence broke the people who actually gave a damn.”

I stop and turn. He’s right. Jamie’s the only person I could ever trust. We’ve been friends since childhood and when he became the Moretti consigliere, he stuck by my side.  

“I have to find someone,” I say. “And I need to find her before the wedding.”

His eyes widen in surprise, then he clicks his tongue like just found something interesting. “Another woman?” He gasps dramatically. “Did you fall in love and didn’t tell me about it?”

I wouldn’t call it love. 

She hasn’t left my mind since that night—not even when the feds visited me in prison and tried to make me trade secrets for less prison time.  

I thought about her. Maya Serrano. 

Not occasionally. Not in passing but constantly.

I dreamt of her soft skin beneath my fingertips, how she trembled when I touched her. The way she whispered my name like it was a secret she wasn’t supposed to say. Those whimpers—needy, wrecked, real—still echo in my ears when the nights go long and quiet.

I remember her fingers fisting my hair, clawing down my back, trying to pull me deeper, closer, like she needed to anchor herself or drown. The feeling of being inside her—wet and tight—drowns me. 

The memory of that night has remained vivid with me for five years, haunting and filling my every waking moment. 

So, not love.  

An obsession, probably. 

And maybe, maybe I want her to pay for turning me over to the feds.  

“Fine,” Jamie says. “I won’t ask any questions. But you want my help, no? Because if you haven’t found her yet, then she must be hiding from you.”

“Yes,” I nod. “It seems so.”

Jamie whistles, stopping when I glare at him. “You must’ve done something terrible for her to go dark, man. Did you tell her who you were?”

Worse. 

She worked for the CIA and was supposed to bring me into custody.  She was bait and I thought I was smart enough to evade, until I watched her glide across the floor in a party, weeks before we met in person. 

Her blue eyes were brighter than the chandeliers, the earrings dangling from her ears like sparks of sunlight and her dress floated around her with every step she took. 

The plan, back then, was to study Maya without tipping her off—so I could remain a step ahead. I didn’t think I would fall in love with the way she danced without a care or drank like no one was watching.  

She was fiercer than anything I’d ever seen.  

I knew I wanted her right there.  The rest…was confetti.  

Jamie snaps his fingers in front of my face, pulling me from my reverie. “What’s her name?” He asks. “Unless you forgot to get that during the torrid affair you shared.” 

I curl my lip at his mocking tone and he lifts his hand in defense. 

“Maya,” I murmur. “Maya Serrano.”

“Okay,” he smacks his lips. “Maya Serrano. I’ll put the feelers out and let you know if I find anything. What,” he asks after a beat, “do you plan to do when you find her?”

I shrug. “I’m not sure.”

To punish her for turning me in or to have her as mine. Either way, she belongs to me. “I’ll figure it out when you find her,” I say. 

“You got it.”

As I walk away, he calls out, “Do you need company?” I ignore him as I step out the front door, heading to my car—needing to be anywhere other than here. Where I know I’m not wanted.  

***

Two hours later, settled in my office, my laptop pings. I open my email to see an encrypted message from one of my sources in Internal Audits—someone who owes me more than their life is worth. I skim it, my eyes narrowing with each line.

A tip-off: A private security firm has been quietly contracted to perform a full audit of Moretti Group’s L.A. division. 

It hasn’t been up to twenty-four hours and they’re already circling. I’m not surprised, though. The feds were more than willing to allow me to spend life behind bars, they must’ve huddled together when they found out I was getting out early. 

Since my father’s dying and I’m barely settled, now’s the right time to make their move.  

That’s what they think, at least.  

I scroll down to the attachment. The company name catches my attention first. It’s small, discreet, and absolutely not on any of our vetted lists.

But it’s the name underneath that hits harder. Lead Consultant: Jenna Carr.

The air leaves my lungs like a silent punch. I click the image file and the world stops.

A picture pops up—clear, candid, snapped at a conference. Her hair’s darker now, pulled into a sleek ponytail. She’s in a black blazer, holding a tablet, her smile polite and professional.

But I’d know her anywhere.  That mouth. Those eyes. 

That scar just beneath her jawline that she thinks no one notices. It’s her. It’s Maya Serrano. Or at least it was. 

Now, she calls herself Jenna Carr.

My mouth curls into a pleased grin as I zoom in on the image. “Found you.”