Page 7

Four

L EON

Iason uncurled the blueprints across my cluttered desk, flattening the heavy rolls against scattered invoices, half-finished sketches, and last night’s cold coffee swirls. A stained mug slid toward the edge.

I lunged, braced my palm against the desktop, and steered it back to safety. Dark liquid pooled in the saucer, droplets clinging to the rim.

“Leon, your office looks like a shipwreck,” he said, tapping a stray takeout container off the corner. “How do you find anything in this chaos?”

I leaned back in my chair, feet propped on the leg of a drawing table. “Chaos breeds creativity,” I shot back. “Besides, you live in a penthouse that is larger than this entire floor, and it’s crammed from floor to ceiling with items you won’t part with.”

He grinned, reaching for his reading glasses and perching them on the bridge of his nose. “We’re both slackers, then. What we need is wives.”

“No, that’s what house cleaners are for,” I corrected and tapped the blueprints with a pencil. “A wife is so much more complicated than that.”

“I guess.” He shrugged, shoulders lifting beneath his crisp shirt. “Maybe so. At this rate, I’ll be forty and still flying solo. Perhaps a hybrid model—a spouse who also mops the floors?”

I set the pencil down and pushed the unruly stack of sketches aside. “That plan sounds outdated. You’d offend half of the world.”

He jabbed a finger at me. “Says the guy waiting to be selected as a husband in an arranged marriage. You don’t get more old-fashioned than that.”

“Can we get back to these blueprints? I have to double-check every dimension before the permit office opens.”

He lifted his glasses, slid them onto the bridge of his nose, and scanned the drawings. The fluorescent light above threw acute angles across the lines of the countertop, seating areas, and a raised stage for live acts.

Iason traced a corridor, paused, and tapped a beam’s measurement. “These beams will need extra support if you plan to open that balcony.”

I sank into the worn leather chair behind the desk.

Running my family’s restaurant and entertainment venues felt like a storm I navigated daily.

Iason had guided me through menu redesigns, seating layouts, and licensing battles—I couldn’t imagine pulling it off alone.

Even when he teased me about personal matters, he was my anchor.

While he studied the schematics, my mind drifted to Calista.

During lunch, a connection had sparked when I asked her about her studies. Her eyes brightened with enthusiasm, exuding a passion that energized the atmosphere.

In the days since, every image of her pulled taut like a bowstring, the tilt of her chin, the way light danced in her green eyes, the scent of her perfume.

I lifted a stray sticky note from the desk and twisted it between my thumb and forefinger.

By the time I left the café, I’d called an organic grower north of town, secured six dozen white roses, and arranged their delivery to her sister Layana’s estate.

Layana’s gates stood guarded by iron spikes and uniformed staff.

Calista’s address remained a secret. Tracing property records, cross-referencing social pages, and making discreet inquiries, each step confirmed that the Vitalis family took security seriously.

Iason peered over the plans. “If we reinforce that wall with steel columns, you’ll keep the ceiling from sagging under all that equipment.”

I pressed my fingertip to the blueprint’s faded ink. “That’ll work.”

Then I looked away from the drawing frame to the cluttered office, at the peeling corners of posters from last season’s acts, at the list of daily repairs scrawled on a scrap of paper.

“I need patience,” I said, more to myself than to him.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” I cleared my throat. “Just considering next steps.”

He tapped his pen on the desk. “Next steps for the project or next steps for you?”

I met his gaze. He already knew the answer.

A soft smile crept across my face. “Both, and right now, I’ll start by waiting for permits, for the right moment to approach the Vitalis sisters, and for Calista to say yes.”

“Leave the rest to me,” he said. “I’ll handle the permits. You handle romance.”

I stood, set down my coffee, and felt something tighten and unfold in my chest. I would make good on those roses. I would earn a place in her family’s trust. And I would wait, counting each day until I could call Calista my partner, in business and life.

“Well?” I leaned over the drafting table and traced the pencil marks on the blueprints.

Iason pushed back from his stool and folded his arms. His gaze dropped from the plans to me. “Leon, you ran these figures through every possible scenario before you handed them to me. We both know the numbers check out.”

I tapped a finger against the edge of the table. “I like a fresh perspective.”

He lifted one corner of the top sheet and let it snap back into place. The soft thwack echoed in the sunlit studio .

“Perfectionism suits you,” he said. “No harm in that.”

Satisfied, I picked up the rolled drawings and tied them with a leather strap.

