Chapter 3
NIKO
My father, the great Stavros Petrou, doesn't acknowledge me.
Hasn't for the past ten minutes. He scrolls through some reports on his tablet, occasionally making notes.
The glow of his desk lamp gives him the appearance of a man touched by divinity rather than what he truly is, an aging predator with teeth still sharp enough to tear his enemies apart.
I clear my throat. Not out of nervousness, but timing. You learn to count the seconds with my father. Interrupt too soon, you're impatient. Too late, you're wasting his time.
"I was thinking of flying to Chicago next week. For the Kastaris thing," I say.
Silence.
He keeps scrolling.
"For Vasilis. It's a birthday remembrance thing. We should attend."
"No."
I lean forward in my chair. "It would be seen as a sign of respect."
"Vasilis is dead," he says flatly, marking something on his tablet. "And dead men don't negotiate."
I flex my jaw and wait. I've learned not to challenge him too fast. It never ends well. He's the kind of man who considers kindness a disease and respect a weakness.
Still, I press. "It would be a show of loyalty. We sat at that man's table for years. You did business with him. We're friends. The family has always—"
"The family," Stavros cuts in, finally looking up, "has always been a collection of overblown reputations and mediocre tactics dressed up in expensive suits.
" He sets his tablet down. "I gave them your cousin, Katerina.
I held the ports when they needed. Done their bidding when necessary.
We're all just tolerable temporary allies anyhow.
Do you really think Ares Kastaris wants to see us there? "
I keep my face neutral. "We had a long-standing relationship with them."
"We had business with them," he corrects sharply. "The kind that shifts with markets and opportunities." He leans back. "You still think like a child playing at being a man."
I feel the first crack in my composure but seal it immediately.
"All the more reason to maintain connections," I say. "The Kastaris territory is worth—"
"Worth what?" Stavros stands now, walking around the desk, and I stand.
He's shorter than me by two inches, but he still manages to look down on me.
A skill he's perfected. "You think if you show up in your nice suit and smile at their family, they'll what?
Offer you a seat at the table? Give you a discount on product routes?
I gave them Katerina and they didn't offer shit. "
He shakes his head and walks over to a box of cigars.
"This is why I worry about your readiness, Nikolaos. You mistake sentimentality for strategy. If Vasilis were alive, he'd respect a man who knows business is business." He stops to light a cigar and takes a large puff. "But he'd laugh at a boy who confuses manners with power."
I stand stiff, but inside, I'm on fire.
This isn't new. This pattern of suggesting things we should do and receiving contempt instead is as familiar as breathing. He doesn't yell. That would imply I mattered. He just cuts the air thinner until I can't breathe.
"Well, I haven't seen them in some time. So I think I'll attend."
"Go if you want to waste your time," he says, dismissing me with a wave. "But don't pretend it's strategy. It's weakness dressed as diplomacy."
I turn to walk away.
"And Nikolaos?"
I pause at the door.
"Try not to embarrass me if you go."
I shut the door and walk down the hall.
That's my father. The biggest fucking asshole I know.
Either way, I'll continue to do what I think is best. He'll die one day, hopefully one day soon, and things will be done my way.
"Claudia," I call to my assistant.
"Yes, sir."
"Book the private plane to Chicago. I leave in three days."
Tonight, the Kastaris hotel is turned into a fortress. Security is tight. Men in dark suits with earpieces, cameras hidden in architectural features. I pass through the checkpoints with surprising ease. My cousin is part of the family after all.
The ballroom is decorated nicely and full of people.
I head right to the bar and order a drink. As I look around, I start to recognize people from other families and I can't help but see them all as wolves in black suits.
I lean against the bar and take a drink. Shit, half the people here want something. The other half want to survive.
As for me, I'm not sure what I want, not yet anyway, but one could always use something the Kastaris family has.
I scan the room, looking for my options to connect, negotiate with, or trade, and then I see her.
Calli Kastaris. The untouchable sister.
Well what if she's not so untouchable. I never considered her to be my connection but maybe it's time I reintroduce myself to someone I haven’t seen in a decade. I'm sure my father would be thoroughly annoyed but he doesn't have to know.
She's in a black dress with red lips. A slit up the thigh that could look suggestive on anyone else, but on her? It's elegance.
Her brown hair is loose, cascading past her shoulders. She wears a pretty smile and moves with grace. She laughs at something a guest says. Her hand brushes someone's arm. She nods graciously, perfectly poised.
