Page 91 of Before Broken Vows
"Look away," I say as the footage loads. "I don't know what we're going to see."
"I'm not looking away," she says. "That's our son."
I press play.
The video flickers to life. Nighttime darkness bathed in grainy infrared. One of my guards paces the perimeter. Then another. All normal.
Camera change to show the front driveway, still, quiet. The car parked in front. Two men inside.
Then, out of the edge of a camera, there's movement.
One of my men. He walks straight to the camera, lifts a hand, and slices the wire with a blade.
I rewind and pause it right before it goes black, where the edge of the man's face is visible.
I recognize him.
Milo.
"Motherfucker," I hiss, slamming my fist down on the desk. "That son of a bitch sold us out."
He's one of mine.
The next feed shows what should be the side entrance, but it's just black. Except. Wait, is that?—
I turn up the volume. Yes, there's at least audio.
It's a low humming static. Then?—
Pop. Pop. Pop.
Three shots. Muffled screams or sounds. Then silence.
Stassi breaks. Her knees hit the floor and she lets out a sob so raw it guts me. I crouch beside her and wrap my arms around her.
"They won't kill him," I say. "They want leverage. Alive leverage. They'll want something, or me. Either way, I'm coming for them."
She nods, tears trailing silently down her cheeks. She clutches the front of my shirt. "What are we going to do?" "What are we going to do, Theo?"
"My team from Greece is already on their way to us. They'll be here soon. Men I trust. One in particular," I say, shaking my head. "I should've brought him from the beginning. Dammit."
I should have seen the cracks in Milo months ago. But I was too focused on the dead. Too wrapped up in my father's death. Not anymore.
I walk her back to the living room, settle her on the couch. Then I get dressed, grab my gun, and pace until I hear the unmistakable screech of tires.
I don't wait.
I rush outside. Three matte-black SUVs pull to a halt on the driveway.
Doors swing open.
Andrew steps out. He's been with us for years, serving us both in Chicago and Kalamata. He's tall, broad, ex-military.
"Theo," he nods.
"Dimitri said—" He stops and sees the other SUV parked, covered in bullet holes. "Shit."
"Yeah. Milo flipped," I say with rage. "Murdered our men. A female staying here. And took a child."
