Page 12 of Beyond Enemy Vows
They speak, heads close together, intimate and conspiratorial. Then both glance in my direction, and Calli's eyes land on me.
I don't look away. I meet her gaze directly.
There's a flicker of something in her eyes.
I smile. So does she.
We stare at one another, for what some might say is too long, but I say not long enough, before someone calls her name and she's pulled away into the crowd again.
I may have come because I thought it was the right thing to do, to play politics.
But now, I think I want to stay for her.
I move to follow her, but a familiar voice calls out.
"Didn't think we'd see a Petrou here."
I turn to find Theo Kastaris standing a few feet away, one hand in his pocket the other with a drink in hand, eyes like ice picks.
I deal most with the Kastaris brothers. Ares and Theo, mostly. And while our fathers were that old-school mafia family type. Appear friendly, tolerant, host parties together, appear united and respectable and all that shit. The future generations, us, didn't see much need for that.
We wanted to keep business, friends, and family separate. We were friendly because it benefited us financially. We didn't have to play or appear nice, just get what our family was after. And as long as that worked, then we worked. And the moment it didn't, a hitman would appear and end things the way we do.
With that, it comes as no surprise the Kastaris brothers didn't care for me. Just dealt with me because of what my family offered in Greece. And to be honest, the feeling was mutual.
I nod. "Didn't think you'd let me in," I reply, matching his tone.
Theo doesn't blink.
"Didn't say I did," he says, coming up to me. "Another," he says to the bartender.
"So," he says, turning back to me, "your father send you with a message, I assume?"
"Just paying respects, Theo," I say. "Your father was a great man."
Theo's jaw tightens. "Spare me the eulogy. If you're here to play games, pick another playground."
He doesn't wait for a response. Just turns and walks away, disappearing into the sea of black suits and dresses.
If anything can be taken from his words, it's that I'm now being watched.
Fuck it. They won't see what I'm really doing.
After the next few hours, I stay in the shadows nursing the same whiskey, watching her. She moves from group to group, never staying long. Always in motion.
She smiles at the right moments. Nods sympathetically. Touches arms and shoulders. Perfect social choreography.
She laughs again, this time at something a man says. He's older. Wearing a wedding ring. Probably harmless. Still, I find myself stepping closer.
Not enough to be noticed.
Just close enough to hear her voice.
She doesn't know I'm there. She doesn't need to.
Because I'm already watching, noticing things others might miss.
Observing the way her fingers curl around her glass. The way her eyes flick between faces like she's recalling names of allies without trying. Or the tension in her shoulders. The way her eyes scan the room when she thinks no one's looking. The slight hesitation before she joins each new conversation.
