Chapter 32 Katerina
KATERINA
My heart stops as I stare at the photograph, my fingers frozen against the crisp manila folder. He looks back at me—the familiar silver beard and hawk-like nose are unmistakable.
I shake my head, throat closing.
Ares watches my reaction carefully. "No?" he asks.
My stomach twists violently as I look again at the face that had once smiled at me across my father's dinner table. The face that had brought me dolls when I was a child. The face that had stood, tears streaming down his cheeks, at my family’s funeral.
George Zervas.
"No, that's not possible." My voice cracks.
Ares cocks his head, his expression changing from surprised to suspicious. "Not possible?"
"He was my father's best friend. He's not that kind of man." I shake my head, still staring at the photograph.
Ares scoffs, his body tensing. "He's the head of the Zervas family, Katerina. What kind of man do you think he is?"
"A businessman. A friend." The words come out more defensive than I mean. I scratch my head, old memories clashing with this new reality Ares is presenting.
"A businessman?" Ares's voice rises. "Your father was a businessman. Mine too. George Zervas is a fucking murderer."
I close the folder, unable to look at him anymore. "There must be some mistake."
"There's no mistake." He rips the folder from my hands. "You think my brother would hunt down someone just to get the wrong name? You think we'd go after him without being sure?"
I'm spiraling.
I remember the warmth in George's eyes when he visited after the fire. How he'd sit with me for hours when I wouldn't speak to anyone else.
"He was there for me. After the fire. After everything—he was kind. My father trusted him with everything, like a brother."
"Maybe he has something to do with the murder of your family, too!" Ares shouts.
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying," Ares steps closer, his eyes hard, "that perhaps George Zervas has a pattern of eliminating his so-called brothers."
"No." I back away, bumping into the chair behind me. "No, he wouldn't—he couldn't have—"
"Couldn't have what, Katerina?" Ares's voice is dangerously soft. "Ordered the hit on your family too?"
The room spins around me. I grip the chair to steady myself.
I remember George insisting I come stay with him after the funeral, before my uncle stepped in.
George, always checking on me, even after I moved in with Stavros.
"Did your uncle ever do business with the Zervas family?" Ares asks, watching me carefully.
"I—I don't know. Maybe." I sound unsure because I am. "Stavros never told me anything."
"But your father did?"
I shake my head. "My father believed family should know everything. He said secrets only make your enemies stronger."
Ares's expression softens slightly. "Your father was right."
I drop into the chair, feeling lightheaded. The room goes quiet with Ares staring at me. My mind races back through memories I'd stored away, kept safe.
Then I remember—my father's study.
The leather chairs. George Zervas and my father, talking late into the night while I pretended to sleep on the couch. I was twelve then, or maybe thirteen? Just old enough to understand that when my father spoke low to another person, it wasn't to plan holidays.
"He never wanted to be Don," I say, remembering that night.
Ares's head snaps toward me. "Who?"
I look up at him, memories unspooling like film negatives before my eyes. "George Zervas. He wanted to disappear. Bought an island. My dad said it was foolish, but George insisted he was leaving."
Ares scoffs. "You're remembering wrong. Men like Zervas don't walk away from power."
"He wasn't like that," I push back. "He studied architecture in Paris. He wanted to build things."
Ares's eyes go hard. Cold. "Are you defending him?"
The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees.
"I'm telling you what I know," I say defensively.
"No, you're telling me what you want to be true," Ares says sternly. "You were a child when you knew him. People change."
My shoulders tense at his dismissal. "I was there. You weren't."
Ares's jaw tightens, a muscle twitching beneath the skin. "My father is dead because of him."
"You don't know that for sure."
"Yes. I do." He steps closer, his shadow falling over me. "And now, so do you."
My voice sharpens, an edge I didn't intend creeping in. "You're wrong about him."
The words land between us like a gunshot, and his expression darkens.
"Wrong?" He repeats the word like it's poison on his tongue.
Ares stiffens, his entire body going rigid like he's been struck.
The look he gives me is one I've never seen before—not anger, exactly, but something worse.
Betrayal.
As if I've plunged a knife between his ribs when he least expected it.
Ares steps closer, towering over me. “You know what?” he says, voice low and lethal. “Maybe I made a mistake.”
My stomach drops.
“Bringing you in. Thinking you could handle this world. Thinking you could handle me.”
I flinch. The words hit harder than any punch.
“You’re still that little girl clinging to bedtime stories about men like Zervas. You want truth? Here's the truth—this world doesn't let you be a dreamer. You kill, or you get killed. If you can't see that, then maybe you're not the partner I thought you were.”
My breath catches, and then something inside me shatters.
“Then maybe you should’ve married someone you could control!”
I shoot to my feet, rage pulsing in my throat. "You want a partner? Or a fucking parrot? Someone who agrees with every goddamn thing you say? That's not love, Ares. That's dictatorship."
His jaw ticks. His fists clench.
And then—
He steps so close I have to tilt my head up to meet his eyes. “If you’re defending the man who killed my father, then maybe I don’t know who the fuck I married.”
I break in a way I never have and do something I've never done before.
I slap him.
My hand stings as I process what I've done.
His head barely turns, but something behind his eyes falters.
He lunges, gripping my throat, shoving me back against the chair.
I gasp, my fingers clawing at his arm.
"You've made your fucking choice," he growls. "And it's not me."
His hand clamps tighter, and a cold flash of fear runs through me. Not because I think he'll kill me, but because for the first time, I'm not sure he knows where the line is.
My vision flickers.
For a heartbeat, I wonder if he'll relax his grip.
“I’m done with you. I can’t even fucking look at you.”
Then he lets go.
I collapse, coughing as air rushes back into my lungs.
Without another word, Ares walks out, leaving me alone in his office.
I slump into the chair and start to cry—harder than I have in years. I haven't cried this much since the people I loved left this earth.
After some time, I wipe my face, rage replacing sorrow and regret for allowing myself to get here, to feel these things.
My eyes land on a photo of Ares and his brothers, smiling.
“Fucking asshole,” I yell.
Then I hurl it across the room.
I don't care if he's hurt. I don't care if he regrets it later.
The glass explodes.
And I walk out of his office, hands trembling, my throat burning from where he touched me.
Fuck him.
And fuck his blind obsession.