Chapter Two-Cecilia
A week of meetings on the dock.
A week.
Of watching crates get unloaded, scanned, reloaded, reshuffled, reweighed.
Of container numbers, inspection logs, and God-awful union coffee that tastes like burnt cardboard and regret.
And I swear—if I never see another metal shipping container again, it’ll be too damn soon.
But this deal?
This is mine.
My shot.
My moment.
My chance to finally be seen as an equal at the table full of moguls and legends I was born orbiting like some well-groomed moon.
Yeah, I’m family.
But don’t get it twisted—Volkovs and Furys don’t do nepotism.
Everyone works.
Or they’re out.
Simple.
I earned my spot.
I worked my ass off for that spot.
But I’m not blind—I know it’s different for me.
I’m the only child at home.
The only daughter of Luc Batiste, the Council, the man who has more enemies than the CIA and more secrets than the Vatican.
My parents would’ve wrapped me in silk and locked me inside a sanitized ivory tower if they thought they could get away with it.
Safe.
Sheltered.
Smiling for the right pictures.
Not happening.
Not in this lifetime.
So yes—I have a tendency to rebel.
Call it survival.
Call it wanting to breathe.
Call it inherited stubbornness.
But this?
This isn’t rebellion.
This is work.
This is purpose.
I am the lead attorney on the Hephaestus United and Viper Enterprises deal, with Volkov Industries and Sigma International as silent partners.
Me.
Cecilia Batiste.
And I will see this through to the end—even if it kills me or permanently freezes my ass to this dock.
So if that means standing out here every day in the middle of winter, wind slicing through my coat like I’m wearing tissue paper, then I’ll do it.
I have been doing it.
Most days Atlas meets me here.
Sometimes we talk.
Sometimes we stand shoulder to shoulder, staring at cargo like two people pretending they aren’t thinking about ripping each other’s clothes off.
He was here earlier.
Leaning against a container like he owns gravity.
Looking at me like he’s studying the weaknesses in my armor.
Then he disappeared.
Or I guess I didn’t see him leave.
Not unusual.
Not alarming.
Lawyers are always the last ones around.
We’re the ones double-checking signatures, verifying cargo manifests, making sure the world doesn’t implode because some intern put a decimal in the wrong place.
Numbers are the devil.
I stand by that statement.
Anyway.
It’s late.
The sky is one shade away from pitch black.
The docks are almost empty—quiet except for the hum of the cranes settling into their sleep cycle.
And I’m still here.
“Cece, you good?” Nico asks for the seventh time in an hour.
Before I can answer, Sammy chimes in, “You sure you don’t want us sticking around? Just in case—”
I snap.
“Oh my fucking God—if you two don’t get out of here, I’m calling both your wives and telling them you had lunch at the strip club on Tonnollee Avenue.”
Sammy freezes, gum halfway to his mouth.
“What the hell, Cece?”
“That’s cold, cuz,” Nico says, laughing like the menace he is.
He leans down and kisses the top of my head—annoyingly big brother–coded even though we’re the same damn age.
“You’re mean when you’re stressed, you know that?”
“Then leave before I get meaner,” I warn, narrowing my eyes in the exact way Abuela taught us.
“That’s our cue,” he tells Sammy, dragging him toward the exit.
But not before he turns back and says something over his shoulder, voice low enough that I can’t quite make it out—then the hair on the back of my neck rises.
I’m no longer alone.
He didn’t leave after all.
Atlas is somewhere behind me.
Watching.
Waiting.
Pulling at me with that quiet gravity he pretends he doesn’t wield.
And God help me—I feel it.
Atlas James Stavros.
The so-called prince of nowhere, all polished arrogance and quiet danger.
I keep my eyes on my paperwork, pretending I don’t feel his gaze like a touch.
Pretending I’m not aware of every move he makes—the way he stands too still, too controlled, the way his presence feels like gravity, pulling everything toward him.
God help me, I’ve got absolutely zero room for that man in my life.
And yet he’s been living rent free in my head for weeks.
Ever since the first time I saw him.
You can’t blame me. The man is fine.
Movie star good looks, but too dangerous to be harmless. That dark, glossy hair that always looks finger-tousled instead of styled, olive skin that looks like it was kissed by Mediterranean sun, light brown eyes that go molten when they catch the light.
And his mouth?
Fuck.
Don’t even get me started on that mouth. I’m talking full, plump lips over straight, bright white teeth. It’s only enhanced by his permanent five o’clock shadow.
He’s tall too, the kind of tall that makes you wonder what it would feel like to stand chest to chest with him, to tilt your chin up just to meet his eyes.
His suits look custom, and you can tell he knows how to fill them out.
Broad shoulders.
Thick, long legs.
That confident, quiet power some men are born with, and most men try to fake.
My panties are instantly wet every time I look at him, and it’s—well, it’s infuriating.
Focus, Cece.
