Prologue Two-Atlas
It's the middle of winter, and New York smells like rain and ambition.
Two things I understand all too well.
I grew up in Connecticut—old money, old manners, old expectations.
My mother’s side raised me after my father’s disgrace, grooming me to take my place among the quiet elite.
NYU educated me. Columbia polished me. Europe spoiled me.
And the last ten years have forged me into something else entirely.
Not a whiny ex-royal. Not a tabloid headline.
But a man who takes what he wants.
Summers and holidays spent in Greece and Monaco taught me how the powerful move—how they smile when they strike, how they kill with contracts instead of bullets.
I learned early in life that bloodlines only open doors—you still have to walk through them yourself.
So I did.
I clawed my way through every threshold those doors led to, and I never forgot who slammed them in my father’s face.
My father was a good man.
Brilliant.
Na?ve.
He believed that loyalty meant something, that a man’s word was his bond.
The world he operated in—the world of Wolves, Vipers, and shadow kings—ate men like him alive.
He got fucked more times than I care to admit, and what little fortune my family might have earned, he lost to those men with sharper teeth and colder blood.
But really, it was all over for him when my mother died. I can no longer recall her voice or a clear image of her face. I have photos somewhere. But I don’t suppose that’s the same.
Sentimentality has no place in my world.
Isn’t that what made my father weak?
Isn’t that why those Wolves and Vipers took advantage of him?
Anger at the men who betrayed his trust fills me, but soon, it’ll be over. I’ll have my vengeance.
My father’s half-brother—technically my uncle, but I call him Dimitri, a fact he hates—loves to remind me that he’s the one who paid for my education.
That I’d have been nothing without him.
He’s wrong, of course.
The second I was able, I paid him back—with interest.
I may be descended from an abolished monarchy, a relic of a bloodline that used to mean something, but all that’s worth now is a name that looks good on paper and sounds expensive on an invitation.
It opens doors.
Nothing more.
The rest? I built myself.
Me. Alone.
I worked my ass off at the private boarding school in Connecticut where I spent most of my youth.
The Greek accent I grew up with? Recited out of me by relentless tutors.
My rough manners? Transformed through tedious lessons and honed into a weapon sharper than any knife.
Then came NYU for business, Columbia for finance, and classes at Oxford for diplomacy.
Every degree another weapon.
Every handshake, another battle.
I wasn’t chasing prestige.
I was chasing power.
I wanted the fortune that should have been mine. The legacy that my father died chasing.
And now—now, when I open my portfolio, I see eight zeros across multiple accounts.
But money isn’t the prize.
It’s the leverage.
And I know exactly how to use it.
My empire was born in the chaos of conflict—built on aerospace, weapons tech, high-level defense systems.
Not the kind of weapons you sell to desperate militias.
The kind nations salivate over.
The kind corporations like Viper Enterprises and Sigma International Security can turn into billions overnight.
Drones that fly invisible to radar.
Exo-suits that make a man unstoppable.
Precision tools of war, built not just to destroy—but to dominate.
Power. That’s what I’m selling now.
That’s what makes men kneel.
And that’s why I’m here.
Back in America. On the East Coast.
Among the Wolves and Vipers, shaking hands with polished criminals who smile for cameras while they bleed each other dry in the dark.
To make a deal.
To expand.
And most importantly—to settle an old debt.
Because before he died, my father made me promise one thing.
“Make them pay, Atlas.”
And I will.
The Volkovs.
The Furys.
The Batiste family, who slithered into power beside them.
Every single one who profited off my father’s ruin.
They built their empires on the ashes of his failure.
They buried his name.
They took what was his—and made it theirs.
Now? I’m here to dig it up again.
To unearth every secret, every dirty deal, every weakness they’ve hidden under marble and silk.
And if I have to use one of their own to do it—a certain dark-eyed lawyer with fire in her veins and rebellion in her smile—then so be it.
Because Cecilia Batiste doesn’t just tempt me.
She’s the key.
The perfect crack in their foundation.
I decided on it the first second I saw her.
And I intend to make her mine—in every possible way.
The glass doors of the Viper Enterprises boardroom hiss open, and I walk inside.
