Chapter 10
Ten
Markos swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching the way the light refracted through it like the glow of a distant fire.
His fingers curled tighter around the tumbler as he tuned out the nasally drone to his left—or maybe it was to his right.
Sherry? Sabrina? He honestly couldn’t remember which was which.
“… and then they had the audacity to seat me in the second row,” the one on his right said. “Can you imagine?”
He took a slow sip of his drink just to avoid replying.
You brought this on yourself.
He should have sent them away the second they slid into the booth with the predatory smiles that warned they weren’t here for the music. He wasn’t in the mood for fluff, flattery, or silicone-scented kisses.
He wasn’t in the mood for anything, really, except the noise of the club. It was almost an externalization of his turmoil. Soothing, in its own way.
His thoughts drifted, like they kept doing tonight, back to Nikos. His twin had been… different. Restless. Intense. Almost reckless. The way he’d spoken earlier—his voice taut, his eyes burning—about a woman.
Kiki.
Markos frowned and lifted his glass again.
Kiki. The paintball girl.
Who his brother knew very little about. That made Markos uneasy. But what unsettled him more was that Nikos—controlled, calculating, easygoing Nikos—was rattled. Visibly.
And worse?
Nikos didn’t remember why.
A breath puffed out of Markos’s nose. That was the part that stuck in his gut like a splinter.
Nikos forgot nothing.
The way his brother described seeing flashes of things that hadn’t happened—that supposedly hadn’t happened—made him wonder if the woman had slipped him a drug. He didn’t know what else to think. All he knew was that the tension threading through Nikos like barbed wire was real.
Sabrina—or was it Sherry?—leaned in, her perfume hitting him like a chemical spill. “You seem tense tonight, darling. Want us to loosen you up a little?”
No, he wanted her and her sister to leave him alone. He turned his head slowly, giving her a flat look.
“I’m good.”
Her lip popped out in a pout. “You sure? We could—”
“Not tonight, Sherry. Why don’t you order something?” He tipped his glass. “On the house.”
That bought him maybe thirty seconds of silence. He set his glass down and shifted in his seat, preparing to excuse them both when the air shifted.
A shadow cut across the table, blocking the flashing lights and wave of dancers below.
He frowned as he leaned back, taking in the woman walking towards them. She wore black jeans and a black hoodie. Her hair was pulled back, and she wasn’t wearing any makeup that he could see. It was obvious she wasn’t here to socialize.
Something in her expression made the hair on his arms rise. Not a threat. Not seduction.
Accusation.
Like he’d already done something wrong—or was about to.
She moved with a coiled grace that sent a shaft of warning down his spine and a knot in his stomach. There was a sense of danger and purpose in her that he had seen and felt far too often when he was in the service.
She was a woman out of place and utterly unconcerned about it. An enigma… and someone who shouldn’t be in the VIP lounge.
One twin said something, but her words went past him unnoticed.
The bold visitor locked eyes with him. Her irises—dark brown—smoldered like lit coal.
Markos leaned forward slightly, curiosity and caution sharpening his edges.
The twins blinked up at her with practiced disdain.
“Looks like a stray got past your bodyguards, darling,” Sherry snipped.
“Where did she get that outfit? A dumpster?” Sabrina snickered.
The woman didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile. In fact, she didn’t even look at the two blonde beauties plastered to his side.
“Take a hike. This is a private conversation.”
Markos’s eyebrows lifted. The twins stiffened, indignant.
“Excuse us?” Sherry snapped.
The woman didn’t look at her as she darkly replied, “You heard me.” Her gaze—sharp, unwavering—was locked on him.
He didn’t move.
The twins opened their mouths again.
The woman’s voice—softer this time, but colder—washed over him.
“Leave. Now.”
And they did.
Without another word.
Sabrina picked up her purse with a dazed expression and slid out of the booth. Sherry trailed like a ghost behind her sister. Markos watched them vanish into the crowd, too astonished to do more than stare.
What the hell?
He turned back just as the woman slid into the booth beside him like she owned the club. He studied her warily, tension tightening his spine.
When she spoke, her voice sliced through him like a blade. “Where is Nikos? I need to find him. Now.”
His voice came out rougher than he had intended when he finally asked, “Who the hell are you?”
She didn’t answer. She only looked at him with eyes burning with an intensity that made him extremely cautious.
“Where is your brother?” Her voice was quiet. But something in it made the back of his neck itch.
Markos didn’t answer right away.
His gut was already moving faster than his thoughts.
This was the girl his brother found fascinating. He was certain of it. She was the one Nikos felt was hiding something. The woman Nikos couldn’t stop thinking about.
The one who rattled him.
The one he might’ve forgotten something about.
Like hell! There is no way anyone could forget this woman!
“It depends on who wants to know—and why,” he said finally, his voice low, challenging.
She leaned in, her eyes narrowing. “I need to know where he is now.”
Markos returned her stare, his jaw tightening. “Why?”
She paused for a fraction of a second before she responded. “He’s—It’s important.”
A chill slid over his skin.
He opened his mouth—half a second from asking—when motion flared in the corner of his eye.
“Sir!” Two of his men appeared, their eyes locked on the woman beside him. Confusion twisted their features as they paused, uncertain. “We’re so sorry—we didn’t see her enter.”
“It’s—” Markos began before the words died on his lips.
The woman had lifted her hand. A confident gesture. Almost regal. And he watched with growing alarm as both men stopped, wavered, then—without a word—turned in unison and drifted like sleepwalkers to the empty booth beside them.
Markos twisted in his seat, stunned, as the two highly trained guards collapsed onto the bench seat before they rested their heads on the table like children put down for a nap.
His eyes snapped back to the woman.
Her hand lowered, but her gaze remained locked on him, sharp as a blade and twice as cold.
