Page 173 of Vow to Claim You

He already knows the evidence I presented during the last meeting at Asgard, so I fill him in with what’s new and what Ayanna shared with me last night. Then I tell him about the trap I want to set for Leandro, which I need Nikos’s blessing and help for.

Nikos’s expression doesn’t change, but something behind his eyes recalibrates. I’ve sat across from this man enough times to know when he’s shifted from listening to calculating. Eventually, he leans back, and his fingers drum against the table.

“You’re making a serious accusation, Vold.” His voice is calm, but the weight beneath it is immense. “Against a man who is currently going through initiation to become one of us. A man this Council agreed to accept on the basis of an alliance that you married into.” His dark eyes search mine. “And a man who is the father of your wife.”

“I know what he is.”

“Do you?” Nikos tilts his head. The gesture is almost identical to mine. We’ve both spent years studying each other, and certain habits cross-pollinate. “Because what you’re asking me to do is help you trap a man whose candidacy I personally endorsed. If you’re wrong, it doesn’t just fall on you. It falls on this table. On me. On the integrity of the initiation process.”

“I’m not wrong.”

“You don’t have undeniable proof either.”

“That’s why I need the trap.”

Nikos studies me for a long moment. His espresso must’ve gone cold by now.

“And if you are wrong?” he asks, and the question isn’t rhetorical. It’s a door, and he’s holding it open so I can see what’s on the other side. “If we do this, and Leandro passes the test, and it turns out the evidence points where it points because someone built it to, then what? You’ve accused a Council candidate of conspiracy without hard proof. You want to manipulate the initiation process for personal investigation. The Council won’t overlook that.”

My gaze doesn’t waver, because I’ve already run this calculation a hundred times, and the answer is the same every time.

“If I’m wrong,” I say, “I’ll be the one trialed.”

The stakes are high. A seated member of the High Council, the Second, voluntarily submitting himself to trial. Not since the society’s founding has a member of my rank made that offer. It’s not just a stake. It’s my life on the table. And we both know it.

“You’re that certain,” he drawls.

“I’m certain enough to bet my seat and my blood on it.”

Nikos lifts his espresso and takes a sip. “Tell me the plan.”

The same night, I stand behind a Venetian mirror in another chamber of Olympus. The glass is old, original to the building. Nikos once told me his great-grandfather installed it in the early years of the society, and that it’s one of the very few rooms he hasn’t renovated since he took over. One way. From this side, I can see every detail of the room beyond as clearly as if I were standing in it. From the other side, it’s a mirror—ornate, gilt-framed, the kind of piece that looks like decoration and functions like a weapon.

The room on the other side of the mirror is about the same size and has the same decor as the meeting room where I sat with Nikos this morning.

Nikos stands by the window, his back to the door, hands clasped behind him. He’s changed since this morning—dark suit, no tie, the collar open just enough to reveal the edge of the tattoo at his collarbone. Serena’s name in Greek. The man wears his wife on his skin the way I wear mine in my chest—permanently, irreversibly, in a place that can’t be surgically removed.

He looks relaxed. That’s part of it. Part of the performance.

The door opens, and Leandro walks in slowly. His face calm, diplomatic, the carefully neutral mask he’s always wearing. He scans the room the way I would, exits angles, the position of every object that could be a weapon or a recording device. His eyes pass over the Venetian mirror without pausing.

Good. That’s what it’s designed for.

“Leandro.” Nikos turns from the window and extends his hand. “Thank you for coming on short notice.”

“Of course.” Leandro takes the hand and shakes it firmly. “When the Supreme Leader calls, one doesn’t decline.”

“Sit.”

They sit. Nikos in the chair facing the mirror. Leandro across from him, angled so I can see his profile—the set of his jaw, the movement of his throat when he swallows, the precise way his fingers rest on the arm of the chair. Relaxed but ready. He knows that invitations from men like Nikos always come with a price.

“I’ll be direct,” Nikos says, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “Your initiation has been exceptional. The trials, the tests, you’ve exceeded expectations at every stage. The council is impressed.”

“I’m honored.” Leandro inclines his head.

“But there’s one final task. And I won’t lie to you, Leandro. It’s the most difficult you’ll face. More than anything that’s come before.”

Leandro nods, seemingly unfazed, but I see a micro-shift in his eyes, and the almost imperceptible tightening of his fingers on the arm of the chair.