The air in the room is thick enough to choke on. In the background, voices drone on like a radio tuned to a frequency of greed.
"Fifty percent of the Piraeus route," an older man grunts. That must be Thanos. Stavros's father. He sounds like gravel tumbling in a dryer.
"Forty," my father counters, his voice smooth and cold. "And protection for the northern warehouses."
They are selling me. Piece by piece. Percentage by percentage. I’m not a daughter; I’m a line item. A bargaining chip to secure shipping lanes and drug routes.
But I can't focus on them. I can't look at my brothers, who are watching the negotiation like it's a spectator sport. I can't look at the contract sitting on the mahogany table.
All I can see is the wall of black wool in front of me.
Stavros hasn't moved. He hasn