“On to the next step,” I said, sliding them under my arm.

My phone buzzed against my hip. I pulled it free, eyeing the caller ID. “Leon Boscos.”

“Sir, it’s Alex at Kanoula.”

“Alex?” My chest tightened. He managed my estate with the precision of a surgeon. If he called me, something had gone wrong. “What’s happened?”

“Can I get additional security onsite? Right away.”

I exchanged a glance with Iason. His brow furrowed. “Tell me exactly what’s going on.”

I spent the next two minutes listening as Alex outlined a dispute at the restaurant—voices shouting, chairs scraping, the clink of glass.

When I tapped the screen to end the call, Iason was on his feet, coat already in hand. “I take it we need to move?”

He flicked off the light switch as we crossed the hallway.

“There’s a brawl going on at Kanoula, if you can believe that.”

“A brawl?” Iason asked. “What the hell?”

We reached my Aston Martin parked under the portico. I slid into the driver’s seat, pressed the engine button, and the V12 rumbled to life. Iason buckled in beside me.

“You think this is about you?” he said.

“It wouldn’t surprise me. Kanoula is a nice restaurant. Violence rarely breaks out in places like that. So, yeah, maybe it’s about me. ”

“Why?” he asked. “You already eliminated the men who killed your family.”

“That’s true, but their names aren’t forgotten. Rumors about my link to a Vitalis sister have already taken flight. Their enemies could be behind this.”

He exhaled, fingers tapping the door panel. “They’re not exactly predictable. There’s no telling what those fuckers would do.”

“Exactly,” I said.

“Well, we can shut it down,” he said. “Do you want me to call in reinforcements?”

I guided the Aston onto the driveway, then onto the main road. “Let’s assess the situation before calling in reinforcements.”

He remained silent for the remainder of the ride. Just a few minutes later, I arrived at the restaurant, where chaos overflowed onto the narrow sidewalk outside.

The restaurant was a cozy and intimate place, so the commotion spilling onto the street didn’t surprise me.

As we hopped out of the car, I scanned the sea of people, trying to make sense of the situation. Through the windows of the restaurant, I homed in on the faces of two members of prominent syndicate families. Their presence only fueled my suspicion that this chaos might be centered around me.

“I see the eldest Polus and Manolis,” Iason pointed out as we approached the crowd gathered outside to watch the chaos inside. “They’ve hated each other since they were kids.”

“Yeah, they’re going at it,” I replied, just as the eldest Polus son swung his fist, connecting forcefully with the nose of my head chef, who happened to have gotten in the way as the fight moved in the direction of the kitchen.

Frustration boiled over, and I yelled, “Goddammit!” I pushed through the crowd and rushed into the restaurant.

Inside, pandemonium reigned.

Men were grappling with one another, while some customers and the staff huddled in the corner in fear.

My heart sank at seeing my beloved restaurant now a battlefield. Splintered chairs and shattered dishes were strewn across the floor, and all I could envision was the financial toll each broken piece represented.

Fury bubbled within me, and I needed to know who was behind this madness. I searched the room, finding Alex and the rest of the staff, who stood watching the chaos unfold. Relief washed over Alex’s face when he spotted me and hurried over.

“Leon, should I call the cops? You told me to contact you first, and?—”

“No,” I interrupted. “Just guide the customers out through the back door and apologize. Tell them they can dine free for a year once we’ve sorted this mess out. I’ll handle these assholes.”

“I’ll help,” Iason chimed in, fists clenched at his sides, ready for action. “Who do I punch first?”

“Nobody,” I replied. Determined to end the chaos, I grabbed an intact chair, climbed onto it, and took a deep breath. I shouted with all the authority I could muster, my voice cutting through the clamor. “Enough!”

To my surprise, it succeeded. Fists lost their force in the air, chairs were returned to the floor instead of being smashed over heads, and all eyes shifted toward me.

I quickly evaluated the crowd, identifying nearly all as sons of the Polus and Manolis families. Since I regard the Manolises as my allies, I could only conclude that the oldest Polus had instigated this conflict.

“Who wants to explain why you’re trashing my restaurant?” I yelled.

Nektarios Polus stepped up, dismissing my presence.

He had been a scrawny kid years ago, but now he loomed over me like a giant.

His shoulders were broad, and his biceps resembled melons.

His face contorted into an ugly grimace as he glared at me.

He’d taken quite a hit, and his left eye was rapidly swelling.