Chapter One
Zervou Kritikos moved through the dim, grimy boxing gym with a singular focus that had led him to where he was in life: From the boy who’d lost his comfortable childhood at the age of ten, struggled to save his mother after his father was murdered in front of them, into an adolescent and then a man who had worked toward success every second of every day since.
He was successful now, rich beyond even his wildest dreams, and no doors were shut to him anymore. Ever. He had everything he could possibly want.
Except the destruction of one final enemy.
But this was the year he would finally ferret Erjon Hyseni out of his hiding and destroy the man who’d killed his father.
Some called it hearsay that Erjon was the hitman who’d sought revenge on the Kritikos family for not caving to the thugs and mobsters that infiltrated their tiny Greek village all those years ago.
Zervou knew it for what it was: the simple truth.
Regardless of the details, Erjon had killed his father and that had sentenced his mother to a life of pain. So, no, details did not matter.
Simple truths required retribution.
Zervou had gone on to save his village from the criminals who had once run it, never quite managing to get his hands on the slippery Erjon.
Still, Anovol was now a small, thriving community with an almost miniscule crime rate.
That success had brought him solace for a while, but Erjon remained out of his reach, gallivanting around Europe as a member of the Petrov crime family.
It had taken some years, and accumulating some wealth, for Zervou to begin to close in on Erjon and enact his revenge. He had managed to stop most of the Petrov family, but Erjon had managed to escape—going into hiding almost a decade ago. A hiding even Zervou had not been able to find.
So Zervou had spent these years mining the depths of Erjon’s past. And in this he had finally found the one secret he felt he could use against Erjon, the one secret that would pull this weasel out of his hiding place and put him into jail. Forever.
The existence of a daughter.
A daughter Zervou was quite certain no one besides Erjon and the mother knew about. Except now him.
He approached the man behind the counter.
The gym was dimly lit, smelled exactly like what it was and was not the kind of place Zervou lingered these days.
In any other circumstance, he would have sent one of his men to bring the woman to him.
He lived far above anything that might remind him of the scrabbling teenage existence he’d left behind.
But he had to be sure this would work, so he came himself, with his men flanking him, so that no one might mistake him for belonging here in this poor area of Corfu.
He gestured for one of his men to address the desk attendant now. Zervou might need to see this woman for himself, but that did not mean he would be doing the dirty work. He kept his hands clean these days.
“We are looking for Ariadne Malis,” Bacchus—one of Zervou’s most trusted assistants—informed the man who wore a T-shirt advertising the boxing gym’s name. He did not look like much of a boxer, and his expression was one of pure boredom.
The attendant looked them up and down. Then shrugged. “Ari’s in the ring,” he told them, pointing deeper into the gym where muffled sounds of thuds and grunts were coming from.
Zervou gave him a magnanimous nod before moving with his men beyond the front desk into the bowels of the gym.
Punching bags of all kinds hung in different areas, and mats littered the ground. A handful of men were at all the different stations, but at the center of it all was a decently constructed ring, and two people fighting in it.
It was easy enough to pick out his target. One of the boxers was a man. The other the woman he was looking for.
Pleased with the timing of getting to see her at work, Zervou crossed his arms over his chest and watched.
She wore headgear that hid most of her face, but her body was bared in brief shorts and sports bra. Muscles rippled with every move—a dodge, a punch, a bounce—sweat made her olive skin glisten under the ugly fluorescent light.
Fascinating. She moved not just as an athlete. She was an artist. A dancer. Powerful with it, but it was not all power. There was a grace and canniness behind every move. She dodged two quick punches, one just barely missing her chin, then delivered a blow right to the man’s stomach.
He stumbled back, then held up a hand. It must have been some kind of surrender, because when they came together at the center of the mat again, they shook hands before retreating to their corners.
Ariadne lowered herself onto a stool, unwrapped her hands, then took off the soft helmet she’d been wearing.
Underneath the helmet, her dark hair was pinned in tight plaits against her scalp.
She was breathing heavily and clearly taking a few moments to gather herself despite what had to have been some kind of practice victory.
