Into the Phantom's Domain.

I sat at the long dining table as the morning sun poured into the mansion through the see-through curtains.

This space was very unlike my turbulent mind. A silver tray sat in the middle, holding an array of fresh bread and fruit but I wasn't hungry. My mind was preoccupied with one thing -

Mira Callahan.

Leaning back in my chair, my fingers drummed against the polished wood.

Is it a coincidence that the only woman to get my attention....might be the same girl from my past?

Vivienne's sharp heels clicked against the marble floor, pulling me from my thoughts. She set a stack of documents in front of me and her violet eyes gazed at me for a second too long while she tossed her dirty blonde hair over her shoulder

"Good morning, boss," she said, dripping mockery from every word. "Sleep well?"

I ignored her pleasantries, reaching for the black coffee steaming in a delicate porcelain cup. "Vivienne, I need more information on her. Mira Callahan. Where she's been, how she ended up here—everything."

One of Vivienne's eyebrows rose as she sank into the chair opposite me. "Mira Callahan," she repeated, testing the name as if it was some sort of bitter fruit. "As I told you yesterday, family empire, parents murdered. She just took over right afterward. The public knows little else, and honestly, that's impressive. Keeping skeletons hidden in this business isn't easy."

I sipped my coffee, "Trace her. I don't care what it takes or who you have to grease. Find out where she resides. I need to know what she is after, and most importantly, why."

Vivienne smiled wryly, her elbows on the table as she leaned forward. "Planning on paying her a little visit, Luca? Or is this a new obsession I should be worried about?"

My stare was enough to quiet her, but she cocked her head in mock innocence. "All right," she said, rising. "I'll find her. But you owe me dinner for all this overtime."

"Just do your job, Vivienne." I snagged a gleaming red apple from the fruit bowl and stood up. I was halfway to the door when Vivienne called after me.

"Boss," she said, her voice softer, almost playful. "You're so fixated on her. Why? What does she have that I don't?"

I didn't turn around but stopped. "Focus on the task at hand, Vivienne," I said coolly. "Leave whatever you're trying to put down out of it."

Vivienne did not back off so easily. Moving closer to me, she brushed off some invisible speck of lint from my shoulder. "You know, Luca," she said in her low, sultry tone, "you can have what you want just right here. No games, no rivals, just me."

I turned my head slightly, my eyes locking with hers. "Vivienne," I said, my voice sharp enough to cut. "You've made your position clear. Now hear mine. Stay professional."

Her smile faltered, and for a moment, her mask of confidence cracked. She crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe as I walked out. "Professional," she muttered under her breath, a bitter edge in her tone. "We'll see how far that gets you with her."

As I walked away, Vivienne's words kept repeating in my head.

Why was I so fixated on Mira Callahan?

What could she offer that Vivienne couldn't?

Is this just an obsession because she reminds me of a shadow from the past?

***

The sound of Vivienne's heels preceded her, and she entered my study with an amused expression. "The club's called The Inferno," she said, extending a slim file to me. "It's in the lower district, not far from Pier 17. Exclusive crowd—fighters, bookies, and high-rollers who like to bet on blood."

I opened the file and scanned the contents. There were grainy surveillance photos of dimly lit corridors with neon lights casting garish shadows and a makeshift ring surrounded by a jeering crowd. I stopped at one photo—a blurred shot of Mira mid-fight, her expression cold, her opponent in a crumpled heap on the ground.

My jaw clenched.

 I reflected upon the lead Vivienne had unearthed about an underground fighting club.

Mira Callahan was a regular there—not as a passive participant watching from the sidelines, but quite the opposite: as an actual fighter. Images of her battling in the ring with the very deadly deliberation I had witnessed in that warehouse sent a wave of something unreachable right through me.

I fastened the cufflinks of my black shirt, my face set in a mask of calm control. But beneath the surface, my mind churned. Was she fighting to assert dominance? To send a message? Or was it something more personal? Whatever the reason, it didn't matter. I had to see her in her element.

"Does she fight often?" I asked in a low voice.

Vivienne shrugged. "Regular enough to have a following. People call her the 'Phantom.' Quick, efficient, and brutal. She doesn't lose, boss. Not once."

"Good," I said, closing the file. "That makes her predictable."

Vivienne tilted her head, watching me with narrowed eyes. "You're going, aren't you?"

I grabbed my black jacket, slinging it over my shoulders. "Do you have a problem with that?"

"I'm just saying," Vivienne replied, leaning against the doorframe, "walking into her turf uninvited might not be your best idea. She's dangerous. You said it yourself—people like her don't play games."

