The ghost manifest

The moment the heavy glass doors of the hotel hissed shut behind me, the Russian winter hit me like a physical blow. It was a brutal, dry cold that seemed to crystallize the very air in my lungs. But as the sub-zero wind whipped against my face, something in me finally woke up. The fog of the previous night—the pain, the medication, the raw grief of the loss—began to thin, replaced by a sharp, jagged clarity.

I wanted Boris and I also wanted my dear friend Santi. But standing there on the salt-stained pavement, I realized with a sudden, freezing certainty that for the first time in a long time, I had to choose myself first.

I needed to get word to Santi about Boris’s three-day window. If I used a phone, I’d be leaving a digital footprint that could get us all killed. If Santi flew between Riga and Moscow again so soon, he’d trip every proverbial alarm the FSB had wired into the border. He was already under enough scrutiny. I couldn't ask him to come to me. I had to go to him.

I did the math in my head. Driving would take eleven hours of navigating checkpoints and black ice. The train was a fifteen-hour vulnerability I couldn't afford. A flight was two hours round trip—provided it was a flight that officially never happened.

I didn't head for the main terminal at Sheremetyevo. Instead, I walked toward the periphery, toward a cluster of unmarked hangars that serviced the kind of people who didn't like to be asked for identification. My boots crunched over the packed snow for twenty minutes before I reached a small, nondescript office at the edge of the tarmac.

The hangar attendant was a man who looked like he had been carved out of old leather and tobacco smoke. He didn't look up from his ledger as I entered, the small space smelling of jet fuel and cheap radiator heat.

"I need a bird," I said, my voice raspy but steady.

He finally looked up, squinting through a cloud of cigarette smoke. "Commercial is across the field, lady."

"I need to get into Riga undetected," I said, leaning over his desk, my eyes locking onto his. "I need an hour on the ground, and I need to be back in Moscow before the sun sets. No flight plan, no manifests. This trip needs to stay off the books of both countries."

The man leaned back, a skeptical sneer pulling at his lips. "Riga is international. You have a passport? Visas?"

"It’s complicated," I replied, the coldness of the night still clinging to my coat. "But I have plenty of money. More than enough to make the paperwork disappear."

He paused, his eyes scanning my face, then my clothes. He saw the quality of my coat, the way I stood—like a woman who was used to giving orders. "You must be an oligarch’s daughter," he muttered, his tone shifting from dismissive to cautious. "Only that kind of blood carries that kind of cash for a morning stroll."

"I’m not a daughter of anything, nor am I an oligarch," I corrected him, my voice dropping an octave. "I have worked in many governments. I know exactly how much silence costs in this city, and I know how to make life very difficult for people who don't provide it."

The attendant paled, the sneer vanishing instantly. He didn't ask which governments. In Russia, the ambiguity was more terrifying than the truth. He stood up quickly, his chair scraping loudly against the linoleum.

"I understand," he said, reaching for a radio on the wall. "I will get you a private pilot. He doesn't ask questions, and he knows the corridors where the radar doesn't reach. Please, wait here."

I nodded, watching him hurry out toward the hangars. I stood in the small, flickering light of the office, my hands still cold, but my mind already halfway to Riga. Within a few minutes, the attendant came back, wiping his hands on a greasy rag.

"You're in luck," he said. "Someone named Darren will take you."

I stiffened slightly. I’d known a few Darrens in my life, and most of them were trouble. "Which Darren?" I asked, trying to sound nonchalant. “I know a few Darrens that work in this airport.”

The attendant shrugged. "We call him 'Lithuanian Darren as his family is Lithuanian."

I felt a jolt of recognition but kept my face a mask. "Fine. Lead the way."

"Right this way, Madame," he said, his tone now bordering on obsequious as he escorted me out to the small plane waiting on the tarmac.

The hum of the private jet’s engines felt like a low-frequency vibration in my bones as I was escorted up the stairs. Stepping into the cabin, I was met with the familiar, sharp scent of leather and expensive cologne. Sera’s uncle, Darren, was already there, checking a manifest. He looked up, a predatory glint in his eyes that I knew all too well. We’ve fucked before.

"Good to see you again," he said, his voice a low rumble as he leaned down and kissed my cheek. "Sera didn't mention you'd be joining us today, but I'm glad for the surprise."

"I have business to attend to," I replied, smoothing my skirt. “Hope I’m not on the manifest?”

