Chapter 84 Xander Call
The shooting range was silent except for the faint hum of the ventilation system.
Veyra stared at Leon Wei. His face was still pale. His eyes were still wide. He was holding the black fingerless gloves like they were made of gold.
"Ghost?" Veyra asked. "Who is Ghost?"
Leon looked at her. He seemed to be searching for words.
"Ghost is a legendary equipment designer in the whole country," he said. "No one knows his real name. No one knows what he looks like. He never appears in public. He never sells his work through normal channels."
Veyra’s brow furrowed. "Then how do people get his work?"
"He chooses his clients. Personally. Discreetly." Leon turned the gloves over in his hands. "His pieces are considered priceless. They are highly sought after by collectors, by special forces, by anyone who values the best. But they almost never appear on the market."
"How rare?"
Leon shook his head. "One of Ghost’s pistols was auctioned five years ago. It sold for tens of millions. Tens of millions, Mrs. Thorne."
Veyra’s mouth fell open. "For one pistol?"
"One pistol. Used. Not even new." He held up the gloves. "These gloves—if they are genuine—are worth a fortune. More than most people earn in a lifetime."
Veyra took the gloves back. She turned them over in her bandaged hands. The lizard skin was soft. The stitching was invisible. The metal plates on the knuckles were light but felt unbreakable.
"How can a pistol be worth that much?" she asked. "It’s just a gun. Metal and springs."
Leon’s expression was serious. "The works of a master craftsman are not ’just’ anything. Ghost’s firearms are known for three things: unparalleled reliability, surgical precision, and complete concealability. They never jam. They never misfire. They are accurate at distances that seem impossible. And they are designed to be hidden, on your person, in a vehicle, anywhere."
He paused.
"In a life-or-death situation, those qualities are not luxuries. They are necessities. The difference between a Ghost pistol and a standard weapon can be the difference between going home and being carried home in a bag."
Veyra swallowed.
"You have never faced a life-or-death situation," Leon continued. "Not really. The pizza shop was close. But Xander Hale was not trying to kill you. He was trying to intimidate you. That is different."
Veyra thought about the gun pressed to her forehead. The cold metal. The way Xander’s hand had trembled.
"Then I hope I never need to understand," she said.
Leon nodded.
Leon looked at the gloves again. He traced the emblem with his fingertip. The stylized "G" inside a circle.
"I am surprised," he said quietly. "Mr. Thorne is acquainted with Ghost."
Veyra frowned. "Dorian knows him?"
"These gloves did not appear by magic. Ghost does not sell his work in stores. He does not take commissions from strangers." Leon shook his head. "The only way Mr. Thorne could have obtained these is through a direct relationship. A friendship. Or something deeper."
Veyra considered this. Dorian had many secrets but she had never imagined he knew legendary designers.
"It’s not that surprising," she said. "Powerful people tend to know other powerful people. It’s a small world at the top."
Leon handed the gloves back to her. "Perhaps. But Ghost is not just powerful. He is reclusive. He does not attend galas. He does not sit on boards. He does not seek influence." He paused. "Mr. Thorne’s relationship with him is clearly no ordinary one."
Veyra looked at the gloves. They felt warm in her hands.
She wanted to put them on. The leather looked soft. The padding would protect her raw palms. The metal knuckles would add weight to her punches.
But she could not, they were too valuable, too rare and too meaningful.
"These are priceless," she said. "I can’t wear them. I might damage them."
Leon raised an eyebrow. "They were made for you. By a master craftsman. At the request of your husband. They are meant to be worn."
"I know. But—"
"No buts. Mr. Thorne did not commission these gloves to sit in a drawer." Leon’s voice was firm. "He made them for you. For your protection. Wear them."
Veyra hesitated. Then she slipped the gloves onto her hands.
They fit perfectly.
The leather molded to her fingers. The padding cushioned her palms. The metal knuckles rested naturally over her own.
They were comfortable. Like a second skin.
"They fit," she said softly.
Leon nodded. "Of course they do. Mr. Thorne is nothing if not precise."
The door to the shooting range opened.
Butler Hugu stood in the doorway. "Mrs. Thorne. Lunch is served."
Veyra looked at her watch. She had been practicing for hours. Her stomach growled.
"Thank you," she said. "I’ll be right there."
Hugu left.
Veyra turned to Leon. "I’ll put these away first. I don’t want to wear them to the table. They feel too... special."
Leon nodded. "As you wish."
Veyra walked back to her bedroom. She placed the gloves carefully on the dresser. She would return them to Dorian later. Explain that they were too valuable. Ask him to keep them safe.
She would order a cheap pair online. Something she could wear without fear of damaging.
She changed her shirt. Washed her face. Ran a brush through her hair.
Then her phone rang.
The screen displayed an unknown number.
She answered.
"Mrs. Thorne." The voice was oily. Fawning. "It’s Xander Hale."
Veyra’s grip tightened on the phone. "Xander."
"I just wanted to check in. Make sure you’re doing well. And to ask—when can I send my mother’s medical records to Dr. Harrison? You promised you would forward them."
Veyra’s voice was cold. "Send them to my number. I will forward them to Dr. Harrison. He will review them and contact you if he agrees to treat her."
"Thank you. Thank you so much. I really appreciate—"
"Goodbye, Xander."
She hung up.