Chapter 22 Athena
ATHENA
The screen unlocks instantly. My chest tightens with a rush of hope, like this could be the moment I finally matter in all this chaos. That I could actually help.
Thirty minutes later, that feeling is almost gone.
I've been digging through dozens of neatly organized folders, one after the other. My father's name and signature are everywhere, but every document is corporate crap.
Board meeting minutes. Quarterly reports. Real estate holdings for Greek Spartan Holdings, and proposals that read like they were written by someone trying to cure insomnia.
"Come on," I say, rubbing my eyes. "There has to be something."
I know my father.
Not well. Not the way a daughter is supposed to.
But well enough to understand he never left anything out in the open unless he wanted it to be found.
He made a career of hiding truths behind fake smiles.
He hid me, didn't he? For twenty-five years, I was nothing but a rumor, a liability he visited behind closed doors.
If there were secrets worth killing for, they wouldn't be sitting in a folder labeled "SECRETS" waiting to be discovered. That's not how he operated.
But this, this polished collection of meaningless records and folders, it's too neat.
I shake my head as I click into another directory. Same bullshit. I rub my forehead, feeling that familiar emotion of frustration and self-loathing. Like I'm a fool for even thinking I'd find something real.
What was I thinking? That I could just waltz in here and crack some code that professional criminals couldn't? That somehow being his daughter gave me special insight?
I'm an idiot. A naive girl playing detective. Trying to matter. If my mom was here, I know exactly what she'd say.
Don't be dramatic, Athena. Men don't respect hysterics.
I slam the laptop shut, then immediately reopen it, annoyed at my own childishness.
Focus.
I dig deeper, checking system files, looking for hidden folders. Nothing.
I close out the last folder and glance at the Recycle Bin icon. I click it.
Leaning in, I can't believe what I'm seeing.
Over five hundred files appear. Deleted, but not wiped.
I organize everything alphabetically and start scanning through them. Pages of corporate jargon, receipts, travel itineraries. Mundane, until—
HSPayHim1.pdf
HSPayHim2.pdf
HSPayHim3.pdf
All the way to HSPayHim15.pdf.
I drag my mouse and click on the final file, HSPayHim15.pdf.
The document opens to a wire transfer receipt. To a Cayman Islands bank account. I read it carefully and something catches my eye.
Recipient: H. S. Holdings.
Notes: To S – installment 15. Complete.
My eyes go wide and I gasp. I read the note twice. Three times. My mind tumbles over itself trying to parse it.
S.
The same "S" Dimitri told me about. The person who pressured my father into ordering the hit that killed Dimitri's father.
I open the other files. Each one a similar transfer, varying amounts, but all substantial. All to the same recipient. All with similar notes: "To S – installment 1, 2, 3, etc."
So fifteen payments. For what? Silence? Blackmail? Compliance? Murder?
I need to know where this money went. Who "S" is.
I copy the account number. My hands are shaking as I pull up the secure terminal.
I enter my old login credentials for Spartan Holdings from my summer internships.
I'd spent most of it playing the part of the pretty distraction.
Low-cut dresses. Sweet smiles pretending not to notice the way George, the senior accounts rep, watched me.
I was hoping to learn something about my father from him. Hoping to understand who he really was under all that polished charm.
God, that was naive.
To my surprise, the system accepts my login. Apparently, no one bothered to deactivate my account.
I navigate to the financial records section and paste the account number into the search bar.
Fourteen previous payments show up, identical to the ones I found in the deleted files. Regular installments staged over the past year, totaling millions of euros.
My father was bleeding money to this "S" person. But why?
I swallow hard. That can't be it. There has to be more.
I add a second query, H. S. Holdings plus the same account number, and press enter.
The result loads. My stomach drops.
The search reveals thirty-seven transfer requests. All fulfilled within two days after my father's murder. Spread over thirteen separate accounts, all drained completely.
"What the fuck," I say.
This isn't just someone pulling strings behind the scenes. This is a predator, someone who did much more than just manipulate Cosmo.
This "S" person didn't just pressure him. They cleaned him out after he died. The same person who was behind the murder of Dimitri's father took everything my father had and erased whatever power he had left.
Which means—
"S" isn't just the architect of Dimitri and the rest of the Kastaris family's pain. He's the architect of mine too.
I'm so close to uncovering something huge. Something that could change everything between me and Dimitri. Something that could finally give me and him the answers we've been searching for.
