Too close.
I twist—one last try—my elbow connecting with someone’s ribs.
“Bitch,” a man snaps, and something hard cracks against the side of my skull.
Pain bursts behind my eyes.
The world tilts.
My knees buckle.
He lifts me up, throwing me over his shoulder and bile rises in my throat.
I see Maria, the maid, her lifeless eyes staring at me.
And just as everything goes dark, one last thought screams through me—Atlas.
Then nothing.
Chapter Thirty-One-Dimitri
The Little Prince.
Atlas James.
My sniveling, soft-hearted, half-breed nephew.
That brat actually thinks he can stop me? Take back what was always meant to be mine?
He knows nothing of legacy.
Nothing of power.
Nothing of what it means to be a true Stavros.
My stupid brother—may he rot—was supposed to die years earlier, and the crown’s legacy, the business, the wealth, the respect of the people—all of it should’ve fallen to me.
But of course the man had to go and cling to life long enough to sire a son with that American whore.
And then—of course—he refused to die properly.
So, I planted the seeds.
I manipulated the field.
I whispered to every minister, every business partner, every journalist who still bowed to the shadow of a monarchy Greece claimed it didn’t want.
And I sent that inconvenient child away.
Atlas Stavros didn’t grow up on the islands receiving the adoration of the people.
I did.
And I soaked in it like wine.
I vacationed in the best villas, dined at the best tables, traveled like a beloved king-in-exile.
The people of Europe? So many of them worship an exiled monarchy.
