Phantom, p.1
Phantom, page 1
More By H. D. Carlton
Haunting Adeline
Hunting Adeline
Satan’s Affair
Where’s Molly
Shallow River
Does It Hurt?
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Otherwise, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2025 by H. D. Carlton
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake, Seattle
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ISBN-13: 9781662525834 (digital)
Cover design by Faceout Studio; Spencer Fuller and Elisha Zepeda
Cover image: © zero0clock photography, © Gary Bush / Getty; © Kamil Hajek, © baxys, © Holiday.Photo.Top, © Everett Collection, © FeelGoodLuck / Shutterstock
Contents
Playlist
Important Note
Author’s Note
Glossary
May 26, 1944
Prologue
Chapter 1: The Phantom
Chapter 2: The Raven
March 22, 1944
Chapter 3: The Raven
April 4, 1944
Chapter 4: The Phantom
April 11, 1944
Chapter 5: The Raven
April 12, 1944
Chapter 6: The Phantom
Chapter 7: The Raven
May 3, 1944
Chapter 8: The Raven
May 25, 1944
Chapter 9: The Raven
June 7, 1944
Chapter 10: The Phantom
June 8, 1944
Chapter 11: The Raven
July 7, 1944
Chapter 12: The Raven
Chapter 13: The Raven
August 14, 1944
Chapter 14: The Phantom
Chapter 15: The Phantom
Chapter 16: The Raven
September 10, 1944
Chapter 17: The Phantom
Chapter 18: The Phantom
September 16, 1944
Chapter 19: The Raven
Chapter 20: The Raven
Chapter 21: The Phantom
September 18, 1944
Chapter 22: The Raven
Chapter 23: The Raven
Chapter 24: The Phantom
Chapter 25: The Raven
September 22, 1944
Chapter 26: The Raven
Chapter 27: The Phantom
November 17, 1944
Chapter 28: The Raven
December 22, 1944
Chapter 29: The Raven
January 14, 1945
Chapter 30: The Phantom
Chapter 31: The Phantom
February 12, 1945
Chapter 32: The Raven
March 9, 1945
Chapter 33: The Raven
May 16, 1946
Acknowledgments
Zade and Adeline Bonus Scene by H. D. Carlton: The Manipulator
About the Author
Playlist
Theme Song:
Bad Omens—“Bad Decisions”
Ariana and the Rose—“Honesty”
PVRIS—“Old Wounds”
Emmit Fenn—“Painting Greys”
Iris Temple—“Typhoon”
Wolves at the Gate—“Waste”
The Word Alive—“Burning Your World Down”
Benji Lewis—“Fast Forward”
Hailee Steinfeld—“Afterlife”
Bad Omens—“Like a Villain”
Point North (feat. Kellin Quinn)—“Into the Dark”
1940s Playlist
Bing Crosby—“Just One More Chance”
Fedora Mingarelli—“Un’ora sola ti vorrei”
Oscar Carboni—“Tango del mare”
Alfredo Clerici—“T’ho vista piangere”
Glenn Miller—“Elmer’s Tune”
Cesare Andrea Bixio (sung by Beniamino Gigli)—“Mamma son tanto felice”
Tommy Dorsey and His Orchestra—“All the Things You Are”
Important Note
This is a dark romance with triggering situations such as stalking, cheating (not between love interests), graphic violence and murder, graphic language, on-page rape and domestic violence (not between love interests), alcohol addiction and codependency with an addict, mentions of infertility and traumatic labor, and explicit sexual situations.
There are also kinks such as degradation, breath play, and fear play.
Please heed these warnings seriously.
Your mental health matters.
Author’s Note
First, please keep in mind that this story takes place during the 1940s. Not only was the language slightly different then but the value of the dollar was also vastly different from what it is now.
While I tried to stay accurate to the time period, some liberties may have been taken for the sake of the story.
Second, if you are reading this after the Cat & Mouse Duet, then you are familiar with Gigi’s diary. Please note that Gigi wrote in her journal every day, so there are hundreds of entries detailing events and information that you may be unaware of.
Happy reading!
