Chapter 19 Theo
THEO
Ishift in the driver's seat, my tailbone aching from staying still too long. It's been four days since Stassi promised to set up our meeting with our son. Four days of watching her make arrangements without accepting a single suggestion from me.
"It's safer this way," she'd said, tapping away at her laptop, a burner phone beside her. "Commercial flight, normal accommodations. Drawing less attention."
As if the Kastaris name doesn't already draw attention.
As if I don't have connections across every major city in Europe that could have kept us invisible while keeping us comfortable.
But no—we're flying commercial. Staying at some random Airbnb even though I specifically told her the Bonventi family would give us one of their places to use, with full security.
"Normal people don't stay in fortresses," she'd said. "Normal people blend in."
I should have pushed harder, but part of me—the part that's still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I have a son—didn't want to risk her backing out.
"Hey, is that him?" Dimitri asks, bringing me back to the present. He nods toward a man exiting the restaurant.
I study the man's face, searching for the distinctive marks we're looking for. "No."
"Shit, how many people are in this damn place?" Dimitri mutters, slouching lower in the passenger seat.
"Don't worry," I say, though my patience is wearing thin. "He'll come out."
It's funny how easily The Hawk fell into our lap once we knew who we were looking for. He seems to do business with many people. On behalf of who is what I'm most interested in.
"You sure your guy is reliable on this?" Dimitri asks, checking his watch.
"As reliable as anyone who'll flip for money," I answer. "If he says the guy always eats here on Thursday nights between eight and ten, then he'll be here."
Dimitri nods. "Sure hope so."
Me too, and we're ready. We've got a team of six spread out. Dio in a van half a block down, two men at the bar across the street, another two covering the back exit. All watching for a man with three claw-like scars down his right cheek.
"Tell me again why we're not just grabbing him at his apartment?" Dimitri asks. "We know where he lives."
"Because rushing the lawyer got us a corpse with a bullet in his head," I remind him. "This needs to be cleaner. Public place, more witnesses, less likely he'll off himself."
"Or more likely he's got a dead man's switch that sends incriminating shit to the authorities if he doesn't check in," Dimitri counters.
"That's why we're not killing him," I say. "At least not right away."
I check my watch—9:18 PM. Time's ticking.
I check my phone—no messages from Stassi.
I wonder if she's sleeping, if she's as restless as I am.
All these years, I imagined a thousand scenarios where I'd see her again.
Not one of them involved a son. Not one prepared me for the storm raging inside me, the terror at what I might lose, and a desperate hunger to see his face.
"There," Dimitri says suddenly, sitting up straight. "Table near the window. Blue jacket."
I snap to attention, eyes narrowing on the man sitting alone with his back to the wall. Even from here, I can see the scars—three jagged lines running from temple to jaw on his right cheek.
The Hawk.
He's younger than I expected. Mid-thirties maybe, with short dark hair and a lean build. The kind of man you'd pass on the street without a second glance if not for those distinctive scars.
"Got him," I say into the radio. "Blue jacket, seated at the window table."
I feel the familiar calm settling over me, the clarity that comes in these moments. "Everyone hold position. We wait for him to leave, then follow."
Dimitri checks his gun, then tucks it back under his jacket. "What if he has company when he leaves?"
"We adjust," I say. "But according to Kostas, he always leaves alone."
"I still think—"
"Yes, I know what you think," I cut him off. "But we're doing this my way. Clean. Controlled. No mess."
Dimitri holds up his hands in mock surrender. "You're the boss tonight."
Ten minutes pass in tense silence. I watch The Hawk through the restaurant window, noting how he's not paranoid, not even cautious given his routine. Finally, he stands and heads for the door.
"He's moving," I say into the radio. "Dio, be ready to pull in behind us. Rest of you, maintain distance, be ready to follow him."
The Hawk steps out onto the sidewalk, pausing to light a cigarette. The flame illuminates his face briefly—those scars livid against his skin—before he turns and starts walking north.
"He's not driving?" Dimitri asks.
"Doesn't look that way," I say and grab the radio. "He's walking. Dio, follow us in the van. The rest of us are going for a stroll."
Dimitri looks at me as I open the driver side door. "Let's go."
We start walking slowly, keep pace with The Hawk who's about half a block ahead of us. The night is clear, streets busy but not crowded.
"You know, does he look familiar to you?" I ask Dimitri as I glance around, observing some of our men across the street walking with us as well.
