Page 89 of Beneath Scarred Vows

There's a knock at the door, and a part of me instantly hopes it's Katerina, but I know it's not. She actually doesn't knock often, which I've come to like.

I look up, and Theo stands there, papers in hand.

"The Zervas shipping manifests," he says, walking in without waiting for an invitation. "Something doesn't add up."

I take the papers, scanning the numbers. They show shipments coming in from Turkey, Italy, and Bulgaria—all significantly larger than what the Zervas family normally ships in.

"They're moving something big," Theo says, leaning against my desk. "But what?"

I stare at the numbers, something nagging at me. "These containers are refrigerated."

"Yes," he confirms. "All of them."

"Zervas doesn't deal in perishables. Never has." I tap my finger on the manifest. "This isn't drugs. It's not weapons."

"Human cargo?" Theo suggests.

"Maybe." But it doesn't feel right. The refrigeration, the particular shipping routes... "I need to think."

Theo nods and pulls out his phone. "I need to take this. I'll be right back," he says and leaves without another word.

I turn back to the security feed, and there she is—in the kitchen with Emma, laughing about something.

My wife isn't just beautiful—she's smart, and she's been paying attention to our operations, asking careful questions that reveal more understanding than I initially gave her credit for.

My father didn't just love my mother. He respected her mind.

The realization hits me like a slap: I've been an idiot.

I've been treating Katerina as if she's separate from this part of my life. As if keeping her away from the business somehow protects her. But she's already been shot at. She's already a target. And I'm wasting her potential.

I don't want a trophy wife. I don't want a delicate flower to shelter from the harsh realities of my world. I want a partner. A queen who rules beside me, not behind me.

The door opens, and there she is, as if my thoughts summoned her. She's wearing a simple sundress, her hair loose around her shoulders. The sight of her rouses me.

"You're thinking too hard," she says, sliding onto the edge of my desk. "I can almost hear the gears turning from the hallway."

I reach for her, pulling her onto my lap. She comes willingly, settling against me.

"What's this?" She picks up the shipping manifest, her eyes scanning the document with interest.

Rather than take it from her, I watch her face.

"Refrigerated containers from Bulgaria," she says slowly. "That's unusual."

I raise an eyebrow. "Why do you say that?"

"I remember my uncle always saying Bulgarian exports were primarily industrial and stuff, and he wished they had other things since they border Greece."

"What would you guess they're shipping?" I ask, genuinely curious to see how she'd respond.

She leans over my desk, examining the document more closely. "These are coming through the Black Sea?"

I nod, increasingly intrigued.

She smiles slightly. "Well, I did an internship with a logistics company in Athens one summer. My uncle's way to get rid of me for a few months, I think. And a lot of medicine comes that way. They'd need refrigerators, but I don't know."

I turn to her.