Chapter 22 – Lev
I try not to think about the strange man Sasha reported seeing yesterday, though it’s almost impossible. I tripled security and spent the entire day with her. It’s morning now, and I left her in the room, still sleeping. It took every shred of my willpower to rise from the bed and leave her there.
But now, I’m in the foyer, with Mikhail, papers and digital pads spread across the table. My mind hasn’t stopped running—routes, threats, contingencies—but right now, it’s about strategy, about keeping Sasha safe.
The crunch of tires against the gravel catches my attention. Mikhail leans toward the window, squinting. “That’s Roman,” he says.
I glance at him, then back at the spread on the table. “Perfect timing,” I mutter.
We’ve got an hour before the meeting with Christos Petropoulos, and we agreed to convene here at the villa before traveling together.
Roman steps into the foyer, shoulders relaxed, but that coiled tension in his eyes never leaves him. He gives a quick nod and approaches us.
“So, what’s the plan?” he asks, voice calm but sharp.
I glance at Mikhail. “Let’s get Niko and Kaz on a call and discuss it.”
Mikhail taps his laptop, and within moments, the video call connects. Niko and Kaz appear on the screen, their expressions serious, already matching the urgency in the room. The weight of what’s coming presses down on me, but I force my face to remain unreadable.
“So, what’s the plan?” Niko asks.
I lean forward, eyes scanning the screen. “We’re on our way to the meeting with Christos. We go together—Villa first, then straight to him. No detours.”
Niko’s face appears tense. “Lev…stay calm. Don’t make any sudden moves. Monitor his movements, get a read on him, but don’t escalate. Let him make the first mistake.”
I let his words sink in, though my gut already tells me I won’t be able to sit still if he tries anything. I can see the worry in Kaz’s eyes too, mirrored in Roman’s.
“I know what you’re saying,” I answer steadily. “But we need to be ready for everything. He’s not coming to talk casually. Christos doesn’t negotiate. He never has.”
Mikhail keeps typing, pulling up satellite feeds and security details of Christos’s usual routes. The room fills with a quiet intensity, the kind that presses on your chest and makes every breath feel deliberate.
I glance at Roman, whose jaw is tight. “You’ve been in these operations before. Any intel I should know before we move?”
Roman’s eyes flicker. “Everything we have. But stay sharp—Christos has layers. One wrong move, and it won’t just be business. It’ll be personal.”
I nod, taking in their warnings. My fingers tighten around the edge of the table. Sasha’s face flashes in my mind. Every precaution, every plan, every second—everything is for her.
I take a deep breath. “All right. We move carefully, but we move with purpose. Christos thinks he’s in control. He’s about to find out he isn’t.”
“Good.” Niko and Kaz nod.
I end the call and glance at Roman. “Time to leave.”
Roman nods, but I hold up a hand. “Wait.”
I head upstairs, moving quietly through the villa. The soft carpet muffles my steps. Sasha is still sleeping, curled up under the light blanket, the morning sun slanting across her face. My chest tightens. I kneel beside the bed for a moment, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.
“I love you,” I whisper, my lips pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. She stirs slightly but doesn’t wake.
I stand, lingering for just a heartbeat longer, memorizing her face. Then I turn and leave the suite.
Outside, Roman and Mikhail are already waiting in the car, engines idling. I climb in and exhale slowly. Time to focus.
We arrive at Christos’ mansion in an hour.
I grip the edge of the seat as Mikhail eases the car through the ornate iron gates.
Gravel crunches beneath the tires, sharp in the morning air.
The estate unfolds before us like a fortress draped in luxury—white columns rising from manicured gardens, marble terraces glinting in the sun, the Aegean sparkling just beyond.
Two men in black suits step forward as we exit the car. Their eyes are hard, hands brushing near their holsters. They fall into step with us silently, flanking us as we walk toward the mansion. Each footstep feels heavy, measured, the weight of every possible outcome pressing down.
The double doors swing open before us, revealing polished marble floors, towering ceilings, and crystal chandeliers scattering sunlight across the hall.
The guards guide us through the corridor, past walls adorned with priceless art, until we reach the center of the estate—the room where Christos Petropoulos waits.
The guards halt at a heavy wooden door. One steps forward, voice low but firm. “You may enter.”
I exchange a quick glance with Mikhail and Roman before pushing the door open. The room is lavish but restrained—dark wood panels, leather chairs, and a desk that dominates the space. Behind it sits Christos Petropoulos, calm, composed, his eyes sharp as they sweep over us.
“Gentlemen,” he says smoothly, standing to greet us. His handshake is firm but measured. He gestures toward the chairs in front of his desk. “Please, have a seat.”
We settle in, eyes never leaving him. Christos signals a servant, who promptly offers drinks. Wine, neat, in crystal glasses. I take mine, keeping my hand steady, my posture loose but alert.
I set my glass down, untouched. Roman and Mikhail don’t touch theirs either. Christos notices; I can feel it in the way his gaze lingers for a fraction too long, but he doesn’t comment.
He leans back slightly, a faint smile playing on his lips. “As soon as I heard you and Roman were in Athens, I felt it prudent to extend an invitation.”
I return his polite smile, keeping my tone even. “And we honored it. Care to tell us why you invited us here today?”
Christos tilts his head, eyes flicking briefly toward the window overlooking the sea, then back at us. “Of course,” he says smoothly. “Let us discuss matters that require…discretion.”
