Christos tilts his head, eyes flicking briefly toward the window overlooking the sea, then back at us. “Of course,” he says smoothly. “Let us discuss matters that require…discretion.”
I hold his stare until the seconds stretch thin and the room seems to tilt on its axis. Christos doesn’t flinch. He smiles like a man who believes every cruel thing he says is simply commerce.
He doesn’t waste theatrics. “Cutting to the point, then,” he says, voice smooth as oil. “We want the ledgers—those Callista and Vassilis Marino stole years ago. I am convinced their daughter, Sasha Marino, has them. We want the money returned, and we want repayment. The most efficient route is obvious: Use the girl.”
The words land like a slap. For a heartbeat, nothing moves—no one breathes. Roman’s jaw tightens; Mikhail’s fingers curl around the stem of his untouched glass. I can feel the blood in my ears.
“You want to…use her.” My voice is low and steady, like a blade being drawn. I keep my hands flat on my knees so they don’t curl into fists. “You think I’ll hand you my woman? You think she is currency you can spend?”
Christos inclines his head as if I’ve answered for him. “Collateral will be collateral, Lev. Debts have ways of being repaid. We would prefer a quiet solution, settle accounts, keep appearances. It’s clean, it’s useful, and it ensures restitution.”
A laugh—cold and humorless—bubbles out of Roman and dies before it leaves the room. “You want to sell a woman like livestock,” he says. “To you, people are ledger entries.”
Christos’s smile never reaches his eyes. “Practical,” he returns. “Not sentimental. You understand the value of order, yes?”
I feel something under my ribs, hot and animal. The room narrows, and the only thing that exists is the sound of my pulse and the way his suggestion hangs there like a dare. Sasha’s face flashes through my head—her laugh, the soft curl that falls over her forehead when she sleeps—and my body answers before my mouth does.
“Sasha doesn’t have your ledgers.”
Christos’s lips curve. “You can deny it all you want, Lev. Denial doesn’t change reality. If you won’t hand her over—if you refuse to give her to us willingly—then we will take her. We will take what is owed one way or another.”
The air in the room goes cold. For a ridiculous second, I picture him issuing the line politely, as if ordering tea. My fingers tighten on the wood until the knuckles blanch.
“You’ll do what?” I repeat, voice hollow with controlled rage.
“You heard me.”
“Touch her,” I say, each syllable deliberate, “and I will make sure your name is whispered by men who will never sleep again.”
Christos frowns like I’ve disappointed him. “Threats from a man on our soil are unwise, Lev.”
I lean forward until the desk is between us, and my fingers press into the wood, a silent measure of the control I’m willing to take. “She is my wife,” I finish, quiet but absolute. “I will fight the world to keep her safe. Do whatever the fuck you want, Christos—name your terms, make your threats—but don’t expect me to hand her over. Not to you. Not to anyone.”
For a moment, the room is a taut wire. Roman’s hand finds my sleeve; Mikhail’s eyes are knives. Christos straightens, smooths his jacket, and regards me as if I’ve offered him a puzzle worth solving. He holds my stare, unblinking. “Then we have an impasse,” he says finally. “We shall see which of us is more patient.”
He stands. The meeting is over by tone alone. We’re escorted out; the estate returns to its choreography of servants and waves and impassive marble. Outside, the sun blinds me for a second as we step into the torrent of light, and anger hammers cold and precise through my chest.
Roman flanks me close, voice clipped. “You sure you want to light that fuse, Lev?”
My mind is already moving—men to call, contacts to activate, places to close. Whatever Christos intends, whatever threats he levels, I will not hand Sasha over. Not to him. Not to anyone.
“Everything ends tonight,” I tell Roman, voice low, volcanic. “This threat—Markovic, Petropoulos—gone. Permanently.” The words aren’t bravado. They’re a promise I mean to keep with blood, if necessary.
Roman watches me for a long second, an unreadable smile at the corner of his mouth. He reaches out, claps a hand to my shoulder—hard, steadying. “Relax, Lev,” he says, that dry, unshakeable tone that’s gotten us both out of worse scrapes. “You don’t win wars by burning yourself out on the first match. Plan, execute. We do this clean. First, you must relax.”
I want to snarl, to tell him I don’t have the luxury of patience. Instead, I let out a breath that’s half laugh, half roar, and nod once. Roman’s calm steadies the spike in my chest, like ice to a fever.
“Fine. I’ll relax.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head as we step out into the courtyard, “you’re too wound up. We should go get drinks. Loosen up a little.”
I shake my head, keeping my gaze forward. “This isn’t the time.”
“There’s never a best time,” he fires back, arms spread as if to embrace the day itself. “The Greeks aren’t going anywhere, the Petropoulos won’t wait for you to catch your breath. You’re going to explode if you don’t step back for thirty minutes.”
I let out a tight laugh. “You’re insane.”
“Maybe,” he says with a grin, “but I’m right. Come on. One drink. Then we go back and finish this.”
