Chapter 8
THEO
Ienter my room and shut the door. I sit on the edge of the bed, Stassi's voice still echoing in my head.
I didn't mean the last line, not really. But I said it anyway. Because anger is easier than hope. Because distance is safer than truth or worry.
I pull out my phone. I have too much to do to let her back into my blood. And yet, here she is.
In my house.
In my head.
I text my men:
The lawyer. Chris Xanos. I want a report on him by morning.
I put my phone on the charging base and strip down to my boxer briefs and slide into bed.
I think falling asleep isn't something I'm ready for—there's too much going on—but before I know it, I'm out.
Next thing I know, it's 7:43 a.m. and I'm sitting up, stretching.
I shower, dress, and sit in the lounge chair and go over my messages on my phone. One of them is an encrypted text. I unlock it to read:
We have eyes on Xanos. Works and lives for a boutique firm in Kolonaki. Lives alone. Both parents deceased. Drives a black BMW, plate ending 5643. We've secured access to his cell phone. Nothing of use yet. No movement yet today
Perfect.
I reply back.
Don't approach yet. Just watch. I want everything. Calls, contacts, routines
If this lawyer is the thread, I'm going to pull until the whole fucking web collapses. And I hope that just because he lives in the wealthy part of Athens, he doesn't think I won't throw him in the trunk of my car in broad daylight.
I grab the second phone, the one reserved for estate communications only, and fire off another message.
Dinner tonight. Her and me. No excuses
Elena responds within seconds:
Okay. I should have something light prepared. The jet lag must be hard on her.
I stare at the screen for a second too long. Hard on her?
Well, Elena does remember her. Maybe that's where any sympathy is coming from.
Once I send off a few more texts, I head into the kitchen. The air smells faintly of espresso. I look out the window, and I'm surprised to see her already out there sitting in the exact spot she did every morning, looking over the garden.
It's a comforting sight that makes me feel something so foreign to me now.
I don't know why, but I stare at her as I make coffee and then, without thinking, I walk outside.
She's sitting on a stone bench beneath the lemon tree, knees pulled to her chest, hair loose around her face.
She hears me approaching but doesn't move.
"You found your spot again," I say.
She looks up, eyes shaded. "I always loved this tree."
Silence hangs between us. Then she says, "It's changed. Someone added lavender. It's my favorite."
"I know," I say, taking a sip of coffee, hoping she won't connect the dots. "You'll join me for dinner tonight. Eight p.m."
Her brow lifts slightly. "That's not really a question."
"It wasn't meant to be."
Her lips press together. "And if I say no?"
"You won't."
Her gaze sharpens. "Still like to control everything, don't you?"
"Only what's mine—or in this case, what used to be."
That makes her blink. She looks away, jaw tight. I don't regret the line.
She exhales. "What if I'm not hungry?"
"Then you'll sit there and watch me eat."
A silence, then the smallest trace of a smile. "You always were charming."
I turn to leave but pause.
"Ask Elena to help get you something nice to wear."
She shakes her head. "See you tonight, Theo."
I go about my day, and I find that the hours crawl by. I review the incoming surveillance on Chris Xanos, go over his work history, transcribed phone calls, client list, public records. Nothing stands out—yet.
On the surface, he's got no connections and nothing special about him. He's just a 55-year-old bland man in a midlife crisis. When he's not with a client, he's sending DMs to any twenty-something chick showing cleavage on their Instagram account within a 25-mile radius of Athens.
But if he's the one who brokered the Warriors' financial funneling, I'll find it. I always do—and if I don't find it on paper, I'll pry it out of his fucking chest if I have to.
I glance at my Patek Philippe, the infamous quarter-of-a-million-dollar watch my dad gave me for my 30th birthday. I can't believe five years later he'd be gone, Ares would be running things, and I'd still be wearing it.