The docks are quieter now, the smell of salt and diesel thick in the air, clinging to my skin like cheap cologne.
The cargo’s been catalogued. The contracts signed.
Everyone else has gone to celebrate their respective victories.
All except me.
I’m still double-checking manifests and making notes for the compliance team when the wind whips off the water and sends a shiver racing up my spine.
I glance up and realize the sun’s completely gone. It’s just me, the cranes, and a few dockhands heading toward the parking lot.
My heels click across the asphalt as I make my way to my car.
I’m exhausted, hungry, and absolutely done with men for the day.
Which is why, when a tall, broad-shouldered dockworker falls into step beside me, my patience is already hanging by a thread.
“Long day, sweetheart?” he drawls.
I don’t answer.
I just unlock my car and keep walking.
He laughs.
“Hey, I’m just being friendly. Don’t be like that.”
Still no answer. I’m not here to make friends.
But he doesn’t get the message.
He steps closer, invading my space, his breath hot and sour as he leans toward my ear.
“Oh, you need it bad, baby. Come take a walk on the wild side. Or am I too poor for you, princess?”
I stop dead.
Turn slowly.
And give him the kind of look that’s made grown men in this business fold like bad poker hands.
“You’re going to want to leave me alone,” I say evenly.
He grins. “What, you prefer pussy? Dick don’t do it for you?”
“Last warning, chief.”
But he doesn’t listen. Of course he doesn’t.
He takes another step toward me—and then he’s gone.
Before I can knee him in the groin. Or demand his ID so I can have his sorry ass fired.
And it happens so fast I almost miss it.
A blur of motion, a flash of dark fabric, and suddenly the guy’s spinning around like he’s been caught by a hurricane.
When he lands on his ass, I finally see who’s responsible.
Atlas.
His perfect composure is gone.
His usually immaculate shirt is open at the collar, his sleeves rolled up, his eyes glowing like molten gold.
He’s all tension and danger, an avenging god in a three-piece suit.
He stalks forward, grabs the dockworker by the front of his shirt, and hauls him up like he weighs nothing. “Apologize,” he says, voice like thunder.
The guy sputters, eyes wide. “I—uh—”
Atlas doesn’t wait.
His fist connects with the man’s jaw in a clean, brutal strike that echoes through the empty dockyard.
The worker crumples again, out cold this time.
“Forget it. You’re not good enough to even speak to her. Get rid of him,” Atlas says the last to one of his men, who’s materialized out of nowhere like they always do.
The guy nods once and drags the limp body away into the shadows.
Atlas turns back to me, expression softening just enough to make my stomach twist.
“Are you okay, kardhoúla?”
I know that word. It’s Greek.
Uncle Angel speaks it sometimes, mostly to his wife, my Aunt Sisi.
She’s kind of who I’m named after, though it’s my nickname. And it’s spelled differently, even though it’s pronounced the same.
My Cece to her Sisi.
Anyway, I know I should be mad.
He just punched a man half to death on my behalf. I’m a lawyer, I know the power of words over brawn.
But instead of angry, I’m breathless.
“I’m fine,” I manage.
“Good.” His mouth curves into a slow, arrogant grin. “But I’d feel a lot better if you let me make sure. Over dinner.”
And before I can even think of saying no, the bastard leans over, opens the drivers’ side door.
Then, he walks right past me, opens the passenger-side door of my car, and settles in like he owns the place.
Like letting me drive doesn’t bother him one bit.
And somehow, that—more than the punch, more than the possessive Greek endearment, more than the way his muscles flexed under the dim dock lights—is what does me in.
Because a man like Atlas Stavros, a man who could command a room full of killers with a glance, doesn’t mind letting me lead.
And that might be the sexiest thing of all.
I get in and turn in my seat to look at him.
“Why were you still here?”
“Because a woman like you shouldn’t be here alone unaccompanied. Not this late, kardhoúla,” he says from beside me, his voice low, deep—velvet and smoke.
“I can take care of myself,” I reply.
“I don’t doubt that,” he murmurs, closer now. “But you shouldn’t have to.”
It shouldn’t sound like a promise, but somehow it does.
He’s sitting there in his tailored suit, tie loose, shirt collar open just enough to show the strong line of his throat. His eyes sweep over me once—slowly, deliberately—before meeting mine.
“Are you done now, Counselor?” he asks, mouth curving into that sinful, knowing smirk that makes my stomach twist in ways I don’t like to think about.
“Almost,” I manage. “But don’t you have some intimate dinner planned already or something?”
“Dinner yes. The level of intimacy depends entirely on the lady,” he says, voice darkly amused.
And I hate that a part of me wants him to mean it.
This man is danger wrapped in silk.
A storm wearing a tailored suit.
And I know I should tell him to get out of my car. I should insist and then drive away.
But instead, I take one last slow breath of the night air and tell myself a lie I almost believe—that I’m not already in trouble.