Chapter 1: The Ghost in the Machine (1)

Julian Thorne found the ghost at 6:47 AM on a Tuesday.

Three monitors glowed across his desk on the forty-seventh floor of Costello Global Logistics. Manhattan sprawled below, still dark. Julian had been awake for ninety minutes, tracking digital footprints of seventeen rival organizations with the precision that made him Dante Costello's most valuable weapon.

The anomaly appeared at 6:51 AM.

A yellow flag materialized on his center monitor. Julian's fingers froze on the keyboard. Yellow flags were rare—irregularities his algorithms deemed worth human attention.

VanceTech Securities, Beacon, New York. Successful block of intrusion attempt. Origin: Brooklyn shell company.

Julian opened the logs. Six weeks ago, someone had tried penetrating VanceTech's database with sophisticated malware. The attack failed because VanceTech's defenses were three levels more advanced than a small-town cybersecurity firm should possess.

He cross-referenced the attacker's signature. Seventy-three percent match to Grimaldi family fronts.

Julian leaned back, leather creaking in the silent office. The Grimaldis didn't deploy cyber attacks. They deployed baseball bats and fear. Which meant someone had built walls specifically to keep them out.

He queried VanceTech's registration. Founded five years ago by Anna Vance. Julian ran her name through every database he had access to.

Nothing before five years ago.

Anna Vance had no digital footprint prior to her business registration. No college records, no previous addresses, no social media. She'd appeared fully formed at age twenty-one with enough capital and expertise to repel Grimaldi-grade threats.

People didn't appear from nowhere. They ran from somewhere.

At 7:15 AM, Julian sent requests through his network. He needed surveillance footage, financial records—anything to put a face to the ghost.

The footage arrived at 8:03 AM.

A conference room three days prior. Executives around a table. At the head, a woman in a charcoal suit presenting security protocols.

Julian paused the playback, zooming in.

Dark hair, professional twist. Late twenties. Sharp cheekbones, classical features. She moved with contained efficiency—until a small figure entered the frame.

A boy, maybe four years old, clutching a tablet. The woman's entire demeanor shifted. Her shoulders softened, expression transforming from professional to maternal. She bent down, speaking quietly, hand gentle on his dark hair.

Julian rewound, freezing on the child's face.

He stared at the screen for ten seconds without breathing.

Then he initiated facial recognition.

The woman matched archived Grimaldi family photographs from seven years ago. The youngest daughter who vanished during the Metropolitan Concordat Ball five years ago. The girl Marco Grimaldi declared dead after three months of searching.