It’s all power and precision—sleek marble, chrome fixtures, and a panoramic view of the skyline that screams money.
The men in suits at the table turn to greet me, some respectful, some calculating.
And then, there she is.
Her.
The name barely does her justice.
She’s standing at the far end of the conference table, surrounded by papers and men old enough to be her father—and yet she owns the room so thoroughly they look like interns waiting for permission to breathe.
Five foot ten of dangerous beauty, wrapped in tailored power and quiet, lethal confidence.
My eyes barely land on her before my body betrays me—my dick hardens instantly, violently, like it’s been waiting for her its entire useless life.
Her hair catches the light—tight, luminous curls brushing the elegant line of her neck, some falling forward in thick, tousled waves that frame her face.
It’s modern, bold. A perfect blend of punk rock edge and high-fashion precision.
I like it.
Fuck, I like it a lot.
Want to see it wrapped around my wrist while I feed her my cock.
Her lips—painted a sinful shade of red—curve into something wicked. Half smirk, half challenge.
The kind of expression that says she knows exactly who she is and exactly what she does to men.
Then her eyes find mine.
Impossibly dark. Bottomless.
But not black like I thought. They’re green, like the forest.
Like the darkest of emeralds mined from the deepest of caverns.
And the second they lock on me, something sparks—sharp and hot—catching in my chest like fire meeting dry tinder.
“Mr. Stavros,” she says, her voice smooth silk drawn over steel.
Controlled. Dangerous. Tempting in ways that feel entirely inappropriate for an international arms negotiation.
“Welcome to Viper Enterprises. I’m Cecilia Batiste.”
I already know her name.
Of course I do.
I’ve done my research—exhaustive, thorough, precise.
She is the daughter of Luc Batiste, the man who is the Council of this empire.
Venom in his veins, vision in his bones.
The kind of man you don’t shake hands with unless you’re ready to bleed for the alliance.
My blood may be blue—technically—but that’s an old family relic I use only when necessary.
To unlock certain doors.
And impress certain women.
Fairytales and fantasies.
The whole “prince” thing tends to get me whatever I want.
Every woman wants to fuck a prince, don’t they?
But Cecilia?
No.
The second she looks at me, I know—instantly—she’s not part of that category.
She’s not impressed.
She’s not charmed.
She’s not dazzled by legacy, or wealth, or titles.
She’s studying me.
Analyzing.
Calculating.
Testing my temperature like she’s deciding if I’m an ally, an asset, or something she needs to bury.
I expected arrogance.
Entitlement.
Maybe cold detachment.
Instead, she’s fire.
Controlled. Contained. Deliciously dangerous.
She steps toward me, extending her hand. That smirk curves deeper, like she wants to see if I can handle touching her without combusting.
Her handshake is firm. Confident. No hesitation.
Her perfume—spiced citrus with something darker underneath, something sexual, something sinful—wraps around me and digs its nails into the base of my spine.
I catch a flash of ink when her sleeve shifts.
Something coiling along her wrist.
A warning.
A promise.
A dare.
A snake?
A symbol?
A secret?
I don’t know yet.
But what I do know—what hits me with the force of a fist—is that I fully intend to find out.
And not just about the tattoos.
About every damn inch of her.
“Ms. Batiste,” I say, letting my voice drag a little over her name. “I’ve heard impressive things about you.”
Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.
“I’m sure you’ve heard worse things about my father.”
“I make it a rule to form my own opinions,” I murmur, watching her reaction closely.
She’s sharp. And she wields her control like a weapon.
I wonder how she’ll be in bed. Bossy? Submissive?
I can’t wait to find out.
The faint flush in her neck tells me she’s not immune. She’s curious, too.
Good.
If I’m going to bring this empire to its knees, it might as well start with the daughter.
Still, there’s a small, treacherous part of me that doesn’t give a damn about revenge when she leans over the table to pass me a contract and I catch the curve of her hips, the way her cropped blouse rides up her sides, and the whisper of ink disappearing below her waistband.
Focus, Stavros.
You’re here for blood, not pleasure.
But maybe if I’m lucky I’ll have both
But as she straightens and our eyes meet again, I already know—this deal might cost me far more than I ever planned to gain.