I hold his stare until the seconds stretch thin and the room seems to tilt on its axis. Christos doesn’t flinch. He smiles like a man who believes every cruel thing he says is simply commerce.
He doesn’t waste theatrics. “Cutting to the point, then,” he says, voice smooth as oil.
“We want the ledgers—those Callista and Vassilis Marino stole years ago. I am convinced their daughter, Sasha Marino, has them. We want the money returned, and we want repayment. The most efficient route is obvious: Use the girl.”
The words land like a slap. For a heartbeat, nothing moves—no one breathes. Roman’s jaw tightens; Mikhail’s fingers curl around the stem of his untouched glass. I can feel the blood in my ears.
“You want to…use her.” My voice is low and steady, like a blade being drawn. I keep my hands flat on my knees so they don’t curl into fists. “You think I’ll hand you my woman? You think she is currency you can spend?”
Christos inclines his head as if I’ve answered for him. “Collateral will be collateral, Lev. Debts have ways of being repaid. We would prefer a quiet solution, settle accounts, keep appearances. It’s clean, it’s useful, and it ensures restitution.”
A laugh—cold and humorless—bubbles out of Roman and dies before it leaves the room. “You want to sell a woman like livestock,” he says. “To you, people are ledger entries.”
Christos’s smile never reaches his eyes. “Practical,” he returns. “Not sentimental. You understand the value of order, yes?”
I feel something under my ribs, hot and animal.
The room narrows, and the only thing that exists is the sound of my pulse and the way his suggestion hangs there like a dare.
Sasha’s face flashes through my head—her laugh, the soft curl that falls over her forehead when she sleeps—and my body answers before my mouth does.
“Sasha doesn’t have your ledgers.”
Christos’s lips curve. “You can deny it all you want, Lev. Denial doesn’t change reality. If you won’t hand her over—if you refuse to give her to us willingly—then we will take her. We will take what is owed one way or another.”
The air in the room goes cold. For a ridiculous second, I picture him issuing the line politely, as if ordering tea. My fingers tighten on the wood until the knuckles blanch.
“You’ll do what?” I repeat, voice hollow with controlled rage.
“You heard me.”
“Touch her,” I say, each syllable deliberate, “and I will make sure your name is whispered by men who will never sleep again.”
Christos frowns like I’ve disappointed him. “Threats from a man on our soil are unwise, Lev.”
I lean forward until the desk is between us, and my fingers press into the wood, a silent measure of the control I’m willing to take.
“She is my wife,” I finish, quiet but absolute.
“I will fight the world to keep her safe. Do whatever the fuck you want, Christos—name your terms, make your threats—but don’t expect me to hand her over. Not to you. Not to anyone.”
For a moment, the room is a taut wire. Roman’s hand finds my sleeve; Mikhail’s eyes are knives.
Christos straightens, smooths his jacket, and regards me as if I’ve offered him a puzzle worth solving.
He holds my stare, unblinking. “Then we have an impasse,” he says finally.
“We shall see which of us is more patient.”
He stands. The meeting is over by tone alone. We’re escorted out; the estate returns to its choreography of servants and waves and impassive marble. Outside, the sun blinds me for a second as we step into the torrent of light, and anger hammers cold and precise through my chest.
Roman flanks me close, voice clipped. “You sure you want to light that fuse, Lev?”
My mind is already moving—men to call, contacts to activate, places to close. Whatever Christos intends, whatever threats he levels, I will not hand Sasha over. Not to him. Not to anyone.
“Everything ends tonight,” I tell Roman, voice low, volcanic. “This threat—Markovic, Petropoulos—gone. Permanently.” The words aren’t bravado. They’re a promise I mean to keep with blood, if necessary.
Roman watches me for a long second, an unreadable smile at the corner of his mouth.
He reaches out, claps a hand to my shoulder—hard, steadying.
“Relax, Lev,” he says, that dry, unshakeable tone that’s gotten us both out of worse scrapes.
“You don’t win wars by burning yourself out on the first match.
Plan, execute. We do this clean. First, you must relax. ”
I want to snarl, to tell him I don’t have the luxury of patience. Instead, I let out a breath that’s half laugh, half roar, and nod once. Roman’s calm steadies the spike in my chest, like ice to a fever.
“Fine. I’ll relax.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head as we step out into the courtyard, “you’re too wound up. We should go get drinks. Loosen up a little.”
I shake my head, keeping my gaze forward. “This isn’t the time.”
“There’s never a best time,” he fires back, arms spread as if to embrace the day itself. “The Greeks aren’t going anywhere, the Petropoulos won’t wait for you to catch your breath. You’re going to explode if you don’t step back for thirty minutes.”
I let out a tight laugh. “You’re insane.”
“Maybe,” he says with a grin, “but I’m right. Come on. One drink. Then we go back and finish this.”
I stare at him, weighing my fury against the logic in his tone.
Finally, I sigh, the tension in my shoulders refusing to loosen completely, but I follow.
Roman laughs again, loud and unbothered, as if we’re just two men strolling through Athens instead of heading into a war that could very well cost lives.
I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t resist the pull of that confidence. I glance at Mikhail. “Go home,” I say. “Watch Sasha. Make sure she doesn’t get any ideas about wandering into trouble while I’m gone.”
Mikhail raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. “Understood,” he says, his tone neutral but with a hint of approval for the trust I’m placing in him.
I nod once and turn to Roman. “Let’s go.”
He smirks, already anticipating the chaos I’m trying to avoid. “Finally. About time you let someone pull you out of your bunker.”