“Two ex–Navy SEALs,” I said, each word carved from ice, “couldn’t keep my eight-year-old safe long enough to buy a damn ice cream cone across the street?”
“Yes, boss.” Petros shifted his weight, eyes fixed somewhere over my left shoulder, as though staring directly at me might be dangerous. “It was fast. Alley ambush. Clean. Andreas took a blade to the throat before he could draw. Christos dropped three of them before the fourth got him from behind with a choke chain.”
My jaw tightened.
“And Yannis?”
“He ran,” Petros said quickly. “Smart kid. He did exactly what he was trained to do. But they snatched him two blocks later. White van. No plates.”
I exhaled through my nose, the sound harsh in the quiet room. My fist closed until the knuckles blanched white against the polished wood of the desk. The glass of scotch rattled faintly.
One month.
That was how long I’d been in California.
I hadn’t come for territory. Not for money. Not for power. I had all of that waiting for me across the Atlantic—ports that moved half of Greece’s shadow economy, shipping lanes greasedby blood oaths older than governments, alliances that made my name whispered instead of spoken.
I had come for one reason only.
Vengeance.
I had come for the woman who had destroyed everything. The one who had plunged a knife into Maria—again and again—ripping open her womb, leaving her to bleed out on that hospital bed.
Maria was my late wife, heavy with our child, nine months along. Moments from bringing our second son into the world—a life that would never cry, a future that would never unfold. And it was all ripped away in a single, savage, merciless act at the hands of a woman driven by madness.
Five years of hunting ghosts across three continents—false leads, burned sources, bodies stacked quietly where no one would find them—had finally produced one credible trail.
The woman who killed my late wife was here—in this city, under the sun, in California. Southern California, to be exact. Hiding in plain sight among thirty-nine million people, where sunshine and glass towers masked the rot beneath.
I had intended to find her, end her, and disappear back to Greece within the year.
I had brought my son, Yannis with me because I believed—arrogantly—that my reach made him untouchable.
That the men guarding him were enough.
That my enemies would be too afraid to make a move while I was stateside.
I was wrong.
Nothing in this state stayed clean.
I turned toward the window, staring out at the ocean beyond the cliffs. Somewhere out there, my son was alone. Scared. Taken because of me. Because of the war I refused to let die.
Petros waited. He knew better than to speak now.
“They wanted leverage,” I said finally. “Which means he’s still alive.”
“Yes, boss.”
“And if he’s still alive,” I continued, my voice low and lethal, “then they intend to use him.”
Petros nodded once.
I turned back to him. “Lock down every port, every road, every contact from here to San Diego. I want cameras scrubbed, cell towers pulled, and anyone who so much as rented a white van in the last twenty-four hours questioned.”
“Yes, boss.”
“And Petros?” I added.
