Chapter Two

AMARA

My wrists ached, a dull, throbbing pain that kept time with the neon sign buzzing aggressively outside the window. Clink. Buzz. Clink. Buzz.

I dragged the damp, bleach-soaked rag across the laminate counter for what felt like the hundredth time tonight, wiping away the phantom rings of cheap coffee and spilled espresso. My shoulders were so heavy they felt like they were lined with lead.

Two jobs. Eighteen hours a day. Six days a week.

This was the glamorous life of Amara Zoya Barros.

I leaned heavily against the counter, letting my eyes close for just a single, blissful second. But the moment the darkness took over, the numbers started flashing behind my eyelids. The interest rates. The overdue notices. The threats written in elegant, cursive Italian script on heavy parchment paper left under my apartment door.

“A debt does not die with the man who made it, Signorina. Pay, or we will find other ways for you to settle the account.”

My uncle had been a gambler, a fool who thought he could outsmart the local syndicates. He had lost, vanished into thin air, and left my name on the dotted line as a guarantor before he fled the country.

Now, the predators were circling, and I was the one bleeding out to feed them.

A sudden blast of cold wind cut through the café, making the tiny bells above the entrance chime loudly. I snapped my eyes open, my heart jumping into my throat as my hand instinctively gripped the wooden handle of the broom resting against the counter.

It was just old Nonno, the neighborhood drunk, stumbling out into the downpour.

I let out a shaky breath, smoothing down my faded apron. Get a grip, Mara, I scolded myself. You’re jumping at shadows.

But in this part of the city, the shadows were alive and everyone knew it.

“Hey, Barros! Stop daydreaming and help me move these crates to the back,” a gruff voice called out from the kitchen. It was Matteo, the night manager, a cynical man with grease permanently stained under his fingernails and a severe gambling addiction of his own.

I tossed the rag into the bucket and walked into the cramped back room, lifting a heavy wooden crate of espresso beans.

Matteo was leaning against the back exit door, a half burned cigarette dangling from his lips as he scrolled through his phone. The screen cast an eerie blue glow over his sweating face.

“You hear about what happened over in the industrial district last night?” Matteo muttered, not looking up from his screen. He blew a cloud of acrid smoke toward the ceiling. “The Rossi family. Total bloodbath at one of their old packing plants. Nonno said that word on the street is Marco Rossi got put down like a dog.”

I froze, the heavy crate weighing down my arms. Marco Rossi. The name alone made my stomach turn. He was the underboss whose enforcers had come to my apartment last week, smashing my kitchen chairs to remind me of my payment deadline.

“Dead?” I whispered, a strange mixture of relief and absolute terror washing over me. “Who did it?”

Matteo finally looked up, his eyes wide, shifting nervously toward the dark alleyway outside the screen door. He dropped his voice to a harsh whisper.

“Who do you think? The one they don’t speak about out loud. Prizrak.”

The name felt like a sudden drop in temperature. Even a normal, working-class girl like me knew the rumors. For the past four years, the underworld had been tearing itself apart from the inside.

A new power was rising—a phantom who left no evidence, no tracks, and no survivors. The low-level thugs who came to collect my money spoke about him in hushed, terrified tones, calling him the Ghost Wolf.

They said he wasn’t human. They said he was a monster born from the gutters who was systematically hunting down the old-blood families.

“They say Marco was found with a bullet through his mouth,” Matteo whispered, a morbid fascination in his voice. “Some say the Ghost isn’t even real, a nightmare made up to scare the children. But nightmares don’t leave bloodshed, Mara. The man is a psycho. A straight-up demon. If he’s cleaning out the Rossi family next, this whole city is about to go up in flames.”

A shiver raced down my spine, cold and sharp. I set the crate down with a dull thud, my hands trembling slightly against the rough wood.

“If Marco is dead…” I started, the words catching in my dry throat. “What happens to the people who owed him? What happens to the debts?”

Matteo let out a harsh, mocking laugh, tossing his cigarette butt into the rain outside the screen door. “Are you stupid, Mara? When a shark dies, the smaller ones fight for the scraps. If anything, whoever takes over Marco’s territory is going to come knocking on your door twice as hard to prove they aren’t to be messed with. If I were you, I’d find that money fast. Or get ready to work on your back for it”

He patted my shoulder—a gesture that felt less like comfort and more like a death sentence—before walking back into the front of the cafe.

