Chapter Thirty-Three-Cecilia
My face stings where Atlas’ demented uncle, Dimitri Stavros, hit me.
It’s a hot, throbbing burn beneath the skin, radiating down my jaw and into my neck.
I taste blood—metallic, sharp—as it slips from my split lip and mixes with the blood already running from my nose.
He hit me several times.
With a balled-up fist.
Like a fucking coward.
And I’m angry. So damn angry.
I’ve waited my whole life to find someone like Atlas. To be loved like he loves me. And if this asshole thinks he’s going to take that from me without even a fight—well, I’m about to prove him wrong.
I never did like sitting still and looking pretty.
“You fucking coward,” I spit, even though my voice cracks.
His eyes—wild, unfocused—snap to mine.
“What did you say?” he shrieks, spit flying from the corner of his mouth.
“You heard me.” I grit my teeth and lift my chin even though my hands are strapped painfully behind my back, cutting off circulation.
“What kind of man ties up a woman just so he can hit her? Oh—that’s right. You’re not a man. You’re a pathetic old drunk with delusions of grandeur.”
The room goes silent.
His men shift uneasily.
They aren’t sure if they should intervene or run.
Good.
Let them all see what a monster he is.
But also—if I’m lucky, he’ll get cocky.
Untie me.
Make a mistake.
I didn’t take years of MMA for nothing.
He’s bigger, stronger, and mean. But he’s also old, out of shape, and his hand trembles every time he raises it.
I could take him.
God, I want to take him.
But right now? I’m strapped to a damn chair in what looks like a storage office—concrete floors, cheap curtains, dust everywhere, and the stink of old cigars seeped into the wallpaper like mildew.
I swallow.
The fear is there, crawling under my skin like fire ants.
But so is the rage.
Dimitri circles me like a vulture. His breath hits my cheek—whiskey and body odor.
He mutters to himself, switching between English and Greek, half of it unintelligible. His sweat drips onto my shoulder as he paces.
“Ungrateful,” he snarls at no one. “After everything I’ve done for that little bastard, he thinks he can replace me? Take what’s mine? My company. My inheritance. My name.”
He’s spiraling.
It’s like watching a storm collapse in on itself—violent, chaotic, unstoppable.
One of the guards—tall, nervous, younger than me even—says something in Greek, pointing toward a window like he’s suggesting they should move me.
Dimitri wheels on him.
“Oplo. TóRA!” he shrieks.
The guard falters. His gaze flicks to me, then back to Dimitri. His Adam’s apple bobs hard. He doesn’t want to give up the weapon.
Then Dimitri backhands him so hard the kid stumbles into the wall.
“TóRA!”
The second scream rattles the windowpanes.
The young guard shakes but finally hands over the gun.
Dimitri snatches it like it’s a trophy he’s earned through rage alone. He waves it wildly as he stalks back toward me.
“Oh fantastic,” I mutter under my breath. “Give the unhinged drunk a firearm. Genius-level thinking there, guys.”
One of the men actually winces.
Good. They should be afraid.
Dimitri presses the barrel of the gun under my chin so hard the cold metal digs into my skin.
“Do you know what he did to me?” he rasps.
“Let me guess,” I whisper. “He existed.”
His face twists.
“Everything should have been mine. Everything. I was the eldest. I was the one meant to inherit. But your pretty little prince? His whore mother ruined everything. He ruined everything just by being born.”
The bile rises in my throat—not because of his words, but because of the hatred burning behind them.
It’s bottomless. Sick. Consuming.
“You’re going to be the first to suffer,” he says, voice low, deadly calm now. “The first piece he loses. The first thing I break. Because that boy—”
He lowers himself until we’re eye level.
“—that boy cares about you.”
Fear punches through my chest like a crowbar.
My heart stutters.
Stops.
Screams.
Not for me.
For Atlas.
Because he’s right.
Atlas is going to come for me.
And Dimitri wants him to.
He wants blood.
He wants chaos.
He wants revenge.
But I’m not giving him the satisfaction of seeing me break.
So, I lift my bruised, bleeding face and meet his crazed gaze head-on.
“Well,” I whisper, “you’re going to be very disappointed in how hard I am to break.”
His eyes flare.
Then, the gun whips across my cheekbone, and everything explodes into white.
Then the black swallows me.