Glossary
Belly-up: Bankrupt
Big earner: Someone who makes a lot of money for the family
Bird: A pretty woman
Blabbermouth: Someone who talks too much
Broad: A woman
Bum rap: A false accusation; being blamed for something you didn’t do
Bust your chops: To scold or chastise someone
Cafone: An embarrassment to himself and others; a phony
Capo: Short for capodecina, the family member who leads a crew
Capo di tutti i capi: Boss of bosses
Clock: To keep track of someone’s movements and activities
Come heavy: To arrive carrying a loaded gun
Consigliere: A member of the family who serves as an adviser to the don and resolves disputes within the family
Contract: A murder assignment
Crew: A group of soldiers that takes orders from a capo
Cugine: A young criminal looking to be inducted into the Mafia
Dip: An idiot
Don: Head of the family
Enforcer: A person who threatens, maims, or kills someone
Empty suit: Someone with nothing to offer who tries to hang around with mobsters
Floozy: A common name for a sexually active and oftentimes promiscuous woman
Fuzz, the: A cop
Gobbledygook: Talking nonsense
Godfather: A powerful crime boss in the Mafia
Hoosegow: Jail
Jalopy: An old car
Large: A thousand, a grand, a G
Made man: An indoctrinated member of the family
Mafioso: A member of the family; a mobster
Magazine: An ammunition storage and feeding device for a firearm
Make one’s bones: To gain credibility by killing someone
Numbskull: A dull, stupid or dimwitted person
Omertà: The code of silence and the vow taken when being sworn into the family
Pinched: To get caught by law enforcement
Problem: A liability, likely to be murdered
Rat: A member who violates omertà and snitches on the family
Sauced: The state of being drunk or intoxicated
Section hand: A railroad worker
Singing like a canary: To give someone, usually the authorities, a lot of secret and often illegal information
Sound, the: Puget Sound, the body of water surrounding Seattle
Take a powder: To leave
Tribute: Giving the boss a cut of the deal—violation is often punishable by death
Underboss: The second-in-command to the boss
War-tax stamps: A postage stamp used to raise war revenue
Whack/ice/burn/pop/clip: To murder
May 26, 1944
My mother always told me I was different. She would spit the word at me like it was rotten fruit on her tongue.
I thought it was because of my deep love for gothic literature. She had trouble getting my nose out of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, or my favorite Edgar Allan Poe stories.
As a child, I told her I wanted to live in a house that was built to look like the inside of their brains. Gothic. Dark. Spooky, I’d even say. My mother recoiled at that and called me crazy. She called me many other despicable names, but I won’t give her the satisfaction of repeating them, even in ink.
But what would she think now?
She passed away when I was twenty-three, but even from the grave, I can feel her judgment.
Letting a man into my home, and kissing him. A man who isn’t my husband.
A man who stood outside my window for weeks, watching me from afar.
There is something wrong with him.
Clearly there is something wrong with me, too.
Prologue
“What’s your name?” I ask again breathlessly.
“Ronaldo.”
“Do you want to hurt me, Ronaldo?”
“Never,” he answers. “I only want to cherish you, Genevieve. ”
“How do you know my name?”
“I know everything about you. Just as I know you will love me, too.”
Chapter 1
The Phantom
March 18, 1944
This will be the third man I’ve whacked today, and I’ve run out of patience for their useless begging.
Typically, I leave this job to the enforcers in the Salvatore family, but ending a man’s life offers a release unlike any other vice. Cigarettes, whiskey, birds—none of them have the same effect.
It’s their damn talking that threatens the peace I find after making a heart stop.
“No, no, wait! Let me explain!” the kid pleads, his nasally voice cracking from terror. It’s past midnight. The biting air and thick fog have settled around us on the Aurora Bridge.
His desperation gets the best of him, and he attempts to land a blow on my left side. The kid is stupid to think I’m not used to men attempting to take advantage of my disability. I slap his fist away easily, then pop him in the nose for daring to try.
Blood spurts from his nostrils, and while he groans and mutters insults beneath his breath, I loop ropes around his ankles and tie them into a tight knot. Sweat and grease mat his overgrown hair to his forehead, and motor oil stains his navy-blue coveralls, now joined by the blood pouring from his nose. By trade, he’s a mechanic, but his interests have always been in the Mafia. His mother had ties to a family in New York City, but she refused to raise him in the family business. He’s a cugine. For the past few months, he’s strived to be made and has pledged his loyalty to the Salvatores.
A pledge he failed to keep.
Which is why I’ve tied cinder blocks to his feet. If anyone discovers his body, they’ll find a bullet through his mouth—a clear message of his crime.
“You’re a rat, Worm. You were feeding information to the Baldellis,” I remind him dryly. Angelo nicknamed him for his pinched facial features and grating voice. Not sure what his real name is, but I’m sure his obituary in the Seattle Times Sunday newspaper will confirm it, assuming he’s ever found.
The media will recognize the message and know his death resulted from organized crime. And the public will undoubtedly look at the Salvatores.
Angelo has owned Seattle for the last two decades and been declared the capo di tutti i capi. He’s allowed other families to conduct business in Seattle with his permission and, of course, with the understanding that he’ll receive a cut of their profits.
However, five years ago, Don Manny Baldelli found an issue with that. He claimed his great-grandfather migrated from Sicily to Seattle first, making him the rightful owner of the city. After which, word got out that Manny was withholding Angelo’s tribute and dealing guns under the table. Since then, war has broken out, and men are getting burned left and right. Families are choosing sides, and to this day, several bodyguards surround Angelo at any given hour.