"Neither do I." There was no room for debate in my tone. I stepped past her, but she moved before me, her hand lightly grazing my arm.

"Let me come with you," she said, her voice softening. "You'll need someone to watch your back. You can't trust anyone at a place like that."

My eyes met hers, "I need information, Vivienne, not distractions."

Her jaw clamped down tightly, and for a moment, something dark flickered in her eyes. "Fine," she said, stepping aside. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

I didn't answer her.

I strode out of the study, my footsteps echoing down the hall, toward the garage, where my men were waiting, armed and ready. Sliding into the sleek black car, my mind turned to The Inferno. I could nearly smell it now: the stench of sweat and adrenaline, the roar of the crowd, and at the very center of it all, her.

My fist closed, the leather of my gloves creaking softly. I didn't know what I'd say when I saw her, but one thing was for sure—this time she wouldn't walk away unscathed. Whether it was a fight or a mere conversation, she was about to learn what crossing me truly meant.

The motor growled high, and the car whizzed right into darkness—neon lights across blurred vision, across the city. Somewhere out there she was waiting. And I was finally prepared to be direct—to sink my teeth into whatever ghost had emerged from my past.

***

The moment you step foot in, you are welcomed by the awful stench of smoke and adrenaline, the electric hum of neon lights reflecting off sweaty faces, and the sound of cheers mixed with curses from the roaring crowd as two fighters trade blows in the middle of the improvised ring.

Blood was splashed all over the walls, a small reminder of what this place is all about. This place wasn't for the weak. I felt myself shudder

I made my way through the masses of bodies, internalizing the chaos.

Men shouted over each other, fists gripping crumpled betting slips, while others leaned in, eyes locked on the violence.

And then—I saw her.

There she was, standing just beyond the ring's edge, she didn't move, her presence magnetic despite her stillness. She wasn't fighting.

She was just.... surveying the scene like a predator assessing its domain.

Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail, a few loose strands escaping to frame her face. She wore a black leather jacket that swallowed what little light the club had to offer, making her look even more untouchable.

And while chaos reigned around her, she remained unaffected, separate from the madness, above it.

A smirk tugged at my lips as slowly made my way towards her. When I was close enough for her to hear me over the noise, I spoke.

"Enjoying the show?"

She didn't look at me right away. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, eyes still locked on the ring. "If one could call it that," she retorted, her voice filled with amusement. "These guys are amateurs. No technique. Just brutal force and broken noses."

"Harsh," I murmured, slipping my hands into my pockets. "Not everyone can be an artist in the ring, Phantom."

That got her attention.

One brow arched as she finally turned to me, amusement flickering in her oceanic blue eyes. "So, you've done your homework."

"Of course. I always come prepared." I said quietly, "Though I'll admit, the nickname doesn't do you justice. I expected a ghost. You're more flesh and blood."

A faint smile played at her lips, but her eyes stayed cold. "Careful. Flattery won't get you far here."

"I wasn't flattering you," I shot back, stepping closer. "Just stating the facts."

She shrugged, her attention shifting back to the fight. "Facts can be misleading."

"And so can people."

At that, she finally looked at me fully, "I'm guessing you didn't come here to trade philosophy."

"You're right." My smirk faded into something more serious. "I came here for answers."

Mira tilted her head back slightly, her voice lacing with curiosity "Answers? You are hardly someone from whom I'd expect favors."

I let out a low chuckle, it wasn't entirely friendly. "You're so wrong—I can be a really nice guy when I need something."

Her lips curled in something that wasn't quite a smile. "And what is it you need?"

"Your time. A conversation," I said lightly. "Maybe even some kind of collaboration."

Mira laughed, short and humorless. "You don't want my cooperation. Trust me, that's a headache you're not ready for."

"I'm willing to risk it."

Her smirk widened, though it never touched her eyes. "Bold. But whatever you're looking for, you won't find it here." She stepped past me, her shoulder brushing mine as she moved toward the exit.

I turned, watching her go. "Walking away so soon? Afraid I might get under your skin?"

She paused just long enough to glance over her shoulder. "No. You're underestimating how little I care."

And then she was gone, swallowed by the crowd, leaving me standing there with a slow-burning frustration curling inside me.

She was exactly as slippery as I'd been warned—slippery, infuriating.

But I wasn't done. Not by a long shot.

The crowd erupted in another roar as the fight in the ring reached its bloody end. My jaw clenched as I turned my attention back to the spectacle, a smirk ghosting over my lips.

"Amateurs," I muttered, echoing her words.

If this was her domain, I'd make it my next battleground.