My core spasms, my pulse skipping as Kratos turns to the door in front of us as footsteps approach on the other side.
“Tonight, we’ll be taking care of that.”
“Do you like baklava?”
I’m sitting alone with Dimitra Drakos, or “Ya-ya”, as her grandchildren call her, on the terrace of her private office. Before us lie the sweeping, gorgeously manicured grounds of the Drakos estate. They extend out to every edge of the building, where the rose bushes, manicured lawns, and stone walkways suddenly drop away like cliffs to Central Park below.
It’s just Dimitra and me: Kratos left as soon as she welcomed me into her office. The woman is petite—like not even five feet, and probably ninety pounds after a swim. But there’s still an unquestionable power that radiates from her.
Obviously, Ares is the head of the Drakos family. But at the same time, I get the sense that Dimitra would get the final word on most issues if she put her foot down.
My stomach grumbles at the word “baklava”.
“I love baklava,” I enthuse. “There’s this little Greek pastry shop on 26th and Lexington—”
“Yiorgos’ Café, yes,” she finishes. “I know it. Good baklava…” She lifts a bird-like shoulder. “But if that’s your favorite, we need to expand your horizons.”
I grin. “Any recommendations?”
“Yes. My own.”
I blink as she puts down her cup of tea and stands. “Come with me.” She winks. “We’re making baklava.”
Okayyy? I follow Dimitra through the gorgeous home until we step into a jaw-droppingly beautiful kitchen.
“It’s easier than you think. Plus, it’s Kratos’ favorite.”
For some reason, that hits weirdly. I stiffen as she bustles around the kitchen, pulling various ingredients from shelves.
“You’re teaching me because I have to make my husband happy?”
Shit.
It comes out with way more attitude than I intended. I wince, bracing myself for Dimitra’s wrath, or a stern talk about how it’s a mafia wife’s duty to make her husband’s life comfortable and bear his children.
But instead of a scowl, it’s a grin I see on her face when she turns toward me, shaking her head. “No matter how many times I hear that said, especially by older generations like mine who should know better, it never ceases to make me angry.” She frowns. “A wife should make her husband happy by her mere presence. Because she’s who she is, and that’s what he enjoys about her. Not because she’s cleaning up after him or making him the ‘right’ meals.” Her silvered brows knit as she shakes her head again. “That’s not marriage. That’s indentured servitude.”
I grin.
I think I’m going to like this woman a lot.
“Our world, Bianca, is full of marriages of convenience, or of inconvenience, or marriages to keep the peace. That’s simply the way it is. But no matter the reasons for two people getting married, it’s still a promise. And a promise goes both ways. Yes, I hope that you make my grandson happy, just as I hope he makes you happy. But not because you break your back doing things for him.”
She starts to line her ingredients up on the kitchen island between us.
“Bianca, I don’t want to teach you how to make my baklava today so you can satisfy Kratos. He’s a grown man, and a very fine cook himself, and he can make his own damn baklava if he wants some.” She winks at me again. “I’m teaching you because you’re going to be part of our family, and I’ve always taught all the women in our family how to make it so that they can make it for themselves should they choose to. Okay?”
A wide smile threatens to split my face as I nod. “Okay.”
Dimitra nods. “Good. Let’s bake.”
18
BIANCA
The creaky old doors groan as I open them. Stepping inside, a cold shiver finger-walks up my spine as I step back into this place.
The scene of the crime.
The place where I can let go of reality and submerge myself in the fucked-up and deliciously deviant.
The doors close with a whine behind me, and I tremble.
It feels different this time. The church is even darker, like the lights outside have been turned out.
I don’t mean that metaphorically. It’s literally almost pitch black in here, as if he really did cover the windows. There’s no trace of the faint glow of stained glass like the last two times I’ve been here.
Only a throbbing, magnetic, slightly unsettling black promise. Only darkness, with a single candle flickering in the middle of the floor.
No sign of Kratos.
My skin tingles with nervous energy, the mix of fear and excitement the strongest drug in the world as it courses through my veins.
A needy, achy heat pools slickly between my thighs. And that’s how I know it’s not just that I’ve “agreed” to this.
I want it.
