Page 20 of 10 Days to Ruin

He’s not done.

“This is not about you. This is not about your father. This is about power,” he interrupts, voice sharpening, tightening “Control. A union that yokes together our organizations and ensures neither side gets… ideas.” His grip tightens. “You? You’re just collateral.”

Collateral.I’ve seen what that looks like—and it looks like Jasmine. In my mind’s eye, I see my sister’s face the day she left home. That’s been happening a lot tonight. Being back around these people makes it harder to find even a few minutes at a time where I don’t think about her.

I ran to avoid exactly this, exactly what happened to her. Apparently, I didn’t run far enough. I reached the roof edge, the abyss in front of me, and I hesitated.

This is what I get.

“Gee,” I whisper hoarsely. “And here I thought you liked me for my personality.”

“I don’t know a thing about your personality,” he retorts flatly. “I liked your mouth… When it wasn’t spewing nonsense.”

“And people say romance is dead.”

“It’s not just dead,” he agrees. “It’s six fucking feet under.”

Before I can retort, a familiar voice cuts through the tension. “Ari! There you are!”

Uncle Kosti, my father’s brother, pops up at my side, his salt-and-pepper beard crinkling with a smile. He’s the human equivalent of a cashmere sweater—soft, worn-in, and tragically out of place in this den of wolves. If there’s anyone I’ve missed since I ran away, it’s Uncle Kosti.

Sasha’s gaze flicks to him. “We’re busy.”

“And I’m her favorite uncle.” Kosti loops an arm around my shoulders, steering me away. “I’m only borrowing her for a dance.Yasou, Mr. Ozerov.”

For a heartbeat, I think Sasha might snap. His jaw clenches, eyes glacial. But then he dips his chin—a barely-there nod—and turns on his heel, melting into the crowd.

My father and fiancé are both busy now. I could run.

But they’d find me. The only reason Baba didn’t do it sooner is because he didn’t need me yet. Now that I have a purpose, I won’t be getting away anytime soon.

“You okay,koukla?” Kosti murmurs as we shuffle awkwardly to a Viennese waltz.

“Peachy. Just found out I’m engaged to a human weaponized suit. How’s the canapé selection?”

He sighs, the sound heavy with decades of Makris family baggage. There’s no way he didn’t know the plans for my future—not that he could’ve warned me, either way. He’s just as trapped as I am. “Your father means well.”

“He doesn’t care about me. He wants tocontrolme.”

“Same thing, in his world.” Kosti spins me gently, his hands calloused but kind. “He’s missed you, you know. Talks about you like you’re still six—his little girl, sneaking cookies before dinner.”

A lump rises in my throat. Six-year-old me hadn’t yet learned to check her shoes for tracking devices. Hadn’t started sleeping with a knife under her pillow. Hadn’t watched her mother walk out the door and known, deep down, she’d never come back.

“I’m not his little girl,” I say roughly.

“No.” Kosti’s smile is sad. “You’re a storm wearing his daughter’s face. And storms? They don’t bend. They break.” He squeezes my hand. “So break it,koukla. Break it all.”

Two hours and four martinis later, I’m slumped at a dive bar three blocks from the Met, picking at the label of a Brooklyn Lager while Gina side-eyes me like I’ve announced plans to join a cult. I’m passing through stages of grief that I didn’t even know existed. All the standard stuff—denial, anger, bargaining—is long gone. I’ve moved onto cackling like a deranged hyena and drinking until the pain goes away.

“Let me get this straight,” she says, waving her cosmo. “You hooked up with Jason Bourne’s hotter cousin, then found out he’s your mobster daddy’s new BFF, and now, you’re supposed to marry him?”

“In my defense,” I say, “the hookup happened before the whole ‘surprise, you’re getting hitched’ reveal.”

How’s that for a PSA against random hookups?

“Uh-huh. And the part where you didn’t tell me you’re, like, Greek mafia royalty?”

I wince. “In my defense again, I don’t lead with that. It’s not exactly LinkedIn material.”

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