"So do I," he whispered, leaning in just enough for me to feel his breath on my ear before he straightened up. "Make yourself comfortable as we’ll be wheels up in twenty. No, you’re not."

He disappeared into the cockpit, and true to his word, the sensation of gravity pressing me into the plush seat signaled our departure shortly after. I hadn't even finished my first drink when the co-pilot stepped back into the cabin, looking slightly flustered.

"The Captain says he needs you in the cockpit," the man said, clearing his throat. "Something about the... flight path."

I smirked, setting the glass down. I knew exactly what path we were on.

When I stepped into the cramped, glowing space of the cockpit, the co-pilot slipped out, closing the door behind me. Darren didn't even look back at the controls; the plane was on autopilot, carving through the clouds at thirty thousand feet.

"You took your time," Darren said, his hands already working at his belt. "I've been sitting here thinking about how much I need to unload my balls. It's been a long morning."

I checked my watch, a slow smile spreading across my face. "You’ve got forty-five minutes before we have to start our descent, Darren. Don't waste them."

He didn't. He growled, pulling himself free, the sight of his thick and ready dick in the dim cockpit light. I didn't need to be told twice. I turned, bracing my hands against the console, and lifted my skirt. The cool air hit my skin for only a second before I backed onto him, slowly sliding down the length of him. He felt larger than he was in my ass.

He hissed through his teeth as I talk him in, his body reacting instantly. "God, you're tight," he muttered, his hands reaching up to find my chest. He didn't play nice; he squeezed my sensitive tits as hard as he could, his fingers digging in with a force that made me gasp against the glass of the windshield.

The next thirty minutes were a blur of engine noise, us moaning and groaning, cumming and breathing heavy. I rode him with a rhythmic desperation, feeling every inch of him until he finally reached his limit. He came in me often. He let out a choked sound, his grip tightening on me as he finally drained his balls deep inside.

We stayed like that for a moment, the only sound the steady beep of the instruments. Then, the professional returned. I stood up and adjusted my skirt and he shoved himself back into his pants, adjusting his uniform with practiced ease. "Get out of here, beautiful," he said, his voice still a bit ragged. "I have a plane to land."

I readjusted my skirt, smoothed my hair, and walked out into the cabin of the plane. I sat down in my seat. As Darren was landing the plane, I felt his cum oozing out of me. No one else onboard knew what just happened in the cockpit. We landed and as I disembarked, Darren told me to come back in four hours as he’s leaving in four and a half hours. I nodded my head.

I walked the three kilometers to Santi’s office in the cold. I was thankful that it wasn’t as cold as it was in Russia. I stopped in a pub to dig for the leggings that I threw in my bag. I put them on and continued on my way. A few minutes later, I arrived.

The heat in Santiago’s office building was different—stagnant, heavy, and charged with a different kind of power. I didn't knock on the door of his private office. I let myself in, the heavy oak door swinging shut with a click.

Santiago was behind his desk, his back to me. His pants and boxers were down at his ankles, and his hand was already moving in a steady rhythm on his dick. He froze when he heard me, turning with an expression of pure shock that quickly melted into dark intent.

"You're not supposed to be here," he rasped. “You should’ve called!”

"I decided to make a pit stop rather than leaving a digital footprint," I said, walking toward the desk. I didn't wait for an invitation. I leaned forward, my chest pressed against the polished wood and slid my leggings down around my ankles, looking at him over my shoulder. "Fuck me, Santi. Now."

He didn't hesitate. He moved with a swift grace, coming around the desk. With one perfect thrust, he buried himself inside of my ass. I cried out, my fingers clawing at the edge of the desk as he began to plow into me, his movements rough and unforgiving.

"Boris..." I managed to gasp out, the words catching in my throat as he hit my depth over and over. "He’ll be in Moscow in a few days."

Santi’s hands gripped onto my hips, his fingers bruising my skin. "And?"

"And we’re going to talk about what we need to do," I groaned, my head dropping as I surrendered to the sensation. "Before we reach out to you."

The mention of another man only made him more feral. He grabbed my hips with a white-knuckled grip, forcing himself deeper inside of me, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, until I was screaming in pure, unadulterated pleasure. A few minutes later, he came in me then pulled out, moaning my name.

As Santi and I were getting ourselves situated, adjusting our clothes while the heavy silence of the office returned, he looked at me with those sharp, calculating eyes.

"How long do you have?" he asked, his voice still thick. "Before you need to get back to your transportation?"