He shakes his head. "No, why? You recognize him?"
"Kind of. Maybe? I don't know."
We walk for another minute and then Dimitri taps me on the arm.
"What's your play now? We follow him home, have a drink with him? Light a cigar?"
"Don’t be a smartass. We wait until he's somewhere quiet but still public enough that suicide isn't his first option," I say. "Then we have a conversation."
"And if he doesn't want to talk?"
I turn to look at my brother. "Everyone talks eventually."
The Hawk turns off the main street, heading down a quieter avenue lined with closed shops and a few late-night cafes.
"I think he's heading for the metro," Dimitri says.
"Let's make sure he misses his train."
I radio the team. "He's heading for the metro entrance. Dio, circle around and meet us there. Team Two, maintain distance. Team Three, get down to the platform ahead of us. Do not let him board any train."
The Hawk stops right at the top of the stairs to the metro and lights another cigarette, still unaware he's being hunted.
"If this goes sideways," I tell Dimitri as we get closer, "your priority is getting the fuck out of here. Leave the rest to me."
"Like hell," Dimitri retorts. "We do this together. I didn't fly over here to sit on the bench. Shit, my arm should still probably be in a sling after that Ares incident. If that doesn't stop me, you think something going a little sideways will?" he asks with a laugh.
I see Dio pull up to our left and park.
Dimitri and I spread out, approaching from different angles. The Hawk doesn't see us yet.
I'm three steps away when all that changes. The Hawk's head snaps around, his eyes meeting mine with instant recognition.
Fuck.
"Kastaris," he says, and that one word confirms everything.
He knows who I am.
He knows why I'm here.
His hand moves toward his pocket and time slows. I lunge forward, Dimitri closing in from the other side.
I grab his wrist before he can reach whatever he's going for, twisting until I hear a grunt of pain. "Don't," I warn him.
"You have no idea what you're getting into," The Hawk says, his voice surprisingly calm despite the pain I know he's feeling.
"That's what we're here to discuss," I tell him, maintaining my grip on his hand. "Somewhere more private."
I tug him forward toward the waiting car.
Dio hops out as we approach and the rest of our team comes into view, forming a loose perimeter around us. To any casual observer, it might look like a reunion of friends.
"You think I'm afraid to die?" The Hawk asks me, a hint of amusement in his tone.
"No," I say. "I think you're smart enough to want to live."
Dimitri pulls a small black object from The Hawk's pocket—not a gun, but a phone. Along with it comes a wallet, a set of keys, and a small plastic case that I can't identify at first glance.
"No guns," Dimitri confirms.
I relax my grip slightly but keep hold of his wrist. "We're going to give you a lift home," I tell The Hawk. "And then we're going to have a long conversation about a certain lawyer, some bank accounts, and who you've been working for."
Thanks to The Hawk's ID, we now know where he lives, and that's where we're headed.
But as we drive toward the Athens apartment, I can't take my eyes off the ID in my hands. Nicolas Zikos. Thirty-six years old.
But it's his face that keeps drawing me back.
It's not just the scars. There's something else—something buried under the last few months. I can't help but feel like it's a face I should know.
"Something bothering you?" Dimitri asks quietly from beside me. Across from us sits The Hawk, AKA Nicolas Zikos, with his wrists zip-tied, staring steadily back at me.
"I've seen him before," I say.
Nicolas smiles faintly. "Have you? I don't recall the pleasure."
"Shut up," Dimitri snaps, but I wave him off.
"No, let him talk. I want to hear his voice again."
We pull up to a modern apartment building in one of Athens' higher-end districts. The doorman's eyes widen when he sees Dimitri grab Nicolas by the elbow, but a quick flash of cash and mumbled explanation about a friend who's had too much to drink is enough to silence any questions.
Inside the elevator, Nicolas laughs softly. "You really think this is going to end well for either of you?"
Dimitri and I look at one another and then I look at him, keeping my expression neutral. "Yes, but the real question is: does this end well for you?"
The apartment is on the fifth floor. It's minimal, expensive. Black leather furniture, glass coffee table, state-of-the-art entertainment system. The place looks like a catalog, not a home. No personal touches, no photos, nothing that suggests a life beyond utility.
"Nice place," Dimitri comments, shoving Nicolas into a chair. "You must make good money working for—" He stops and scratches his head, "who exactly?"