Deviant Hearts: Chapter 6

“Ares.”

My grandmother smiles a regal, practiced smile as she embraces me.

“Kai pós eínai o polemistís mou?”

And how is my warrior?

“I’m fine, Ya-ya.”

I hug her back, her frail, bird-like frame disappearing into my enormous arms for a minute before I pull back. She may be tiny, and it might look like a strong breeze would blow her to dust. But only a fool would underestimate or discount Dimitra Drakos.

Those thin, frail arms and that hawkish face contain all the lethality of a machine gun combined with the subtleness of a knife through the ribs. And no small wind is going to do shit to a woman whom even hurricanes fear.

“Come, Ares, let’s sit.”

Dimitra leads me through the lavish Drakos family home that I lived in before moving to the UK—a stunning and staggering neoclassical mansion perched at the top of a forty-story building on Central Park South. Twelve bedrooms, twice as many bathrooms, terraces with grounds complete with two pools and a tennis court, and a wine cellar that rivals almost any other private collection in the States.

Needless to say, the line of brokers salivating in anticipation of the day we decide to sell this place is…lengthy. But they can drool all they want. It will stay in our family forever.

When we step into the parlor—Dimitra’s favorite place in the house to hold court—we find it already occupied by Calliope.

Ever since we all moved back to New York, Calliope and Kratos are living here with Ya-ya. I’m in my new place on the West Side, and Hades is—to the best of my knowledge—somewhere in the Lower East Side, maybe Alphabet City. His exact address is a mystery. But given my younger brother’s fondness for hedonism and chaos, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t want to be dropping by unannounced anyway.

When we walk into the room, my sister glances up from whatever she’s scrolling on her phone and smiles wanly at me.

I know why.

One of the three men responsible for the shooting yesterday was a younger guy—Tomas, I think his name was. I sincerely doubt it was anything romantic, but I know he and Calliope palled around and were part of the same clubbing scene from time to time, being the same age.

Now, if he’s lucky, Cillian’s already killed him. If he’s not lucky…well, he’s not dead yet.

And my sister is fully aware that I gave the go-ahead for that to happen.

But even if she’s angry, or hurting, even Calliope understands how our world operates. There are rules. There are chains of command. This is not a democracy, it’s a fucking absolute monarchy.

And unfortunately, yesterday it was on me to play not only King, but judge and jury too. It was only the executioner part I left to Cillian.

I feel slightly bad about the way that had to play out. But Tomas and the two other men stepped out of line. So they paid the price. That’s the law of the jungle.

“How are you?”

Calliope sighs, shrugging, the brief flash of anger on her face melting away. Again, I know she understands how this all works. And I know even through her anger, she knows I had no choice to do what I did. Still. I’ll talk to her more later, away from Dimitra.

“I’m fine. Still a little spooked from yesterday, but fine.”

Dimitra makes an annoyed clucking sound against her teeth.

“My grandchildren are barely back home with me, and already I have to worry about violence.”

“It’s been dealt with, Ya-ya,” I growl quietly. “It won’t happen again.”

She sighs, shaking her head before glancing at my sister.

“Callie, my love, could you give us the room, please?”

My sister nods, putting her phone away and standing.

“Naí, Ya-ya.”

She walks over and gives our grandmother a quick hug and peck on the cheek before she turns to me.

“We’re long overdue for a dinner,” I murmur. “Let’s fix that soon, please. I want to—”

“It’s fine, Ares,” she smiles wryly. “I’m fine. Really. I get it, okay?” Her brows arches. “You’re the king now, right?”

She gives me a half smile as she pats my chest and walks past me out of the room.

“She’s angry about Ezio’s men, yes?”

I turn to nod at Dimitra. “She is. About one in particular.”

My grandmother frowns as she takes a seat on one of the sofas by the gigantic fireplace. I sit on the one opposite the little table between us.

“She loved him?”

I shake my head. “No… I don’t think so.”

“Lusted for him, then?”

My nose wrinkles. “Also no. I think they were just friends.”

Relief floods Dimitra’s face.

“Good. We wouldn’t want any rumors getting back to—”

“That fucking pig?”

Dimitra’s face stiffens at my language. She’s old-fashioned that way. But she lets it slide, only giving me a twisted smile.

Who she’s referring to—and who I will always refer to as “that fucking pig”—is Luca Carveli, head of the Carveli crime family on the west coast. A disgusting creep of a man with less than zero honor.

Who unfortunately also happens to be betrothed to my sister.

The arrangement was made by our father years ago, to settle a dispute between the families as well as cement a business pact that made both parties very, very rich. I’d burn the whole thing to the ground if I could, though. The idea of them together makes my skin crawl.

Because Luca is a violent, cruel man, not to mention thirty years older than Calliope. The one saving grace to the whole arrangement is that she doesn’t become his until she turns twenty-one. But that’s coming up quickly.

“It is what it is, Ares. This is how these things work. You obviously know that. But we can talk about your sister another time,” Dimitra says with a slow nod. “Today, I wish to talk about you.”

