The Ghosts We Bury

The office smelled of old leather, cigar smoke, and bloodless power. Richard Lansing sat behind a mahogany desk, eyes fixed on the thick folder splayed open before him. Inside, photos taken in Macau, blurry surveillance from dockyards in Lisbon, voice transcripts from scrambled lines—none of it concrete, but the pattern was emerging.

He was never a man to believe in ghosts. But this… this was haunting.

One name kept resurfacing beneath the aliases, the shell companies, the dead-end trails: Gina Michaels.

But that wasn't her real name. Not truly.

Because buried within a forgotten document—a police report with partial records and erased witness accounts—was the name Regina Michaels.

Daughter of Jeremiah Michaels, a quiet, principled government auditor who once stood as the last line of integrity in a system crumbling under mafia pressure.

Jeremiah had refused to betray his post when Richard's men came to his doorstep years ago, demanding forged access to the national treasury through a covert statute clause.

He refused.

And for that, he was punished.

Richard remembered that night. Or rather, he remembered sending Makarov and the men to the Michaels estate. What followed was meant to be intimidation—a show of dominance.

But it had spiraled.

Jeremiah was beaten. His wife, Elisa, was abused and silenced forever. And little Regina…

Richard thought she had died in the fire Makarov set to clean the mess.

But she hadn't.

She had vanished.

And now, here she was, reborn as Gina Michaels. Not dead. Not broken.

Vengeful.

The missing piece fell into place with the appearance of another name:

Houna Laskaris.

She wasn't just an associate.

She was Regina's aunt.

Elisa Michaels' sister. A woman exiled from her own syndicate for refusing to sell information to the Russians. A woman whose disappearance had been rumored to involve a botched assassination attempt by the Triad.

Except she hadn't died either.

She had taken in her niece. Hidden her. Trained her.

Built her.

Richard now saw the connection in every photo: the mirrored posture, the calculated composure, the cold elegance Gina carried like armor.

Houna had raised her in shadows, forged her with fire, and released her into the world not as a girl—but a weapon.

He reached for the encrypted satellite phone hidden in the bottom drawer. Within seconds, a channel lit green.

A voice answered. Smooth. Italian.

"Lansing."

"Don Silvano," Richard greeted. "You owe me one."

The voice laughed dryly. "For you, I owe many. What do you need?"

"Intel. On a woman named Gina Michaels. She's connected to Jeremiah Michaels—yes, that Michaels—and to Houna Laskaris."

Silvano paused. Then let out a breath. "Houna's still pulling strings?"

"Either her or the devil she trained."

"And you've crossed her?"

Richard's tone turned to steel. "She has my son in her bed and my granddaughter in her arms."

Another pause. "Then you're already too late. That girl isn't just dangerous. She's built to finish what her father started. And she's likely not alone."

Richard clenched his jaw. "I want to know everything. Now. Before I make my move."

Silvano sighed. "I'll dig. But be careful, Richard. You're not fighting a woman. You're fighting bloodlines. Houna's cunning and Jeremiah's justice? That's a storm dressed in silk."

Richard ended the call and stared down at the folder again.

Photos of Gina, of Davina, of Dave.

The past wasn't knocking.

It had kicked the door off its hinges.

And now, he wasn't sure which ghost would bury him first.