I looked at the clock on the wall, doing a quick mental calculation. "Two hours," I said simply. I didn't tell him that it was actually closer to three. I needed that extra hour for myself, a quiet space between two worlds where no one could find me.

"Let's have lunch," Santi suggested, buttoning his shirt.

I raised an eyebrow, scanning the sterile expanse of his office. "Here? On your desk?"

He offered a rare, slight smile. "No. My apartment is a three-minute walk from here. The fridge is fully stocked, and it’s private."

I nodded once. "I'm hungry. Let's go."

We threw our jackets on, the fabric rustling in the quiet room, and headed out. We walked to his apartment in a heavy, charged silence—the kind that exists between two people who have just shared a violent intimacy and are now shifting back into the roles of cold, calculating allies.

Once we were safely behind the double-locked privacy of his apartment, the atmosphere softened, but only slightly. I watched him move toward the kitchen, his motions economical and precise.

"Santi," I started, leaning against the marble countertop. "Why are you working here? Why aren't you back home?"

He stopped, a container of olives in one hand, and looked at me. "I work near wherever you are," he said plainly.

I opened my mouth to protest, but he cut me off before I could speak.

"Given our history and our friendship, it’s a logical move," he continued, his tone soft. "My licensure allows me to work almost anywhere. I want to be close—just in case you need legal help. You tend to find yourself in situations where having a lawyer within reach is more of a necessity than a luxury."

I felt a pang of something I couldn't quite name. "God, you would’ve saved me a lot of legal headaches over the last fifteen years." I shook my head, my gaze dropping to the floor. "I really didn't know you were always right there. If I had, we would have spent some time together.... probably fucking."

Santi looked at me, a dark, skeptical brow arching. "Even while you were married to Xavier?"

I met his gaze steadily, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. "Santi, as my friend and as Xavier’s lawyer, you knew better than anyone that Xavier and I were far from faithful. Xavier didn't want to be found ninety-nine percent of the time. You know he was a notorious playboy, and I was trying to find love." I sighed, the exhaustion of the years finally showing on my face. "But here I am, in my forties and alone."

Santi walked over to me from the fridge, his presence looming but suddenly tender. He leaned down, catching my jaw in his hand, and kissed me—softly at first, then with a sudden, passionate intensity that tasted like years of unspoken things.

I let myself get lost in it for a few minutes before the cold reality of my schedule pulled at my mind. I pulled away, breathless. "I should leave," I whispered.

He didn't try to stop me. He just watched me as I grabbed my bag and jacket. I left the apartment without looking back, the cool air of the hallway hitting me like a reset button. I headed straight back the way I came, moving toward Darren and the plane.

When I reached the tarmac, the engines were cold and the hangar was quiet. I checked my watch. I was two and a half hours early. The plane was locked, but that was a minor inconvenience. I picked the lock with practiced ease and climbed aboard.

I heard muffled noises coming from the cockpit, a rhythmic thumping that I recognized immediately. I made my way forward and pushed the door open. There was Darren, his back to me, fucking a brunette bimbo draped over the pilot's seat.

I cleared her throat loudly.

They both jumped. Darren spun around, his face a mask of shock, and immediately pulled his dick out of the bimbo. He didn't say a word as he shoved himself back into his pants. The brunette scrambled to redress, her face flushing a deep crimson as she avoided my eyes. She practically bolted from the plane in sheer embarrassment.

"You didn't have to stop on my account," I said coolly, leaning against the doorframe. "I was done far earlier than I expected. If you want to find someone else to fuck, I can find somewhere else to be for a while. I have a few contacts in the red light district."

Darren muttered something under his breath about me being jealous.

I started laughing—a genuine, hard laugh that echoed in the cabin. "Darren, please. This has nothing to do with jealousy. It has everything to do with my safety."

He looked at me with a raised eyebrow, skeptical. "Your safety?"

"Have you heard the rumors?" I asked, my voice dropping to a cold register. "The ones about two surviving descendants of the Romanovs?"

Darren paused, his eyes narrowing. "I've heard them. Everyone in this business has."

"I am one of them," I said, watching the blood drain from his face. "I’m Marie Alexandrovna Romanov. My brother Bob is the other—Artem Alexandrovich Romanov."

Darren paled visibly, his swagger evaporating in an instant. He started to dip his head into a small, frantic bow. I held up a hand. "That's totally unnecessary," I told him.