“Well, here I am.”

“With a chip on your shoulder and words caged behind angry teeth, yes, I can see that.”

I sigh. “Ya-ya, I’m doing what I need to do for our family. Please don’t expect me to enjoy it.”

She chuckles. “Ares, you are hardly the first Drakos to marry for reasons other than true love. And please, don’t try and tell me you’re not at least a little bit attracted to her. She’s a very pretty girl.”

I grunt noncommittally, even if my mind is flashing to a thousand swirling thoughts of Neve’s face.

Of her sharp green eyes and fiery red hair.

Of her perfect tits and mouthwatering ass when she changed, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I can see into her apartment just as easily as she’s been spying into mine.

“She’ll make very pretty babies with you, too.”

I blink, snapping out of my fantasies to make a sour face.

“Not happening.”

She snorts, waving a hand at me as she shakes her head.

“Anoisíes.”

“It’s not nonsense, Ya-ya. That isn’t part of the arrangement. We’ll marry. We’ll join Drakos to Kildare and keep the blood from spilling into the streets. But I will not be—”

“And why is that, hmm?”

I scowl. “Because she’s—awful.”

Dimitra cackles, her frail little shoulders rising and falling like tucked-back buzzard wings.

“Please. How exactly is she awful?”

“Would you like the full list, or just the bullet point elevator pitch?”

“Theé mou, the dramatics!”

My jaw clenches.

“She’s headstrong. Obstinate. She’s—”

“Strong men need not fear strong women, Ares.”

“Óchi, Ya-ya. I don’t fear her as such, and it’s not her strength that gets under my skin. No, it’s her stubbornness. Plus, she’s flighty. Quick-tempered.” I start to tick them off on my fingers. “Foul-mouthed. Crude. Lazy. Unsophisticated. And she tries to cover all of these flaws with an endless stream of sarcasm.”

“Well, you’re marrying her,” Dimitra shrugs.

“Yes,” I growl, “I am.”

“Then make her into what she needs to be.”

“And what exactly is that?”

“A queen fit for a god, Ares.” My grandmother shrugs quietly. “Do you think everyone marries for love? People in families like ours have married for power and protection for centuries. Do not forget, we are the descendants of Spartans.”

It’s her favorite myth, one that she persists in clinging to: that my siblings and I are directly related to the shirtless guys with the CGI abs from the movie 300.

“I don’t have time for a queen, or a wife,” I grunt. “I’m trying to lead an empire.”

Not pick out coordinating fucking cutlery sets and china, or fucking curtains. Not, I gather, that Neve Kildare is that type of woman in the slightest, but still.

Crap.

Dimitra isn’t wrong. Neve is a stunningly beautiful girl. And in wildly different circumstances, if she wasn’t her or if I wasn’t me, then yes, I’d be more than happy to have her in my bed. On her knees. Across my lap. Against the fucking windows, begging me to fuck her any way and any place I choose with every inch of my thick cock.

But Jesus Christ, none of that would involve fucking marrying her.

“Is it her, or the concept of marriage that you seem to find distasteful?”

“I have nothing against marriage.”

“What about as it pertains to you personally?”

I shrug. “I have nothing against getting married myself, no.”

“And who would you marry, exactly? If we weren’t in this situation, and you had free choice?”

“That’s easy. A good, Greek—”

She scoffs abruptly.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t try to pander to me with ‘a good Greek girl’, grandson. I’ve seen the girls you date. They’re rarely Greek, and believe me, none of them is good, in any way.”

I scowl. Dimitra smirks at me. There’s a pause.

“It’s a good match, Ares.”

“For the family.”

“For the family, yes. But for you, too.”

“Who’s pandering to whom now?”

“Próseche ti glóssa sou!” she gasps with a cluck of her teeth and scandalized look on her face.

Watch your tongue.

But when I grin, she rolls her eyes and smiles back. She reaches across the table between us, taking my hands in her small, wizened ones.

“Agáli-agáli gínetai i agourída méli.”

Little by little, it becomes honey.

“That’s about grapes and wine.”

She shrugs. “It’s a Greek proverb, it can be about anything. Grapes, wine…” She arches a silver brow at me. “Marriage…”

My brow furrows as my jaw sets. Dimitra pats my hand.

“If it’s not perfect, or if she’s not who you need her to be, then mold her. Mold both of you, if need be.”

“How the hell am I supposed to—”

“You’re a king, Ares,” she murmurs, eyeing me cooly. “You will do whatever you need to do for your family. Even if it means putting on a mask and playing the part you need to play.”

Then, with a shrug, she casts off her stern look and smiles at me as she pats my hand again, more gently this time.

“Come, let’s find Kratos and your sister. I want to eat dinner outside tonight.”

And I want to figure out how the fuck I’m supposed to marry the sharp-tongued, defiant little witch across the street from me without both of us killing each other.

And I want to figure that out fast.