Page 7 of Beneath Scarred Vows
"You should thank me, you know," I say as we approach the car.
She pauses but doesn't turn around. "For what?"
I walk up behind her and lean into her ear, my lips close to her skin. "For trying to make you feel something."
3
ARES
Three Weeks Prior
The Kalamata estate in Greece was my father's favorite place outside of Chicago. Especially this study, with its imported dark mahogany paneling and bookshelves that climb inward toward the ceiling like praying hands. Decades of cigar smoke linger in the fabric of the curtains. The floor-to-ceiling windows face the sea, but today, a storm rolls in—black clouds that match my mood.
Across from me sits Stavros Petrou, head of the Petrou family, his salt-and-pepper hair slicked back, his expensive watch gliding from side to side as he speaks. He's been talking for ten minutes straight about loyalty and tradition. I've said nothing.
A week ago, my father, Vasilis Kastaris, was gunned down in his own city. Assassinated.
His blood hadn't even dried when I became the don. While I was raised to sacrifice everything for the family—groomed to take over one day—I thought I had years before I actually did.
Now I've inherited a fractured domain, and I have to fix it fast or risk losing the groundwork my father laid.
And I will not let that happen.
My brother Theo sits to my right, nodding to Stavros, but ever since we buried our father yesterday, he's been analyzing everything, mapping out every possible move on the board.
"The port of Nafplio is already being contested," Stavros says, leaning forward. His cologne is too strong. "The Zervas family moved in before your father's body was cold."
I take a sip of whiskey—my father's favorite. I love the burn.
"And you think this concerns me?"
Stavros blinks, taken aback by my dismissive tone. "With respect, Ares, it should concern you greatly. Your father built an empire that stretched across the Peloponnese, with strongholds all the way up to Thessaloniki. Now that he's gone, every small-time operator with a few guns and a grudge is testing the boundaries."
"Let them test," I say. "They'll learn."
The corners of Stavros's mouth tighten. He expected desperation, for me to grasp at any offer of help now that I've been thrust into power. But desperation is a luxury I discarded at my father's graveside.
"The Petrou family has always been loyal to the Kastaris," he continues. "Your father understood the value of our alliance to keep things in order here in Greece."
Theo shifts in his seat. A warning. We both know Stavros isn't here out of loyalty. The Petrou family is powerful in their ownright, but not powerful enough. They need us more than we need them.
"And now you wish to formalize that alliance," I state flatly.
Stavros nods, relief flashing across his face. "Yes. In these uncertain times, we must stand together. Stop the smaller factions from rising up. Stop the Zervas family from trying to take what your father built."
Thunder rolls outside, the first drops of rain spattering against the windows. The storm is here.
I set my glass down. "Three days after my father was murdered, the Zervas family moved on our shipping lanes. Two days after that, the Leventis brothers tried to take our warehouses in Patras."
"Which is exactly why?—"
I cut him off. "And the Petrou family did nothing. You waited. Watched. Calculated the odds."
"We were grief-stricken?—"
"Bullshit. You were hedging your bets."
Stavros's face hardens. He isn't used to being spoken to this way, especially not by someone he still sees as Vasilis's son rather than the don.
