Chapter One-Atlas
The Newark docks taste of salt and iron, diesel and rain.
Cranes arc like mechanical gods against the low, bruised sky as the ship nosed in, its hull swallowing the morning light.
This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. When the first sample of my wares touches American soil, and nothing can be left to chance.
I stand on the pier with my suit jacket unbuttoned, hands loose at my sides, but everything about me is tight as a wire.
Beside me, Nico Fury Jr. looks like he’s been carved from marble—broad, unreadable, the kind of man who hides violence behind polite silence.
Sammy Ramirez is all movement and energy, scanning manifests and checking faces.
Between them, Cecilia Batiste holds a tablet loaded with the legal paperwork, fingers flying as she cross-checks serials and certifications.
She’s all business, she’s tied the longer pieces of her hair back to where it’s cropped at the nape with some kind of clip.
I want to take it out of her hair. To see those pretty curls flying about in the wind all wild and proud.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I have better control than this. But still, my gaze is locked in when her inked wrist is half-revealed—a sun maybe—when she brushes a stray curl away.
She doesn’t notice me. And while it rankles, it also gives me time to just take her in.
The sight of her concentrating over the screen does something to me that I refuse to name in front of witnesses.
The skies grow darker, and the promised rain begins to fall in heavy drops.
I whisper orders to one of my men in Greek, and a moment later he holds an umbrella over her head.
She looks up, surprised.
Then her dark gaze finds me, and she nods her thanks.
I clench my jaw together, dipping my chin to acknowledge her.
The gangway clangs, and men in orange vests hustle containers into place. The first crate with my brand, Hephaestus United, stamped across the side is unlatched, and the world narrows to the metallic scent of the case and the soft click of Cecilia’s stylus on glass.
Her cousins move behind her. They stand framed a few paces back—protective, watchful.
I like that. I respect a family who respects their women, and I already know they do.
After all, it was me they sent Remy Falco to when they were testing his mettle, seeing if he was right for Andrea—Andres Ramirez’s daughter.
That was around the time our negotiations began.
Cecilia doesn’t look at her cousins. In fact, she ignores them. Just keeps on working.
I’m not sure if she realizes it, but she moves. A sidestep here. A lean there. Inch by inch, slow and steady, she’s moving closer to me.
And I like that too.
I like everything that places her right in the middle of us.
Sammy and Nico Jr. move, flanking me now, creating a space between Cecilia and me.
I frown.
Nico’s jaw tightens.
I can feel his eyes on me, heavy as an indictment.
“Keep it business and we won’t have a problem, Stavros,” he says, casual as a loaded gun.
A slow smile slides across my face—calculated, polite.
“No problem here at all. Just admiring the view,” I murmur, letting my gaze travel deliberately to the bow of the ship, then flicking back to Cecilia.
My tone is a tease, but there’s an edge to it.
What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
Not yet.
Cecilia still doesn’t look up. She reads the last line of some clause and taps her lip, cool and precise.
The tablet screen reflects in her forest green eyes—contracts, serial numbers, compliance checks—and for a second, she is all sharp lines and intellect.
Then, she slides the device toward me, pushing her cousin out of the way.
“Move, Nico,” she murmurs.
“Ouch, cuz,” he gripes.
She rolls her eyes, then holds the tablet out to me.
“Mr. Stavros?”
“Please call me Atlas.”
“Okay, Atlas,” she says, and fuck me, I really like the way my name sounds coming from her mouth.
Shit. She’s talking again, and I need to pay attention.
“The chain of custody has to be logged here. Sign, and then we can bring the first crate through customs for inspection,” she says.
I take the stylus with a finger that brushes hers. It’s a whisper of contact but enough.
Her skin is warm. She lifts her chin and meets my look—no invitation, no retreat, just a cool appraisal like a woman sizing treasure.
The cousins notice.
A ripple of guarded stares sweeps the little arena we’ve formed.
Sammy watches with a hawk’s patience. Nico’s hand hovers near his jacket, a small animal’s warning.
I sign the document on her tablet.
What difference does it make if I don’t read it? Hell, I could sign the world away with less trouble than it takes to light a cigarette and I wouldn’t think twice if it got me closer to her.
What? That’s not right. Stay focused, I tell myself.
A single crate is brought forward beneath a canopy I had my team of bodyguards erect.
Next, it’s rolled open.
The samples gleam under the dock lights—sleek, compact, lethal in a way that makes businessmen salivate and governments call midnight meetings.
Weapons technicians from Sigma International do their thing, snapping photos, running diagnostics. They make all the right noises, but I already know they will find everything more than sufficient.
Everything hums the way it should.
All the while, my gaze keeps drifting back to Cecilia—just a fraction of a second longer than professional courtesy allows.
I watch how she narrows her eyes when she doesn’t trust a number.
I watch the small way she presses the pad of her thumb against the glass before she snaps the file closed, a tiny ritual that makes me smile despite myself.
Nico steps forward, clean and blunt.
“You sure everything’s on the up? We don’t need any surprises.”
His tone is less threat than measured challenge.
I hand the tablet back when I’m finished signing everything.
“You’ll have full transparency. Chain of custody, third-party verifications. If anything?” I let the silence do the work. “You’ll know about it first.”
He eyes me and then Cecilia, suspicion and something resembling acceptance warring on his face.
Sammy chuckles under his breath, the noise like a release valve.
The techs continue their measurements, and for a few minutes business swallows the tension.
“It all looks good, Nico. I checked everything twice,” Cecilia says.
And I feel warm at the thought of her standing up for me, no matter how unnecessary.
That’s when I know the seeds are planted.
I let a fraction of my plan show. Competence, charm, patience.
I will seduce her, yes—not because she’s a prize to be captured but because I want to peel back the armor I sense beneath that cool exterior, and because getting close to her is a way to get closer to the Volkovs and the Furys.
Two birds, one blade.
Elegant, efficient.
The crate seals click shut.
The manifest is stamped.
Men shake hands, cameras snap, and the world exhales, for now.
As we step back from the bustle, Cecilia tucks a stray curl behind her ear and says, just above the dock’s roar,
“Will you be here for Sunday dinner, Mr. Stavros—I mean, Atlas? There are a few clauses I want to review and a few questions you seem determined not to answer on the record. That is, if you’re still in the city.”
Her voice is businesslike—but when it hits me?
Well, this time it sounds like more than a luncheon invitation.
“Sunday dinner? Is this a family event?”
“Weekly. We’ve got a very large extended family, and this Sunday my parents are hosting. I know they’d love for you to come.”
Disappointment slithers up my spine. I had hoped for a more personal invitation.
But this will do.
I pretend to consider it. And I can feel them, Sammy and Nico both, watching my face as if trying to read my next move. I bow my head in the smallest of acknowledgments.
“Thank you, Miss Batiste—”
“Cecilia, please.”
“Thank you, Cecilia,” I reply, savoring her name on my tongue. “I’ll be there.”
And as the ship’s gangway retracts and the container yard resumes its grinding rhythm, I let a tiny, private smile slip.
The sample passed its tests.
The deal is intact.
And the most dangerous line item on my agenda—Cecilia Batiste—has not yet realized she’s part of my strategy.
There’s work to be done.
Seduction is a tool.
So is patience.
And I plan to wield both.