My fingers fly across the keyboard, cross-referencing accounts, following the money trail. I'm so absorbed that I don't hear the door open.
"Find anything?"
I jolt, nearly sending the laptop flying. Dimitri leans against the doorframe. He's changed into a black t-shirt that stretches across his broad shoulders and fresh jeans that hang low on his hips. His hair is still damp from his shower, and even messy it's still somehow cute.
"Yes, I found something," I say, nodding toward the laptop. "Something big, I think."
He crosses the room in three long strides, sitting beside me on the bed.
"Show me," he says, his voice low and intense.
I turn the screen toward him.
"I found wire transfers," I say. "Fifteen of them. Labeled as installments, payments to a company called H. S. Holdings. All with the same note, 'To S, installment whatever number it was.' See," I say, showing him one of them.
His jaw flexes.
"It's got to be the same 'S' you mentioned," I continue. "The one who pressured my father. But that's not all."
I click through to the search results from my secure login, revealing the transfers after my father's death.
"Two days after he was killed, thirty-seven transfers were requested and accepted.
Thirteen accounts belonging to Cosmo were completely drained.
Whoever 'S' is, they didn't just manipulate my father, they took everything he had after he died. "
Dimitri's breathing changes, grows shallower. His eyes track the numbers on the screen, and for a brief moment, I see something like hope flash across his face. Like a man who's finally been given a life raft.
"This is exactly what we've been looking for," he says. "A paper trail."
I nod, feeling a swell of something dangerously close to pride. "I can track where the money went next. If I just—"
"Wait." Dimitri's voice hardens as his eyes narrow. The hope vanishes. "We had people look at this computer for weeks. We didn't find anything. How exactly did you discover all this so quickly? These accounts were locked."
Shit. I can see how this looks.
"I used my old login from when I interned for my father's company," I explain, feeling defensive heat rise in my face. "No one deactivated it. Lucky, I guess."
He stares at me, his expression is a storm.
For a second, I think he's going to thank me.
"Or you knew exactly where to look because you already knew what was there." He stands and takes a step back. "That can't be all. Cosmo was your father, you must know more."
The warmth from our earlier connection evaporates. My temper flares, hot and bright.
My stomach drops. "Excuse me?" I ask and slam the laptop shut. "You think I'm lying to you?"
"I think you're not telling me everything."
"I'm not hiding anything," I snap, shoving the laptop away. "Unlike you. You've been playing me since the beginning, haven't you?"
His jaw tightens. "That's not what I'm doing."
"Isn't it? You think you're the only one who's been used?
" I stand up, needing to be on equal footing.
"My entire life has been a lie. My father was a criminal who never acknowledged me publicly.
My mother killed herself because she couldn't handle living without him.
And now I find out that the person I've been blaming might actually be a victim too.
So forgive me if I'm a little upset about being accused of anything by the man who cut my dress off at knifepoint. "
Dimitri's nostrils flare. "You drugged me first. Don't play innocent now."
"I was used. By my father's memory, by my own stupid need for vengeance," I say, my voice rising. "Just like you're letting yourself be used by your own paranoia. You're so terrified to trust anyone that you'd rather believe I'm lying than accept that I might actually be helping you."
"Because help always comes with a price," he growls. "What I can't figure out is what you want from me. First you try to kill me, then you save me, then you fuck me—"
"Oh, don't flatter yourself," I say, throwing up my hands. "That was just adrenaline and opportunity."
His eyes darken dangerously. "So another performance? You're good at those. Maybe you're softening me up so you can cover your tracks. Delete evidence before I find it."
"You're unbelievable," I scoff. "All this macho attitude because you can't handle a woman who doesn't beg for your approval. Who maybe doesn't need you to save her at all."
Something shifts in Dimitri's expression, something primal and hungry.
"I can handle you just fine," he says, voice dropping.
"Whatever. Tell me now. Admit it. You don't trust me. Not for one second."
"Trust isn't a luxury I have," he snaps. "Especially with someone who drugged me and handed me over to be tortured."
"And yet here I am," I yell. "In your house. In your fucking sister's clothes. You think I'm plotting something? You think I'm going to slit your throat while you sleep?"
He doesn't answer. Just stares at me like he's already decided I'm a problem he has to solve.
For one awful moment, the silence between us feels bottomless, like there's no coming back from this. Like maybe we were always going to destroy each other.
Then he turns and walks out of the room, slamming the door so hard I think the walls shake.