The war room smells of stale coffee, cigarette smoke, and fresh rage. My father stands at the head of the massive digital map table, moving red markers across the glowing projection of Athens like a general commanding an army of ghosts.
Stavros sits to his right, the white bandage above his eye stark against his bruised skin. He’s silent, methodically sharpening a combat knife with a rhythmic shhhk-shhhk sound that sets my teeth on edge.
Nikos and Leo are pacing, shouting about supply lines and retaliation strikes. They’re planning a m******e because of the bomb that nearly killed us. They want to burn the city down. But they’re looking outward, at the Vasilakis family. I’m looking at the empty chair where loyalty used to sit.
I walk into the room, my heels clicking sharply on the hard