But right now, I think it's broken. I swear an hour has gone by, but it says only fifteen minutes. Thankfully, on the twentieth time I check, it says 7:48 p.m., and I'm seated in the dining room when she walks in.
And fuck me if it doesn't hit harder than I was prepared for.
She's in a black dress. Simple. Modest by most standards, but on her? It's devastating. Her body was always magnificent. She had cleavage women spend thousands to mimic, but she never flaunted it, always kept it hidden. Unless, of course, she was in a bathing suit.
We lived by the beach those four years.
Her eyes avoid mine until she's halfway into the room.
"I didn't think you'd be early," she says carefully.
It takes everything in me not to stand, kiss her cheek, pull out her chair.
"It was by accident. Elena had to remind me," I say, lying, not sure why.
She sits across from me. I pour myself a glass of wine and hover the bottle over her glass. "Still drink Chianti?"
"Not in a long time, but sure, I'll have some."
I pour her some and slide the glass over to her. Our fingertips touch, and I find I'm the only one pulling away like I was being electrocuted.
As we wait for the food, we drink our wine in an awkward silence. I don’t know why, but I’m compelled to fill the void.
“So, Elena mentioned you were a little uncomfortable trying on the dress you’re wearing. I don’t know why, it looks good on you.”
She scoffs, “I just find it a little interesting that you have spare dresses lying around, and that you thought I should wear something left by other women.
I laugh, “A woman, not women.”
“Well, it’s not my taste. I’d never buy it. So whoever this belongs to is probably a real winner.”
I nod. “She’s amazing, actually. I love her.”
The look that comes across her face almost makes up for what she did. Almost.
“Oh, well I’m happy for you, Theo. Congratulations.”
“You know her, actually.”
“Who?” she asks, her eyes narrowing in on me. “Is it that redhead Irish girl that came around during the summers with her father?”
“What?” I ask, her being so specific catches me off guard. “No, they’re family friends.”
“The girl who works the front desk at your hotel? You know her tits and lips are fake, right?”
“Are they? I hadn’t noticed.”
“Oh please. Whose fucking dress is this, Theo?”
I take a sip of wine, savoring both it and this moment.
“Calli’s.”
Her face turns more red than the wine as her hands cover her mouth.
“Your sister’s?”
I shake my head yes. “I'll be sure to tell her what you think of it.”
The food comes. Lamb with roasted vegetables, fresh bread, and a Greek salad.
"My favorite," she says, smiling to Elena, who nods. Apparently, she didn't even take her own advice about something light.
We eat in silence for a few minutes. She pushes food around her plate. I cut my lamb like I'm carving through every lie she hasn't told me yet.
Halfway through dinner, she finally speaks.
"You're quiet now."
"So are you."
"I'm trying not to say the wrong thing."
"There are no right things."
She sets her fork down. "Is this how dinner's going to be?"
"No," I say, leaning back. "Eventually, you'll stop delaying and I'll get the truth. Then dinner will be over."
She exhales, long and slow. "I'm not ready."
"That's too bad."
She looks up, and her gaze is steel now. "You want answers? Fine. But they won't fix anything. They won't make this easier."
"Try me."
A silence. Her throat works, but no words come.
Instead, she says softly, "I was scared."
I wait.
She doesn't go further.
"Please, go on," I say.
Her eyes lift. "Of things. Of what I'd become if I stayed. Of what you'd become."
"Well, I became it anyway."
We sit in the wreckage of our past like it's a third guest at the table.
Finally, she pushes her plate away.
"I'm not hungry anymore," she says.
I nod. "Then dinner's over."
She starts to stand, but I stop her with a look.
"One more thing."
She freezes.
"I don't care what you're hiding," I say, lying again and tossing my napkin on the table, "but if you put this house, or anyone in my family, in danger, there won't be another dinner. There won't be anything."
She holds my gaze and doesn't blink.
"I understand," she says and leaves.
And I believe she does.
Because whatever she's running from, it's not done with her yet.
And neither am I.