The ghost
1006 Words
Seven years later…
Blood clings to my gloves like a second skin. I step out of the shadows, boots landing silently on cold pavement. And some where behind me, a body grows cold.
Another mission complete.
Another traitor erased.
The Bratva doesn’t tolerate betrayal. Neither do I.
I gutted the bastard—quick, clean. Efficient.
His final breath was music.
I strip off my gloves, still slick with crimson, and toss them into the fire pit behind the warehouse. The flames devour them greedily, taking the last evidence with them.
The air is thick with and the distant sound of Sirens.
Too late.
They’re always too late.
Idiots.
My phone buzzes. I answer.
“Yes?”
“I found something on the Prime Minister.” Mabel’s voice is tight.
My grip tightens. “Talk.”
“He has a son.”
I frown. “Old news, Mabel. Try harder.”
We’ve known about the Prime Minister’s kids for years. Three children. All accounted for. No scandals. No bastards. No ghosts.
But Mabel doesn’t speak unless it matters.
She used to be reckless—a broke hacker who thought she could rob the Yakuza and walk away. They nearly killed her for it. Left her in pieces.
By the time I found her, she was more blood than body.
I didn’t save her out of pity. I saw potential.
She works for me now. Cracks encrypted files, digs up dirty secrets, plants digital traps. Every thread she pulls brings me closer to tearing the Prime Minister apart.
She belongs to me. Body, mind, code.
And she knows it.
Mabel clears her throat. “What I meant is... he has another son. A fourth child. His last. Hidden.”
I freeze.
“No records. No photos,” she continues. “It’s like he never existed.”
A ghost.
Like me.
“How did we miss this?” My voice is a blade.
“Because someone wanted us to.”
Silence thickens between us.
“Find out who,” I say coldly. “I want every digital grave dug up. I don’t care how deep you have to go.”
Mabel exhales. “There’s more.”
I hate more.
“What is it?”
“Whoever hid him didn’t just cover their tracks. They buried the evidence so deep it’s like he was never meant to be found.”
I lower the phone, mind racing.
If someone erased this son’s existence...
Then he’s not just a secret.
He’s a weapon. Or a threat.
And I need to find him before anyone else does.
“I want eyes on the Prime Minister,” I order. “Cameras. Schedules. Track everyone who walks into his life.”
“Got it, Ghost.”
I end the call.
****************************
The Bratva’s meeting hall reeks of smoke and steel.
Cigars burn low. Vodka burns slower. Shadows flicker under crystal chandeliers, casting ghostly patterns over the polished mahogany table.
The Pakhan sits at the head. Sergei on his right.
And me—Diana Ivanova, the Ghost—across from them.
I walk in, coat still reeking of gasoline and blood.
My presence halts the room.
And then—
“Look who decided to show,” Viktor Popov sneers. His voice oozes mockery. “Our little krovavaya printsessa returns.”
Blood Princess. How original.
I don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
“Men. Pakhan.” I nod, taking my seat.
“Report, Diana,” the Pakhan says.
“The target’s gone,” I reply. “No loose ends. No witnesses.”
Approving murmurs ripple through the room.
The Pakhan smirks. “You work faster than the men we spent years training.”
Viktor snorts. “Of course she does. Cleaning is a woman’s job.”
The room stills. No one laughs. They wait.
I tilt my head. Let the silence linger. Let it humiliate him.
Finally, I smile—cold and sharp. “Exactly. I clean up the messes men like you are too weak to finish.”
The Pakhan chuckles. “Molodets,Diana. Well done.”
But Viktor’s not done.
His fingers drum the table. His smile hardens.
“A woman at this table...” he says. “She’ll never be Bratok.Never a true brother.”
Sergei cuts in, calm and lethal. “And yet she sits here, while better men lie in the ground.”
“I meant no disrespect, Sergei,” Viktor says smoothly. “Just remembering a time when the Bratva was run by men.Not warmed by w****s who pretend to be one of us.”
Silence.
I don’t think. I move.
THUNK.
My knife slams into the table—right by Viktor’s hand.
Gasps echo. Nobody moves.
I lean in, voice soft and sharp. “The last man who called me that didn’t live long. Want to join him?”
Tension coils like wire.
“Enough,” the Pakhan snaps. His voice cuts through everything.
“Viktor,” he says flatly. “Questioning her is questioning me. Do you have something to say?”
Viktor swirls his drink. “Of course not.” He sips. “Just reminiscing.”
I retrieve my blade, flipping it once before sheathing it. Eyes locked on his.
The meeting ends. Chairs scrape. Men file out.
Only Sergei stays behind.
He beckons me with a nod.
I follow.
“The Prime Minister has another son,” I tell him. “Hidden. Wiped from existence.”
Sergei doesn’t blink. He lights a cigarette. “Someone buried him.”
“Deep,” I confirm. “This wasn’t a mistake. It was a deliberate erasure.”
He exhales smoke, gaze sharp. “Find him.”
I nod. “Already started.”
Sergei studies me. There’s something unreadable in his eyes. Not doubt. Not trust.
A warning.
“Viktor’s not barking,” he says quietly. “He’s waiting to bite.”
I smirk. “Then I’ll make sure he chokes on his own teeth before he gets the chance.”
Sergei almost smiles. “Good.”
- Writer
