Page 13 of Beneath Scarred Vows
"I can give you my jacket if you'd like."
"I'm fine. Thanks."
We drive along what looks like the ocean, but I know it's Lake Michigan—its dark blue waters churning against the shoreline. People walk along the edge, wrapped in expensive coats, living their normal lives.
It's beautiful in a sharp, clean way. Nothing like Kalamata.
Ares hasn't spoken since I refused his jacket. He sits across from me, scrolling through his phone, occasionally making calls that are too quiet and quick for me to follow. His presence fills the space, even in silence.
The limo turns off the main road, into a residential area where the houses grow larger. Set back from the street, hidden behind iron gates and towering trees.
It looks very exclusive.
"We're almost there," Ares says, not looking up.
The car slows, approaching a gate at least twelve feet tall. Black iron with an ornate "K" worked into the design. Security cameras rotate to follow our approach, and two men step forward, their guns barely concealed beneath their jackets.
One barks something into his radio, and the gates swing open.
The driveway winds through perfectly manicured grounds. Everything looks like it was meant to be exactly where it is. Controlled.
And then I see the house.
No, not a house.
A fortress disguised as a mansion.
It rises three stories, sprawling outward in every direction. It blends classic Mediterranean style with modern touches. Large Greek columns paired with huge floor-to-ceiling windows, balconies edged with glass, and rows of expensive cars. It belongs in a magazine.
And I thought my uncle's house was ridiculous.
Guards patrol the perimeter, weapons visible, eyes scanning.
I've been under watch before. So I scan, too.
The house where I grew up could fit inside this place ten times over.
"This is yours?" I ask, the first question I've spoken since leaving Greece.
Ares looks pleased that I've finally broken my silence and smiles. "Ours now."
I don't acknowledge that part.
"It looks like the president would live here with all these men."
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. "I prefer better security than the president."
Why?
The limo stops. Wide stone steps lead to double doors that look like they could withstand a battering ram.
Ares doesn't wait for the driver. He steps out and comes around to my side, opening the door himself.
I hesitate before taking his offered hand.
His fingers close around mine, warm despite the cold that follows him everywhere.
"Welcome home, Katerina."
