Page 352 of Rosetti Family New York
My phone shows 7:46:30.
Just seventeen seconds before she arrives at the intersection where all the screens will change. Seventeen seconds until the Ghost takes off his mask and shows the man underneath.
7:46:47.
I execute the code.
Times Square erupts first. Forty-seven billboards shifting in perfect synchronization, luxury ads dissolving into something far more valuable. Her name blazes across the city.
MARA VALEYOU ARE THE ONLY CODE I NEVER WANT TO CRACKMARRY ME- E
Every smartphone in Manhattan. Twelve million devices, all displaying the same message. Lovers in bed, executives in boardrooms, strangers on subways, all witnessing my claim on the only woman who ever made me forget everything else existed.
The satisfaction isn't in the technical achievement, though coordinating this required skills that officially don't exist. The satisfaction is in knowing that right now, she's seeing exactlyhow far I'll go to prove she's worth any exposure, any risk, any consequence.
Through the scope, I watch her stop walking. She just... stops. In the middle of the sidewalk, staring up at the billboard that should be advertising luxury cars but instead shows my heart.
Her coffee cup slips from her fingers. Latte spreading across concrete like my control spreading across digital networks, total and unstoppable.
She turns her head toward the coffee shop window, where her reflection mixes with my message scrolling across the display. Even the Wi-Fi networks have changed their names: "MaraVale_WillYouMarryMe_EmilioRosetti"
Everyone on the street is staring at screens that show my devotion. Strangers are witnessing this moment.
This is terrifying. Not the technical risk—I can erase digital evidence, make agencies forget what they've seen, and disappear through their systems like I was never there. But this emotional exposure? This public declaration that the predator is now completely devoted to his prey?
She could say no. She could decide that a man who hacks an entire city to propose is too obsessed, too dangerous, too much. She could run again, and this time I'd have to let her go because the whole world just watched me offer her my heart.
My phone buzzes. Text from her number:You magnificent, insane, perfect stalker. Where are you?
The relief nearly buckles my knees. She's not running. She's not horrified. She's... impressed. Aroused, probably. In love with a man who just committed federal crimes to ask her one question.
I text her some coordinates. Not to a fancy restaurant or a pretty view, but to the rooftop where I've been watching her morning routine. I've spent weeks planning this moment,surrounded by the surveillance gear that tracked her across the world.
This is who we are. The hunter and his willing prey. The man who sees everything and the woman who chose to be seen. If she's going to marry me, she's marrying all of it—the obsession, the surveillance, the love that bends the rules.
Every screen in Manhattan is still lit up with my proposal. Three minutes and forty-seven seconds of the Ghost becoming human, of the predator offering himself to the only prey who ever mattered.
Through building security cameras, I watch her come toward me. Right on time, the stairwell door flies open behind me. She steps out like vengeance in burgundy wool, eyes blazing. Her cheeks are flushed from climbing the last flight, breath visible in the morning air, and she's never looked more beautiful.
"You crazy, brilliant, completely unhinged stalker," she gasps, taking in the surveillance gear around us. "You hacked a whole city to propose to me."
"Twelve million devices," I reply, unable to hide the satisfaction in my voice. "Forty-seven major displays. The mayor's going to have questions."
"The FBI's going to have questions."
"Let them ask." I stand slowly, every movement calculated to show her exactly what kind of man she's dealing with. "They'll never prove it was me."
She laughs, breathless, delighted, the sound that's haunted my dreams for three years. "Except you kind of signed it."
"I'm yours." The admission emerges rougher than intended. "No questions. And I needed the whole world to know."
Around us, the screens end their synchronized display, flashing back to whatever dull ads they showed before.
"Three minutes and forty-seven seconds," she observes, checking her phone. "The exact duration of our first kiss."
"You remember."
"I remember everything." Her voice drops to that honey-over-steel tone that's always made powerful men forget their own names. "The hotel room. The way you looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered. The moment I realized I was falling for a man who saw everything."
