Chapter Twenty-Nine-Remy
Fucking Stavros.
The Greek prince is a goddamn troublemaker.
From the moment we left Athens, it’s been one detour after another—parties in Paris, rooftops in Rome, private islands crawling with paparazzi, hangers-on, and half-naked chicks throwing themselves around like it’s the only language they know.
I was supposed to be on my way back to Jersey.
Back to Andy.
Back to Callie.
Back to my family.
Instead, I’m babysitting a spoiled royal who thinks the world spins on his gold-plated cock.
The jet smells like cigars and spilled champagne when I walk into the lounge.
When we land, it’s worse. Every fucking place seems to have a hot tub built right in the middle of wherever the fuck we are—indoors, outdoors, doesn’t matter.
It’s all bubbles, liquor, steam, and skin—stuffed full of women in little more than glitter and a smile.
Their laughter is high-pitched, hungry.
They paw at the air the second they see me.
And I couldn’t be more disgusted.
Or more fucking angry.
“Are you sure you won’t partake?” Stavros asks, swirling a crystal glass of amber liquid like some kind of smug Greek god come to life.
His accent is smooth, his tone playful—but his eyes are sharp.
Testing. Always testing.
Just another fucking game I’m forced to play.
I stand there, hands in my pockets, jaw tight.
“Sir, I’m a married man. And there is no one in this world who could tempt me away from my wife.”
My voice is flat. Absolute. Because it’s the truth.
Andy is it.
Her laugh. Her eyes. Her curves.
The way she looks at Callie like she’s already hers.
That’s my world.
That’s my home.
These women are all knockouts to someone I imagine—just not to me.
Their silicone assets, spray-tanned skin, fake lashes, and extensions don’t mean a goddamn thing.
It’s plastic. Artificial. Hollow.
I like my curves real.
I like my women with fire in their eyes and thorns under their silk.
Confident. Intelligent. Feisty.
Fuck me, I like Andy. Period.
No one else will ever do.
They giggle when I brush past them, whispering to each other like I’m the freak here—like they’re not used to rejection.
One of them shoves a lollipop in her mouth, sucking it slow and obscene, the invitation clear as neon.
I don’t give her a second glance.
Because the truth is? I’m hanging on to my temper by a thread.
This island Stavros dragged me to is remote, cut off from everything except the static-choked sat phone, and Andy hasn’t answered my last three calls.
It’s been almost a week of this bullshit parade of yachts, cocktails, and half-naked distractions.
Six days since I heard her voice.
Six days of pretending I give a fuck about this assignment when all I want is to know if my wife, my daughter, my babies are alright.
My gut twists, my fists clench, my whole body hums with restless energy.
I need to leave. Now.
So, I go hunting for Stavros.
And when I find him, it’s not at a poker table or by some overstuffed poolside cabana—it’s by the docks.
By a ship being loaded with what I suspect are weapons. The kind Sigma uses. The kind I only just found out Stavros manufactures.
And I begin to understand the nature of this man’s business with my bosses.
He’s in the middle of giving clipped orders to his men, bags already packed, movements sharp and decisive.
He’s not drunk, not distracted. He’s alert. Aware.
And the second I step into range, he stills.
Like he knows.
Like some sixth sense tells him I’m there even before I let my presence be known.
Interesting.
He turns, slowly, and those aristocratic lips twitch into something that might almost be respect.
It’s day six of this charade, and I’m ready to explode—ready to throw every one of his “tests” back in his face—but Stavros just raises his hands in a gesture of peace.
And finally, finally, he calls it.
“It’s enough,” he says. “You passed.”
My jaw works, but I don’t say what’s burning through my chest—that this was never a test I needed to take.
My loyalty to my wife and family isn’t some performance for him.
It’s my fucking life.
But I don’t break the silence.
Not yet.
Then, he smirks.
Cocky motherfucker.
“You did good, Falco,” he says, back straight.
“I did good? What was this all some fucking test of my character? Well, fuck you, Stavros,” I snarl.
“It was not my test.”
Then I get it. This was them.
Andy’s family.
The Volkov Clan.
Trying to see if I was good enough for one of their daughters.
I got news for them, I might have passed but I know I’m not good enough. Hell, no one is good enough for Andy.
She’s a fucking queen. But I’m the man who will spend my whole life trying to get it right.
Who else can say that? No one.
Because if they did? I’d take them the fuck out.
I might not be a good man, but Andy is mine.
“You performed exactly as Callahan said you would do. Otherwise, I was to shoot you in the head.”
My eyebrows lift a fraction.
Not shock, not really.
More confirmation that this whole thing was a fucking game.
I roll my shoulders.
“Glad I passed.”
He dips his head in a mock bow, eyes glinting.
“Loyalty and honor are important to me, Mr. Falco. I believe I will enjoy working with your bosses. Now, are we ready to depart?”
The staff hustles about. Boxes and suitcases are stored.
And me?
I’m already turned around, heading for the jet.
Because I’ve got a wife to get home to—and no prince, no party, no test in the fucking world is going to keep me from her any longer.