Chapter Thirty-One-Dimitri
The Little Prince.
Atlas James.
My sniveling, soft-hearted, half-breed nephew.
That brat actually thinks he can stop me? Take back what was always meant to be mine?
He knows nothing of legacy.
Nothing of power.
Nothing of what it means to be a true Stavros.
My stupid brother—may he rot—was supposed to die years earlier, and the crown’s legacy, the business, the wealth, the respect of the people—all of it should’ve fallen to me.
But of course the man had to go and cling to life long enough to sire a son with that American whore.
And then—of course—he refused to die properly.
So, I planted the seeds.
I manipulated the field.
I whispered to every minister, every business partner, every journalist who still bowed to the shadow of a monarchy Greece claimed it didn’t want.
And I sent that inconvenient child away.
Atlas Stavros didn’t grow up on the islands receiving the adoration of the people.
I did.
And I soaked in it like wine.
I vacationed in the best villas, dined at the best tables, traveled like a beloved king-in-exile.
The people of Europe? So many of them worship an exiled monarchy.
And they worshiped me.
Until Atlas returned.
Self-righteous.
Educated.
Smart.
Dangerous.
Just like his father, except with a sharper mind and a colder heart.
And now, that little bastard thinks he can usurp me?
Thinks he can swoop in and reclaim what should have been mine from the beginning?
No. No, no, no.
I built this life.
I earned this power.
And I will rip out his heart before I ever let him take it back.
“W-what do I have to do with any of this?” comes a trembling voice behind me.
“Have I been monologuing?” I laugh as I take her in.
His wife.
His American wife.
I turn.
She’s beautiful in a flashy, overripe way. All curves and fire and tattoos. Too bold for a Greek princess.
Too wild. Too modern.
“So, he actually married you to save a mine? Ha!”
I smile slowly.
“That’s right. I-I mean nothing to him.”
“I think you lie.”
And now I see it.
I glance down.
“The Stavros ring. Sentimental fool,” I growl, and rip it from her finger.
She cries out, blood drips from her hand, and I glare at the ring my mother should have worn.
“He gave his American whore the Stavros ring!”
She is it. I am right. The one flaw in Atlas’ armor.
The one soft place in that otherwise iron spine.
Cecilia Stavros.
“I think the Little Prince actually cares for you. Now, what was it you asked? What do you have to do with it? The answer is simple, my dear. Everything,” I purr, stepping closer so she can feel the weight of my gaze like a blade on her throat.
Her chin trembles. She tries to step back, but the men behind her hold her tight.
Good.
That fear—it’s delicious.
“You’re wrong. He feels nothing for me. I have nothing to do with any of this!” she repeats, trying to sound brave. Failing beautifully.
I lean in, close enough that she can smell the imported cologne she has never earned the right to wear.
“Liar, liar. The prince cares about you,” I whisper. “Which means you will be the first to suffer.”
Her breath stutters.
Ah. Lovely.
“But don’t worry,” I add softly. “I won’t kill you.”
Her eyes widen—hope flickering like a candle.
I smile wider.
“No. I want him alive long enough to watch what I do to you.”
Her scream is muffled by the hand clamping over her mouth.
And I savor the moment, before leaving her tied to a chair in the dark with blood trickling from her nose.
I know he’ll come for her.
And when he does, I’ll be ready.