I stood alone in the dim kitchen, the silence pressing heavily against my chest. He was right. In this world, there was no magical rescue. The death of a monster just meant a hungrier one would take its place.

Ten minutes later, the digital clock on the wall struck midnight. My shift was officially over.

I pulled off my faded apron, hung it on the rusty hook by the door, grabbed my worn tote and threadbare canvas jacket. Walking out the front door, the tiny bells chimed a lonely goodbye behind me. The moment I stepped onto the pavement, the torrential Italian rain hit me like a physical wall, soaking through my clothes within seconds.

The walk to my apartment usually took twenty minutes. Tonight, it felt like an eternity.

The streetlights flickered violently, casting long, distorted shadows across the cobblestones. The city felt entirely empty, dead to the world, except for the rhythmic slap, slap, slap of my worn-out sneakers against the wet pavement.

I pulled my hood low, burying my hands deep into my pockets. But as I turned the corner into the narrow alleyway that cut toward my residential block, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

A sudden, deep instinct flared in my gut. Danger.

I stopped in my tracks. The rain was deafening, splashing violently against the brick walls, but underneath the storm, I heard it. A heavy, synchronized crunch of boots on wet gravel somewhere behind me.

I whirled around, my heart hammering against my ribs like a caged bird. “Who’s there?” I called out, my voice swallowed by the wind.

Nothing. Just the dark, empty alleyway. I looked through my tote, my fingers closing around the can of pepper spray I had bought for protection.

Get a grip, Mara. You’re letting Matteo’s ghost stories get to you, I forced myself to think, though my lungs were burning with a sudden rush of adrenaline. I turned back around and picked up my pace, breaking into a fast walk, pepper spray held firmly in my hand.

The footsteps behind me speeded up, too. They were closer now. Heavy. Deliberate.

Panic completely took over. I didn’t care about looking crazy anymore—I broke into a full sprint. My breath came in ragged, painful gasps as I practically flew down the slick cobblestones, my eyes locked onto the glowing street lamp at the end of the alley. If I could just make it to the main road—

Suddenly, a massive black car tore around the corner ahead of me, its headlights blinding me. The tires shrieked against the wet asphalt, blocking my only exit.

I skidded to a halt, gasping for air, turning wildly to run back the way I came. But the shadows behind me had already materialized.

Three large men in tactical gear stepped out from the darkness of the alley. They moved with terrifying, military precision. I didn’t see their faces, only the cold glint of their eyes behind dark masks.

“Stay back!” I screamed, my voice cracking with pure terror.

“Grab her. Quickly,” a deep voice commanded.

Before I could even process the words, the largest man lunged forward. I waved my hand around and sprayed in desperation, The man covered his eyes and said something in a language I didn’t understand.

The spray had gone everywhere, the wind blowing it back in my face, my eyes stung and the rain made it much worse, I couldn’t see, but I felt the can get knocked from my fingers. I went on my knees, searching the ground wildly, my fingers clawing at the pavement, looking for anything—a broken pipe, a piece of wood, a rock. I wasn’t going down without a fight.

“Help!” I screamed.

A heavy, leather-gloved hand clamped over my mouth, cutting off my second scream before it could leave my throat. Another pair of iron arms wrapped around my waist, lifting me completely off the ground. I kicked wildly, thrashing my body against them, striking one of them with the heel of my shoe.

“Furious little thing, isn’t she?” one muttered in Italian, tightening his grip until the air was squeezed from my lungs.

A second later, a thick cloth was pressed firmly over my nose and mouth. The chemical stench of something sweet flooded my senses.

No, no, no… please, my mind begged, my movements growing sluggish. My vision blurred, the blinding headlights of the black sedan spinning into a whirlpool of darkness. My strength evaporated, my arms falling limply to my sides as the cold rain washed over my face one last time.

As my conscious mind completely slipped away into the void, the last thing I felt was being lifted into the plush, warm interior of the car, and the heavy slam of the door shutting out the world forever.