Page 1 of Beyond Enemy Vows

1

CALLI

We weren't going to do anything. Just remember him. But leave it to my brothers to turn what would've been my dad's 61st birthday into a power play.

Three hundred people chatting, laughing, and talking in the ballroom of one of our Chicago hotels. Their black evening wear reminds me of the birthday celebration this was supposed to be. It's been months since my father was buried, and here we all are, pretending this party isn't masquerading as a flex of control on the city.

"To Vasilis Kastaris," someone calls out, raising a glass.

I lift mine automatically, muscle memory taking over. My face arranges itself into the appropriate expression, grieving but dignified, sad but strong. The perfect Kastaris daughter.

Daddy would be proud.

Waiters mingle with our guests, serving imported wines and hors d'oeuvres. And at the center of the room, trying her best to make her rounds, is little old me.

Draped in a black dress with a slit up the thigh. My brown hair flows down over my shoulders, my lips red.

I look at myself in one of the mirrors. My dress clings to me like a lover, like Paris must have gripped Helen when he took her back to Troy.

My heels click on the marble floor as I move toward the back of the room, dodging a cluster of men arguing in Greek. I know them. I know all of them. That's the problem. Their faces blur into one long line of business associates, allies, maybe enemies, depending on the day.

I just need five minutes to myself. Five minutes without anyone asking me how I'm "holding up." Without another veiled offer of marriage disguised as political interest. Without being someone's daughter or sister or pawn. Even upbeat people need downtime.

"Rather be anywhere but here, huh?"

I turn and find Keira Killaney standing beside me. Her beautiful fiery red hair cascades over one shoulder, her green eyes sharp. My best friend since we were kids, the only person in this room who knows all of me.

She offers me a second glass of champagne and a raised brow.

"Is it that obvious?" I say, accepting the drink. "Just thinking about things."

"Oh?" she asks, taking a sip from her glass. "On death, duty, or the amount of sex you're not having?"

I choke on the first sip.

She grins. "That's what I thought."

"You're terrible."

"I'm necessary," Keira corrects. "Now, tell me you've at least noticed the man at nine o'clock who's been undressing you with his eyes for the past ten minutes."

"What?"

Keira turns to look toward the far side of the room. "Mister tall, dark-haired, and handsome looking straight at you."

I follow her gaze across the sea of black suits and cocktail dresses to a man near the bar, dressed in black tailored perfection.

And my breath catches in my throat.

Niko Petrou.

I blink again, like maybe I'm imagining it. But no. He's here. Leaning with one shoulder against a marble column, a glass of something amber in his hand.

His dark eyes fixed directly on mine. He doesn't look away when he's caught staring.

My skin prickles with awareness.

"Holy shit," I breathe.