Though she did not look at him, there was no doubt her dark eyes took in the trio of men in suits watching her. But he liked that she did not rush to greet them and find out who they were or what they were here for.
She would do this on her own time.
“She is perfect,” Zervou said to both men. “I will be at the car. Bring her to me when she is ready.” Then, without another look back, Zervou left the gym.
Certain this was the beginning of everything he’d been waiting for.
Ari focused on the routine she used after every practice bout: rehash with her sparring partner and their coach, stretch, shower and change into her street clothes. She did not rush through it, even knowing those men were waiting for her.
She had learned early and well that if she let men set the pace of her life, she would end up at the bottom of their shoe. She would be scraped off no one’s boot in this lifetime. Never again.
At first when the three men had arrived, she’d wondered if her father’s threats had finally come to call.
She’d nearly taken a jab to the chin for the distraction.
She’d quickly dismissed it, getting back into her fight.
She might have hoped it was her father’s henchmen, but the tallest man was too recognizable.
Zervou Kritikos was well-known in Corfu these days—probably well-known across Europe, though Ari’s life was small and existed in the city limits of her hometown. Her entire life was this boxing gym, the modest apartment she shared with her mother and not much else.
Kritikos’s company was some kind of stadium business.
Ari had never paid much mind to what exactly they did.
She just knew that what had begun with building music venues had recently expanded into sport.
Something she knew the owner of the boxing gym hoped would include hosting boxing matches once it was completed.
Ari had not come to boxing for money or fame.
She had come to save herself. And fallen in love with a brutal sport that would eventually be too brutal to continue.
There was something about the ephemeral nature of it all—a young person’s game that you either gave up or it ate you up—that appealed to Ari’s fatalistic view of life.
Because her life was a series of hourglasses slowly running out. Her father would not be in hiding forever.
Some day, I will return. And everything you are will be owned by me.
She had not responded to her father’s threat at the time—she’d still had hope that her obedience might save her mother back then. But inwardly she had promised herself one thing.
Never.
But whoever these men today were, it was not Erjon come to collect. So, she supposed she needed to face it head-on.
Now dressed, she hefted her duffel on her shoulder and was unsurprised to find two large men in clearly expensive suits and dark glasses waiting for her right outside the locker room door.
One was concealing a gun. The other was not. Ari always made sure to clock a man’s weapons against her.
She looked up at the men blocking her way.
Not with belligerence. Belligerence often spoke of weakness, and Ari was confident in her own strength.
She knew her place in the world. So she looked at these men with boredom.
“Is there a reason you two are standing in my way like hulking statues?” she asked pleasantly enough.
The two men exchanged glances. “You will come with us.”
“And why would I do that?”
“I am sure you saw who watched your fight.”
“Many people like to watch me fight.” She flashed them a grin. “I’m quite exciting.”
Neither of them betrayed so much as a flicker of annoyance.
“Mr. Kritikos has a business proposition to present you, if you will come with us.”
Ari considered being difficult. She enjoyed being difficult when the moment called for it. She could pretend she didn’t know who Mr. Kritikos was. Pretend she wasn’t interested.
But a woman in her position couldn’t always afford to pretend.
Knowing that Mr. Kritikos was expanding into sport meant this was likely about boxing, which meant she would listen to his business proposition.
Didn’t mean she had to take it. She made a gesture toward the front of the gym. “After you, gentlemen.”
That almost got the flicker of a frown out of the taller one. She’d consider that a success.
They led her out of the gym and into a sparkling, sunny afternoon. The briny air was much warmer than when she’d walked in to train before the sun had come up.
The two suited men had to be sweltering, but they led her to where Zervou Kritikos stood next to a shiny car she was no doubt meant to be impressed by. But Ari knew nothing about cars or whatever designer labels he was likely wearing.
She knew about boxing and survival.
And men. Though she mostly boxed other women in actual bouts, often her training partners were men. She spent an unreasonable amount of time in male-dominated spaces, even if there were other female boxers about.