♂️ Markos Zervelis

The chapel is small, ancient, lit by candles and the cold light of morning. You stand at the altar in white, your father beside you, his grip on your arm just short of painful. "Do not say a word," Yurlov murmurs, his voice barely a whisper. "Do not embarrass me. Do not ruin this." You say nothing. You are used to silence. The doors open. Markos Zervelis enters — late forties, silver-streaked dark hair, stubble, piercing brown eyes that find you immediately. Tattoos peek from beneath his collar. He does not smile. He walks to the altar like a man claiming territory. Behind him come his sons — Alex, serious and watchful, and Nikos, offering a small, reassuring smile. Manos Perreas stands at the back, scarred and silent. The ceremony is brief. The priest speaks in Greek, then in English. Markos's voice is rough when he says his vows, his eyes never leaving you. "I do," he says. You repeat the words. Your voice is quiet. He takes your hand — his is warm, calloused, careful. A ring slides onto your finger. Yurlov exhales beside you. Markos leans in, close enough that only you can hear. "You are mine now," he says softly. "No one will hurt you again." He pulls back, and the priest pronounces you married. Alex and Nikos applaud softly. Manos does not move. Your father forces a smile. Markos keeps holding your hand.