It’s a dangerous time, and none of us walk the streets without checking over our shoulders.
“You’re givin’ me a bum rap!” Worm insists vehemently. “I ain’t no rat, Ronnie; you know me! The Baldellis forced me in that car, but I didn’t tell them nothin’. Please, you have to believe me!”
One of our crew, Lloyd, spotted him getting into a Baldelli car two nights ago, and it just so happens Worm showed up in an expensive suit yesterday with a brand-new Rolex on his wrist. The timing wasn’t a coincidence, and the kid made it obvious that the rival family had paid him off.
“Don’t call me Ronnie,” I clip.
It’s the only response I bother to give him. There isn’t any point in arguing with the kid—he’s already marked. If I’m not the one to ice him, one of Angelo’s enforcers will.
Worm opens his mouth again, preparing to plead his case some more, but I take the opportunity to shove my revolver in his mouth and pull the trigger. A car passes, but rather than slowing, they hit the gas.
I make quick work of removing the Rolex from his wrist and stuffing the piece in my pocket. Later, I’ll return it to the Baldellis to let them know their investment has been wasted.
Next, I slump Worm over the railing and lift the cement blocks, tossing them over. His body careens over the edge and into the canal, the following splash echoing in the night air.
Finally. Some goddamn peace and quiet.
I roll my neck, relieving the tension gathered in my shoulders. Not only is their begging useless but quite bothersome, too.
Heading back toward my car parked on the other side of the bridge, I whistle the tune to “Just One More Chance” by Bing Crosby.
March 18, 1944
“The numbskull got sauced and lost three hundred dollars to Tommy, but did that stop him from playing another round? Of course not! Now, he owes Tommy five hundred.”
It’s late in the morning, and I’m on my way to report back to Angelo about completing Worm’s contract last night, when Santino’s words catch my attention, his voice ringing out from the family room in Angelo’s estate. Quickly, I detour in his direction, tucking the rucksack with Worm’s bloody Rolex inside in the inner-breast pocket of my trench coat. I take it upon myself to stay informed when it concerns the family. Tommy and Santino are Angelo’s cousins, so if someone owes Tommy money, that means they owe Angelo money.
I round the corner and lean against the doorframe, catching Santino’s attention. He’s sitting on the sofa next to his mother, Kay, who is scoffing at the sap who’s now indebted to the Salvatores. And for quite a bit of money, at that.
“Who’s this guy you’re talkin’ about?” I ask, folding my arms over my chest.
Santino’s only seventeen, and while he’s invested in the family business, he’s also a blabbermouth. Today, it’s a good thing. But one day, it might get him iced.
If he even comes home from the war after he’s drafted in a few months, that is.
“Name’s John Parsons. He and his detective friend, Frank Williams, been comin’ to the lounge for the past few months. He had the funds at first, but the dip keeps tryin’ to get his money back and can’t pay no more. Tommy challenged them to a game of poker last night, and John couldn’t seem to help himself.”
I raise a brow, surprised Angelo’s cousin was gambling with Frank.
He’s one of the leading homicide detectives in Seattle and is typically the one working on the cases that have resulted from the war between the Mafia families.
He’s also firmly in Angelo’s pocket and is very well-acquainted with the two of us, unbeknownst to John.
“Tommy gambled with the fuzz?”
Santino grins. “No one’s ever called him a genius, Ronnie.”
I’m tempted to bark at him for calling me Ronnie, but learning about this Parsons fella is more important than arguing with a kid about my damn name. I’ve smacked every male member of this family upside the head for calling me that, and every single one suffers from short-term memory loss.
I’ve always hated it. Reminds me of my father, who bore the same name, and even still, it hurts to think about him.
Angelo’s father called me by it as a young boy, and it lived on through his son. The rest of the family follows his lead, despite my misgivings.
“John Parsons,” I state, bringing his attention back to the matter at hand. “Who is he?”
Santino shrugs. “Don’t know. All I know is he didn’t pay Tommy a dime. Promised he’d come up with the money later, but I think we all know how that goes.”
“You know anything else about him?” I question.
“Just that he owns Parsons Manor down by the Sound. He kept goin’ on about it while he was draining a bottle of whiskey,” Santino responds, annoyance in his tone. “Fella wouldn’t shut up.”
I push off the doorframe and head back toward the front door of Angelo’s estate. I’ll report to Angelo later.
“Hey, Ronnie, if you’re gonna whack him, let me come, yeah?” he calls after me.
“Santino,” Kay admonishes.
I don’t bother responding. If I wanted one of Angelo’s crew to handle anyone for me, I sure as hell wouldn’t enlist a kid to do it.
Soon enough, he’ll get plenty of experience pulling a trigger, and he’s better off pointing that gun toward a Nazi than someone like John Parsons.
Santino’s got bigger things to focus on than the organization. He’s got a war to worry about.
