Page 93 of Beneath Scarred Vows
"But your father did?"
I shake my head. "My father believed family should know everything. He said secrets only make your enemies stronger."
Ares's expression softens slightly. "Your father was right."
I drop into the chair, feeling lightheaded. The room goes quiet with Ares staring at me. My mind races back through memories I'd stored away, kept safe.
Then I remember—my father's study.
The leather chairs. George Zervas and my father, talking late into the night while I pretended to sleep on the couch. I was twelve then, or maybe thirteen? Just old enough to understand that when my father spoke low to another person, it wasn't to plan holidays.
"He never wanted to be Don," I say, remembering that night.
Ares's head snaps toward me. "Who?"
I look up at him, memories unspooling like film negatives before my eyes. "George Zervas. He wanted to disappear. Bought an island. My dad said it was foolish, but George insisted he was leaving."
Ares scoffs. "You're remembering wrong. Men like Zervas don't walk away from power."
"He wasn't like that," I push back. "He studied architecture in Paris. He wanted to build things."
Ares's eyes go hard. Cold. "Are you defending him?"
The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees.
"I'm telling you what I know," I say defensively.
"No, you're telling me what you want to be true," Ares says sternly. "You were a child when you knew him. People change."
My shoulders tense at his dismissal. "I was there. You weren't."
Ares's jaw tightens, a muscle twitching beneath the skin. "My father is dead because of him."
"You don't know that for sure."
"Yes. I do." He steps closer, his shadow falling over me. "And now, so do you."
My voice sharpens, an edge I didn't intend creeping in. "You're wrong about him."
The words land between us like a gunshot, and his expression darkens.
"Wrong?" He repeats the word like it's poison on his tongue.
Ares stiffens, his entire body going rigid like he's been struck.
The look he gives me is one I've never seen before—not anger, exactly, but something worse.
Betrayal.
As if I've plunged a knife between his ribs when he least expected it.
Ares steps closer, towering over me. “You know what?” he says, voice low and lethal. “Maybe I made a mistake.”
My stomach drops.
“Bringing you in. Thinking you could handle this world. Thinking you could handle me.”
I flinch. The words hit harder than any punch.