My God, how does someone change so much in ten years?
I shouldn't watch her. But I do. I can't help it.
She doesn't see me.
Not yet.
I don't drink. I just hold the glass and watch her move through the crowd. How she tilts her head when listening. How her smile never quite leaves her face. How her eyes make it all seem so genuine.
If I knew any better, I'd set my drink down and walk away. But she won't let me.
There's something about her that pulls at me. Something familiar and foreign at once. Not just primal desire. I've felt that before. This is something different.
I must go from one end of the room to the other, ignoring everything else around me.
A woman with fiery red hair approaches her. The Kill brothers' sister, I think, but I forget her name.
They speak, heads close together, intimate and conspiratorial. Then both glance in my direction, and Calli's eyes land on me.
I don't look away. I meet her gaze directly.
There's a flicker of something in her eyes.
I smile. So does she.
We stare at one another, for what some might say is too long, but I say not long enough, before someone calls her name and she's pulled away into the crowd again.
I may have come because I thought it was the right thing to do, to play politics.
But now, I think I want to stay for her.
I move to follow her, but a familiar voice calls out.
"Didn't think we'd see a Petrou here."
I turn to find Theo Kastaris standing a few feet away, one hand in his pocket the other with a drink in hand, eyes like ice picks.
I deal most with the Kastaris brothers. Ares and Theo, mostly. And while our fathers were that old-school mafia family type. Appear friendly, tolerant, host parties together, appear united and respectable and all that shit. The future generations, us, didn't see much need for that.
We wanted to keep business, friends, and family separate.
We were friendly because it benefited us financially.
We didn't have to play or appear nice, just get what our family was after.
And as long as that worked, then we worked.
And the moment it didn't, a hitman would appear and end things the way we do.
With that, it comes as no surprise the Kastaris brothers didn't care for me. Just dealt with me because of what my family offered in Greece. And to be honest, the feeling was mutual.
I nod. "Didn't think you'd let me in," I reply, matching his tone.
Theo doesn't blink.
"Didn't say I did," he says, coming up to me. "Another," he says to the bartender.
"So," he says, turning back to me, "your father send you with a message, I assume?"
"Just paying respects, Theo," I say. "Your father was a great man."
Theo's jaw tightens. "Spare me the eulogy. If you're here to play games, pick another playground."
He doesn't wait for a response. Just turns and walks away, disappearing into the sea of black suits and dresses.
If anything can be taken from his words, it's that I'm now being watched.
Fuck it. They won't see what I'm really doing.
After the next few hours, I stay in the shadows nursing the same whiskey, watching her. She moves from group to group, never staying long. Always in motion.
She smiles at the right moments. Nods sympathetically. Touches arms and shoulders. Perfect social choreography.
She laughs again, this time at something a man says. He's older. Wearing a wedding ring. Probably harmless. Still, I find myself stepping closer.
Not enough to be noticed.
Just close enough to hear her voice.
She doesn't know I'm there. She doesn't need to.
Because I'm already watching, noticing things others might miss.
Observing the way her fingers curl around her glass.
The way her eyes flick between faces like she's recalling names of allies without trying.
Or the tension in her shoulders. The way her eyes scan the room when she thinks no one's looking.
The slight hesitation before she joins each new conversation.
I feel something crawl beneath my skin when another man leans in too close.
I step into view.
She sees me.
The man stiffens. He makes an excuse and disappears into the crowd.
"You always clear rooms without trying?" she asks.
If her looks weren't enough, her voice seals it. Beautiful and inviting, like what sailors claimed Sirens sounded like, luring them to their deaths.
We banter. She pushes back. She's not afraid of me.
That only makes it worse.
"I can't," she says when I ask for a drink. "I'm flying to Boston in the morning with Keira, and then to Ireland the day after. Her family has a cottage there."
Ireland.
She says it like a secret.
Like a challenge.
"Then maybe I'll meet you there. For that drink," I say.
She doesn't believe me.
But I mean it.
I hand her the napkin with my number. My fingers linger, and I know, whatever it is, she feels it too.
She'll text me.
Even if she doesn't think she will.
She doesn't need another guardian like her brothers suffocating her gates. She needs someone who sees there is more to her. Someone that cares about what is underneath the facade.
Someone like me.
And as I walk away, I realize her texting me doesn't matter.
I'm going to Ireland.
For the drink. For the girl.
And maybe, for myself.
Fuck what her brothers or my dad might think about it.