Chapter 3 #3
Because no child should carry the weight of a butchered mother.
The autopsy photographs still lived behind my eyelids, uninvited, merciless.
Maria’s abdomen sliced open with surgical precision. Not frenzy. Not chaos. The cut was clean, deliberate. The eight-month fetus—small, fragile, unmistakably human—stabbed through the tiny chest with terrifying accuracy.
Her left eye gouged out, as if the killer didn’t want to be seen, even by the dead. Her throat slit so deeply the blade had kissed bone.
The rest of her body had been carved like meat laid out on a slab.
There was no rage in the wounds. No jealousy. No passion.
Just cold, methodical cruelty.
A woman had done that.
The forensic psychologists were certain. The angles. The restraint. The absence of sexual violence. The controlled brutality. Women, they said, killed like this when the motive was deeply personal—but emotionally contained.
The thought still turned my stomach.
No one deserved to die that way. Not even an enemy. Not even the wife who never loved me. I had hated her at times—hated the distance, the resentment, the way she looked at me like I was the prison she could never escape.
But hate did not mean she deserved to be dismantled piece by piece.
And the baby—
The baby had deserved nothing but life.
That truth sat heavier than any crown, any empire, any blood-soaked throne I had ever claimed.
And now someone had dared to put their hands on my son.
The world had already taken too much from him.
I would not allow it to take anything else.
I rubbed a hand over my face, dragging my fingers down until they pressed into my jaw, trying—failing—to push the images back into whatever locked room they belonged in.
The burner phone on the desk vibrated.
The sound was soft, almost polite.
I froze.
My gaze slid to the screen, and for a fraction of a second my mind refused to understand what I was seeing. Then the numbers resolved themselves into meaning, and my pulse detonated in my chest.
It was the number I’d given Yannis three days ago.
His first personal phone. Bright blue, rubber-cased, childproof. Loaded with games, educational apps, and—hidden behind a passcode only I knew—my direct line. No intermediaries. No handlers. Just me.
He had smiled when I handed it to him. A real smile. Small, hesitant, like a fawn testing its legs, but unmistakable. The first genuine one since the funeral.
My heart slammed so hard it hurt.
I snatched the phone, thumb fumbling as I hit accept, then placed it on speaker on the desk as if grounding myself in something solid might keep the world from collapsing.
My pulse roared in my ears. This was it. The call every parent in my world dreaded. The captors making demands. Setting terms. Bargaining with flesh and blood.
I braced for cruelty.
Silence.
The line was open, but empty. No breathing. No background noise. Just a void that stretched for an eternity measured in heartbeats.
Then—
“D... Dad?”
The word cracked through the air like glass shattering.
The world tilted violently, as if the floor had dropped out from under me.
“Yannis?” My voice broke despite every instinct honed by decades of violence and control. Raw. Disbelieving. “Yannis, is that you?”
A small, shaky breath came through the speaker, amplified and fragile. It sounded like a child standing on the edge of something enormous.
“Y-Yes,” he said. Clear. Soft. Real.
My knees nearly buckled.
“Yannis,” I said again, slower this time, afraid the sound of his name might dissolve if I said it too loudly. “Are you—are you hurt? Did anyone touch you?”
“No.” Another breath. Steadier now. “I’m okay.”
Relief crashed into me so hard it was almost pain.
Then he continued, voice suddenly very serious. Older somehow. Purposeful.
“Put on your best suit and come immediately to St. Maribel’s Chapel. Right now.”
I blinked, certain I’d misheard him.
“What?” I asked stupidly.
“It’s very urgent,” he repeated, each word precise, rehearsed. “Make sure you dress your best and look like a groom. And yes,” he added, as if anticipating my next question, “I really am okay.”
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone like it might start speaking again if I willed it hard enough. My reflection stared back at me from the dark screen—eyes wide, face stripped of its usual mask of command.
Dress like a groom?
My mind raced, grasping at threads that refused to align. A chapel. A groom. My son speaking for the first time in three years, not in fragments or whispers, but in full sentences—clear, deliberate, urgent.
This wasn’t a ransom call.
This was something else entirely.
I shoved the chair back so hard it scraped violently across the hardwood floor, the sound sharp and jarring in the quiet study.
I was moving before thought fully caught up with instinct—storming out into the corridor, long strides eating distance, my pulse hammering with a cocktail of fear, disbelief, and something dangerously close to hope.