He looked around the cockpit, still looking shaken. "I'll get Charlie right away," he stammered. "We can leave now."

"Don't bother," I said, turning back toward the cabin. "I could use the time to sleep. I can do that while we wait for Charlie. Go somewhere else if you need to; you spent a ton of your energy between myself, the brunette bimbo and whoever else you’re fucking."

As he was leaving the plane, clearly still reeling, I called out to him. "Reach out to Charlie. Tell him to make sure he has his energy up—but Darren? Do NOT tell him my true identity."

Darren nodded quickly as he left. Before he could get too far from the plane, he yelled over his shoulder, asking if I wanted any food.

"I'm fine," I called back. "I'll eat when I land back in Russia."

He nodded, then continued on his way. I locked up the plane, then searched the cabin until I found a few thick blankets and a soft pillow. Once I sat down and got comfortable, the exhaustion of the day finally caught up with me. I fell asleep instantly.

I slept for two hours without interruption. When my eyes finally blinked open, I felt a wave of gratitude for the rest I’d needed. I had woken up just in time, prior to Darren and Charlie’s arrival.

The low murmur of voices drifted through the cabin as the two pilots took their seats. They spent about twenty minutes going through the rigorous pre-flight pre-check, their voices a low drone from the cockpit as they toggled switches and verified systems.

"Fuel levels checked," Charlie’s voice was crisp, professional. "Navigation systems are green. Wind shear looks minimal for the corridor."

"Copy that," Darren replied. His voice lacked its usual arrogant edge; it was strained, almost reverent. "Hydraulics checked. Oxygen levels nominal. Let's keep this clean, Charlie. No deviations."

"You alright, Cap?" Charlie asked, the clicking of switches pausing for a second. "You sound different."

"Just focus on the checklist," Darren snapped, though there was no heat in it, only a nervous haste. "I want us out of here five minutes ago. Battery master on. Avionics on."

"Master on. Avionics on," Charlie echoed. "Ready for engine start?"

"Start 'em up."

The engines roared to life, vibrating through the fuselage and shaking me from the last remnants of sleep. I felt the power of the machine beneath me, a predatory beast waking up. Once they were finally all set, the plane began its taxi across the darkening tarmac. Moments later, we were in the air, banking steeply and heading back toward Moscow, Russia.

I spent the first few minutes of the ascent clenching the armrests and once we were at our altitude, I spent the time cleaning up my own little cocoon, folding the blankets precisely and making sure I had all of my personal belongings tucked away in my bag. Even with that done, there was still forty minutes of flight time left. I couldn't just sit still. I moved through the rest of the cabin, organizing the magazines, then found the cleaning supplies. I sanitized the hell out of the bathroom, scrubbing until it sparkled, and then moved on to the seating area. I sanitized every inch of the leather seats, erasing every trace of the last who knows how many people sat in this plane until the cabin felt clinical, fresh, and entirely disconnected from the chaos of the world below.

I knew we'd be landing soon, so I sat down and buckled up, my hands resting calmly on my lap. It was a smooth landing, the wheels touching the Russian tarmac with barely a jar. As soon as the plane came to a complete stop, I unbuckled, grabbed my bag, and immediately exited the plane. I didn't look back, and I didn't say goodbye to Darren and Charlie. I disappeared into the cold Moscow air as quickly as I had arrived.

I walked back toward the small, nondescript office in the hangar where I had met the attendant just hours before. I intended to settle our unofficial bill, but when I pushed open the door, a different man sat at the desk—younger, with sharp features and a uniform that looked too new.

"Looking for the other guy," I said, my voice cutting through the silence of the room. "The one with the ledger."

The young man didn't look up immediately. He tapped a few keys on a computer that hadn't been there this morning. "He's gone. Fired two hours ago."

I felt a slight shift in my chest. "On what grounds?"

"Management found out he authorized a roundtrip to Riga without a manifest entry," the man said, finally looking up with a disinterested stare.

"I see," I replied, my face a mask of indifference. "Does he have a name? A home address?"

The man scoffed. "We don't give out personal info. Especially not for guys who broke protocol."

I didn't say anything; I just nodded my head and left. The heavy door clicked shut behind me, sealing off the sterile heat of the office. I stood on the tarmac for a moment, the wind biting at my collar. I knew I only had a few hours to find this man and pay him for his assistance—he’d lost his job for me, and I wasn't about to let that go uncompensated. In this city, loyalty was a rare currency, and I always paid my debts in full.