“Where is Nikos?” she asked, her voice low, urgent.
Markos stared, his pulse beginning to pound.
This was no normal woman.
He sat forward slightly, his hands on the table—not threatening, but not retreating either.
“Who are you?” he asked tightly. “And what the hell did you just do to my men?”
“I need to find him.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I don’t have time for this,” she snapped impatiently.
Her nostrils flared as she wrapped slender fingers around his wrist with surprising force.
A jolt of electricity shot straight up his arm.
Markos jerked, but she held firm. Not forcefully, just… unwavering.
His gaze dropped to her hand. Her fingers were wrapped around his arm like she was holding onto a live wire. Then his eyes rose slowly to her face.
And for a moment… he couldn’t move.
Couldn’t breathe.
She was beautiful. Nothing like the twins or the other polished socialites who cluttered his world. There was something more exotic about her. There was a raw, almost ethereal, appeal to her.
Loose black curls framed her face, one tendril curling under her jaw. Her almond-shaped eyes were darker, focused, and glittered with something deeper than anger.
Fear. Maybe grief. Definitely regret.
Her nose was pert, a faint dusting of freckles dancing across the bridge. Her lips were soft, pink, and parted as if she was about to speak—but didn’t.
He sat frozen. Staring.
Then she scowled.
“Don’t think of me,” she ordered, shaking her head as if annoyed. “Think of your brother.”
The words sliced through his mind.
Markos’s breath hitched as memories crashed into him like a flash flood. Nikos laughing, twelve years old, dragging him into the surf off Naxos. Bleeding. Standing over a chessboard. Relaxing. Firing a gun. Holding a drink. Looking lost.
And then—a darker memory.
A whisper of blackness.
Fear.
He flinched.
Remembered pain blossomed. The coppery scent of blood, the way it slid down his body, the slowing heartbeat—it nearly made him gag.
The world tilted. His chest tightened.
No. Contain it. Don’t let it out.
He snapped his mind into gear, defaulting to the one method that had always worked when he had been held captive.
“One thousand one. One thousand two. One thousand three—”
“What are you doing?” she hissed, her fingers tightening on his wrist.
“One thousand four. One thousand five—”
“Stop.”
She released his wrist with a growl of frustration.
Markos slumped slightly, sweat dotting his brow.
The air between them pulsed.
He watched her as she sat back, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths, her head shaking. Her lips moved as if she were arguing with herself. Muttering.
And then he caught it.
“It was you,” she whispered—soft, horrified. “Not Nikos. You were the soldier.”
His heart slammed against his ribs.
Her voice had barely been audible, but the words echoed like thunder inside him. He blinked—and rage stirred like a long-dormant beast. His hand shot out, clamping around her wrist with a grip hard enough to warn but not injure.
Her eyes widened.
“How the hell did you—?” He shook his head, the muscle in his jaw pulsing with emotion. “Who the hell are you, and why do you want my brother?”
Her lips parted—but this time, they trembled.
“I’m… Kiki,” she said, her voice softer. “I need to find Nikos. He’s in danger.”
“From whom?” His voice was a low rumble. Controlled. Barely.
She looked away, as if debating whether to tell him.
He leaned forward, squeezing her wrist and forcing her eyes back to his. “From whom?”
She swallowed, and her lips moved. Markos knew he’d heard her reply, he knew all the words she’d said, but there was a delay before the words registered.
When he finally understood, it hit him like a freight train.
“From the men who took you… eight years ago.”
“Who are they? Why are they after Nikos?”
His tone was low, barely controlled, and beneath it, a storm brewed. Rage. Confusion. Mistrust. She felt the heat of it against her skin—like standing too close to an open flame.
She drew in a sharp breath, bracing herself.
“I’ll explain what I can,” she said, meeting his stare, “but right now, we need to find Nikos. He’s in danger. And he’s not the only one. If we don’t handle this tonight, someone will die.”
Markos turned to glance at his two bodyguards. They were sitting upright now, blinking as if they’d just come out of anesthesia.
Kiki followed his gaze, then turned back to him. “They’ll be fine,” she said quickly. “But we need to leave. Now. And it’ll be safer if we go alone.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Are you out of your mind?!”
She smiled ruefully. “Buck up, soldier. I’m a one-woman army. But the fewer people I need to protect, the safer you’ll be. I know you don’t want to go through what they did to you again, and you don’t want that for Nikos either. So call your brother and let me protect you both.”
He glared. “We do have our own people protecting us.”
“And I just walked through all of them,” she replied with a raised eyebrow.
He gritted his teeth.
“One of those men is someone like me, Markos. Be smart and take the protection. You need it. Both of you.”
That did it.
His expression stilled.
Without another word, he pulled out his phone and turned slightly away. Seconds later he spoke, his voice clipped but quiet.
“Where the hell are you?”
He paused and listened before he muttered to her, “He’s at your place.”
“Tell him to go across the hall—to Harvey and Jim’s. We’ll meet him there,” she instructed.
He nodded and continued the conversation. She didn’t need to hear the other end to feel the white-hot wave of Nikos’s fury lashing through the line. Her stomach dipped.
When Markos hung up, he looked at her. “He’s not happy.”
“No kidding,” she muttered under her breath. “Join the club.”
“What now?” he asked sharply.
Kiki straightened, smoothed her hood over her head, and shot him a crooked grin. “Now? You excuse yourself like a gentleman and let me handle the exit.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Handle it how?”
“With panache,” she said, already sliding out of the booth. “We’ll need a car. Something that isn’t likely to be connected to you.”
Markos shook his head, his expression unreadable. “Tell me why I’m trusting you right now.”
She paused, looked over her shoulder, and shrugged. “You don’t—yet. You just want answers.”
Markos snorted. “That’s the understatement of the century,” he muttered, following her out.