The master suite swallowed me in muted light.
I yanked open the walk-in closet, fingers already searching.
Charcoal three-piece Tom Ford suit—tailored in Milan last year, still sealed in its protective plastic like an artifact waiting for a ceremony I’d never planned to attend.
White dress shirt, crisp and untouched. Black leather oxfords polished until they reflected the ceiling lights like dark mirrors.
Cufflinks engraved with the Baranov crest—an heirloom symbol that had sealed more alliances than vows ever could.
I dressed with the brutal efficiency of a soldier arming himself for combat.
Buttons fastened. Vest smoothed. Jacket settled across my shoulders like familiar armor. The silk tie—deep red, the color of fresh blood—knotted with mechanical precision. Every movement was controlled, automatic, honed by years of discipline.
I caught my reflection in the full-length mirror.
Sharp. Controlled. Lethal.
A groom, perhaps.
But more than that—a father who would burn the world down if anyone had dared lay a hand on his child.
I grabbed the keys to the black Lamborghini Aventador from the dresser, the carbon-fiber fob cold and reassuring in my palm, and strode out without another glance back.
Two members of my security detail straightened instantly in the foyer, their expressions shifting from routine alertness to open surprise at the sight of me fully dressed and moving with purpose.
“Boss?” one of them asked. “You’re heading out?”
They knew my schedule was ironclad. Unscheduled movements were vulnerabilities. Security nightmares.
“I’ve found Yannis,” I said.
The effect was immediate. Shock flashed across their faces, then vanished beneath professional resolve.
“Understood,” one said, already tapping his earpiece.
I didn’t wait for questions, explanations, or protocols. I slid behind the wheel, the engine roaring to life like a caged beast finally unleashed. The vibration traveled up my spine, grounding me, sharpening me. As I reversed out of the driveway, tires screamed against the pavement.
Three blacked-out SUVs fell in behind me, formation tight, lethal, automatic.
The drive was a blur of adrenaline and dread.
I pushed the Lamborghini past one hundred twenty on Pacific Coast Highway, weaving through traffic with surgical aggression.
Every red light felt like a personal insult.
Every slow driver a potential catastrophe.
The ocean flashed beside me, blue and endless, indifferent to the war raging in my chest.
My phone rang again and again on the passenger seat—Petros, no doubt. He would tell me to slow down. To wait for confirmation. To bring more men. To think.
I ignored it.
There was no room for caution.
Not when my son’s voice—my son’s voice—had finally broken the silence after three long years.
Whatever waited for me at that chapel, I would face it.
And God help anyone who stood between me and my child.
What if he was hurt?
The thought hit like a blade between my ribs, sharp and sudden. My grip tightened on the steering wheel until the leather creaked beneath my palms.
What if this was a trap?
That one followed immediately, coiling around the first. California families weren’t subtle when they wanted blood, but they were patient. They liked theater. Messages. And nothing sent a clearer message than luring a king into enemy territory with his own child as bait.
And then—the worst one, the one I tried and failed to bury—
What if the woman who killed Maria was somehow involved?
The questions stacked, relentless, clawing at me with every mile I tore through. My jaw locked. My pulse pounded so hard it blurred the edges of my vision. I forced my breathing steady, the way I had learned to do in cages and basements and interrogation rooms where panic meant death.
Think later. Act now.
St. Maribel’s Chapel rose into view at the end of the street—white stucco glowing in the slanted afternoon light, red-tiled roof immaculate, palm trees swaying gently as if this were any other peaceful California day.
A place for vows. For flowers. For smiling photographs that pretended the world was kind.
I slammed the brakes.
The Lamborghini screamed in protest, tires chirping as the nose dipped. I barely waited for the car to settle before throwing the door open. The convoy behind me skidded to a stop in perfect, violent symmetry.
SUV doors flew wide. Men poured out—fifteen of them, dark suits, weapons concealed, faces carved from discipline and intent.
Petros emerged from the lead vehicle, already moving fast. He took one look at me—tailored suit, blood-red tie, expression carved from stone—and slowed, confusion flickering across his face.
“Boss,” he said, jogging up. “I was calling to tell you—we tracked him here. You already knew?”
“Yes.” I didn’t slow. My gaze was locked on the chapel doors. “Did you find who ordered the hit?”