Page 95 of Desperate Games

Six days of pretending I give a fuck about this assignment when all I want is to know if my wife, my daughter, my babies are alright.

My gut twists, my fists clench, my whole body hums with restless energy.

I need to leave. Now.

So, I go hunting for Stavros.

And when I find him, it’s not at a poker table or by some overstuffed poolside cabana—it’s by the docks.

By a ship being loaded with what I suspect are weapons. The kind Sigma uses. The kind I only just found out Stavros manufactures.

And I begin to understand the nature of this man’s business with my bosses.

He’s in the middle of giving clipped orders to his men, bags already packed, movements sharp and decisive.

He’s not drunk, not distracted. He’s alert. Aware.

And the second I step into range, he stills.

Like he knows.

Like some sixth sense tells him I’m there even before I let my presence be known.

Interesting.

He turns, slowly, and those aristocratic lips twitch into something that might almost be respect.

It’s day six of this charade, and I’m ready to explode—ready to throw every one of his “tests” back in his face—but Stavros just raises his hands in a gesture of peace.

And finally, finally, he calls it.

“It’s enough,” he says. “You passed.”

My jaw works, but I don’t say what’s burning through my chest—that this was never a test I needed to take.

My loyalty to my wife and family isn’t some performance for him.

It’s my fucking life.

But I don’t break the silence.

Not yet.

Then, he smirks.

Cocky motherfucker.

“You did good, Falco,” he says, back straight.

“I did good? What was this all some fucking test of my character? Well, fuck you, Stavros,” I snarl.

“It was not my test.”

Then I get it. This was them.

Andy’s family.

The Volkov Clan.