Page 49 of Beyond Enemy Vows

It's a power move he taught me himself—never announce yourself if you want to catch someone off guard.

He responds with the same, not looking up or addressing me as I walk in.

Stavros sits behind his large desk, sipping a whiskey.

"Nice of you to remember you work for this family," he says, voice dripping with disdain.

Still hasn't looked up.

"I got your message."

"Clearly." He takes a sip of his drink and finally looks up at me. "Sit."

I remain standing. Another power move. "I prefer to stand."

His lips twitch. Not quite a smile, more like he's suppressing the urge to snarl. "Always trying to act like the rebel," he says, taking a drag of his cigar. "Where the hell have you been these past weeks? Sending people in your place to meetings. Pickups. Not doing anything of fucking value to this family."

"I've been working."

"Working," he repeats, mocking me. "You've been unreachable," he snaps, standing from his chair. "Do you think that makes you a man? Shirking duties like a spoiled brat?"

I don't respond. I'm used to this. Used to the disappointment that laces every word from him.

"You missed the negotiations with the Andros. You missed the security review for Athens. You missed our meeting with the Minister of Finance."

"I was handling something."

He rounds the desk. "You were off fucking some whore, I'm sure."

Rage rises in my chest. I clench my fists behind my back.

"You disappear and show up smelling like perfume." He steps closer, sniffing, his face twisting. "Weakness. That's all I see in you."

That word. Weakness. His favorite accusation since I was old enough to walk.

A memory flashes, unwanted. I'm six years old, proud of a drawing I made, running to show him. My small hands trembling as I hold up the paper. His face, disgusted, as if I'd tracked mud onto his imported rugs.

"Put that away," he'd said, not even looking at it. "Real men don't draw. You weren't born to draw. The sooner you learn that, the better."

"Like I said, I've been handling something."

He waves his hand in my face. Another power move of his.

"I didn't call you here to listen to excuses," he continues. "I called you here because someone informed me of something very interesting." He pauses to puff his cigar. "Imagine mysurprise when I learned Callista Kastaris was seen stepping off our private jet. My jet."

I don't flinch, but I want to. I keep my expression blank, but my heart hammers against my ribs. For a moment, I can't breathe, can't think. How did he know? Who told him?

His eyes narrow, reading me like a vulture watching for weakness.

"Tell me," he says, leaning in close enough that I can smell the whiskey on his breath. "Are you fucking her?"

The question ignites something inside me. Rage, protectiveness, guilt—all of it swirling together until my vision blurs at the edges. I want to grab him by the throat, slam him into the ground, make him say her name with respect. But I don't move. Don't blink. Don't give him anything. I just flex my jaw.

Stavros smiles, circling me.

"That little mafia princess?" He clicks his tongue. "Maybe I should give Ares a call. Let them know where their baby sister's been spending her nights. I wonder what they'd do with that information."

My hands form into tight fists. I have no doubt he'd do it. Sell out his only son. Find someone else to take over. Sometimes I'm surprised he's never done it.