Ghosts and Problems

​The Black Lotus Club pulsed with deep bass, neon-red lights slicing through the smoke-filled air. Velvet booths, polished black floors, and the scent of expensive liquor made it a haven for the city's elite and those who could afford their company.

Gervaine—The Don—sat in his usual spot, a private booth overlooking the club. A glass of imported whiskey in his hand, the amber liquid swirling as he took a slow sip. The music vibrated through the walls, but his mind was elsewhere.

Across from him, Karl stood rigid, sweating under the dim glow of the light.

"Say that again," Gervaine said, his voice smooth but carrying a dangerous edge.

Karl hesitated. "Salvatore is dead."

The Don set his drink down carefully. Not in anger. Not in shock. Just… annoyance. "And who did it?"

Karl swallowed hard, sliding a tablet across the table. The warehouse security feed displayed on the screen. Gervaine barely needed to watch the massacre to know who was responsible.

Karl exhaled. "Probably the Russian Ghost."

The atmosphere shifted instantly. The waitstaff moved a little faster, avoiding Gervaine.

Gervaine leaned forward, studying the image for a brief moment. Then, exhaling slowly, he sank back into the booth.

"Probably? Of course, it's him, you imbecile!" he sighed, rubbing his temple. "Fucking fantastic."

He lifted his glass, took another sip, then glanced at Karl. "What was Salvatore up to?"

Karl fumbled with his watch, fingers trembling slightly as he scrolled through the last known activities of the now-dead smuggler.

"Mostly weapons shipments, boss. Nothing out of the ordinary—energy rifles, some corp tech, usual underground channels."

Gervaine nodded, waiting for the part that mattered.

"And… there was a hit. On a guy named Jack Vales."

Gervaine's brow furrowed. He leaned forward slightly. "Who?"

Karl shifted uncomfortably. "We don't know much. Salvatore carried it out, but the order came from someone else."

The Don drummed his fingers on the table, deep in thought. The Ghost doesn't care about weapons deals. And he doesn't hit people over petty bullshit.

No—this was about the hit.

Gervaine took a long, slow breath before speaking. "Tell the hound to find me everything he can on this—Jack Vales. I want to know why the hell someone had Salvatore put a target on his head."

He let the words settle before adding, "And until I say otherwise, none of my men investigate, touch, or even whisper this kid's name. If the Ghost is after something, I don't want my hands anywhere near it."

Karl nodded quickly, already sending out silent orders through his comm. As he picked up the tablet. "Got it, boss."

Karl worked in silence. When the files finally loaded, he hesitated before sliding the tablet across the table.

Gervaine took one look at the screen and there it was, the culprit Levine Lorn, his expression darkened.

A long sigh left his lips. "Fucking Lorns dragging me into shit."

The Don closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if absorbing the absolute bullshit that had just landed in his lap.

Salvatore hadn't ordered the hit himself. He was just a middleman. The real problem? Levine.

Now, because of some rich prick's personal grudge, he had the fucking Russian Ghost hunting down his operations.

Gervaine let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head.

"So now I've got two choices," he murmured to himself. "Fight back and this escalates beyond control, or..."

He picked up the whiskey glass shaking lightly, deep in thought.

After a long moment, he exhaled sharply and waved Karl away.

"What are you still waiting for, get out. Go and do what I told you to. I'll make sure the Lorns know—if they drag me into their personal bullshit again, I'll be sending more than a polite warning."

Karl practically bolted from the booth, relieved to be dismissed.

The Don sat there, swirling his drink, staring into the glass like it held the answers to the mess he'd just inherited.

He muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

"Of all the people in this goddamn city...it just had to be him?"

Draining his glass, Gervaine tapped on his desk materialising a hologram, second later a call connected.

The hologram flickered to life, revealing Regis Lorn, head of Lorn Industries, a man whose wealth and power stretched across The Americas like a well-woven web. Even through the projection, his presence was imposing—silver hair neatly combed back, sharp blue eyes that held no warmth, and a tailored suit that oozed corporate dominance.

He exhaled slowly, setting down a glass of red wine. "Gervaine," he said, voice smooth but indifferent. "I assume this call isn't social."

Gervaine twirled his whiskey glass, glaring at the screen. "Regis , do you have any idea the amount of shit your son just put me in?"

Regis didn't flinch. "Levine tends to be… ambitious. What's he done now?"

Gervaine let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "He put a hit on some nobody named Jack Vales. Went through Salvatore for it. And because of that, I now have the fucking Russian Ghost tearing through my operations like a goddamn storm."

Regis arched an eyebrow. "Jack Vales?" He tapped on something out of frame, likely searching his network. "Never heard of him."

Gervaine exhaled sharply. "Neither have I. But your son clearly did. And now, because of him, I had to clean up the fucking mess." He leaned forward, voice lowering. "I don't like cleaning up after rich boys, Regis. Especially not your rich boy."

The older man studied him for a moment before responding. "And what exactly do you want from me, Gervaine?"

The Don's jaw tightened. "Control your fucking son. Keep him out of my business. Whatever this vendetta is? I don't care. But if he drags me into his bullshit again, I promise you, I won't be calling next time. I'll be sending bodies."

Regis exhaled, tilting his glass as he stared at it. "Levine's reckless, That's for sure. But he's still my son." He paused just long enough for the weight to settle. "And if you're even thinking of making a move on him—" He met Gervaine's stare. "—consider what that means for you."

The Don chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "Are you threatening me, Regis?"

Regis smiled"Not at all. Just… reminding you that Lorns don't take kindly to those who touch what's ours."

Gervaine's expression darkened, the glass in his hand suddenly feeling heavier. "Then consider this your only warning, Regis. If your son drags my name into his business again, It won't stop with one dead man."

Regis took another sip of his wine, clearly unbothered. "Duly noted."

The hologram flickered for a moment, statically distorting Regis' expression. His blue eyes narrowed slightly.

Gervaine let the silence stretch before smirking. "I'll send you a check for tonight's damages."

Regis's face darkened. His grip on the wine glass tightened, but before he could speak, Gervaine leaned forward, voice dropping just enough to be unsettling.

"Either that, or I let the Ghost know what your son did," he said, swirling the whiskey in his glass. "You and I both know that won't end well for him or you."

Regis remained silent, his expression unreadable. Then—slowly, deliberately—he smiled.

"Well played Gervaine." he said coolly. Ending the call.

Gervaine sat back in his booth, exhaling as he stared at the empty space where Regis' image had been.

For a long moment, he sat still, fingers tapping idly against the table in deep thought.

He sighed, muttering to himself. "Fucking Lorns. Dragging me into their shit."

He reached for the whiskey bottle, refilled his glass, and took a slow, contemplative sip.

His fingers drumming against the leather seat, his mind already considering his next move.

Regis Lorn was smart. Smart enough to know when he lost.