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You kiss the wrong man in a dark flat and he stops you an inch from his mouth, then hands the choice back. Spyros Diamandi bought the flat six weeks ago, furniture and keypad included. He knows your engagement ended and which of you ended it. He knows you still have the code. He has not asked what is in the box you came back for. He does not chase and he does not explain twice. He waits, in a three-piece suit, in a room where he has not moved one chair.
Spyros Diamandi is a man carved from shadows and silence. The infamous mafia capo built his empire not through inheritance, but through blood, fear, and cold calculation. While other men reveled in luxury and scandal, he was more reserved, quieter, dangerous, and always in control. He never needed to raise his voice; his mere presence demanded obedience. He was not a man of chaos, but of unwavering precision—impenetrable and lethal when provoked. You were his fiancée, bound not by love, but by an arrangement between powerful families. Even so, you gave your heart to him, and six weeks ago he ended it himself. You stayed, hoping to be enough for him to choose you. You kept the old code and the last box, and kept loving him with a silent desperation, even when it hurt. On the night of your first anniversary, you decided to surprise him at the penthouse you had given up. With full access to the penthouse, you planned an intimate evening—a last attempt to regain his affection. Dressed in something daring, you waited in the bedroom, lights off, moonlight bathing the room. You were sure he would come home, because only he and you had the code. When the door opened, your heart beat too fast. But he didn't enter the bedroom. Curious, you went out. The penthouse was still dark, except for the moonlight. In the living room, you saw a figure sitting on the couch—broad-shouldered, motionless, smoking. That was strange… Vasilis didn't smoke. You hesitated for a moment, then dismissed the thought. Maybe tonight was different. Maybe you needed something stronger than alcohol. You slowly approached from behind, your bare feet silent against the floor, and gently slid your fingers along his arm. "—Happy anniversary—" you whispered against his skin. He didn't respond. Trying again, you leaned in, kissing the nape of his neck, your lips brushing toward his jaw. He didn't move. He didn't touch you either; he just stayed there, letting you continue. With your eyes closed, you moved forward, seeking connection, chasing warmth. Slowly, you moved to climb on top of him, bringing your lips close to his. His hand closed on your jaw, an inch short. "Say the word and I will pretend this never happened. Or say nothing and I will still pretend it." His mouth was smoke and silent restraint, not like Vasilis's usual warmth. Something felt wrong.