Kostas’s phone chimed. He glanced down, his expression shifting from irritation to shock. “What the fuck?”
“Language.” The correction came automatically after decades of monitoring what my brothers said around Chrysanthos. It no longer mattered that my son was grown and absent—the habit was too ingrained. “What is it now? Did Katalina release a sex tape of Chrysanthos?”
“No.” He looked up, face pale beneath his tan. “It’s about Uncle Stavros.”
“What about him?”
“The medical examiner’s office in New York has reclassified his death.” Kostas stared at his screen. “They’re calling it a homicide. After thirty years.”
Dimitrios stood abruptly, moving to read over Kostas’s shoulder. “That’s impossible. They said it was natural causes.”
“Not anymore,” Kostas said, handing me his phone. “Read the article.”
I scanned the headline from Update Daily News:“Billionaire Stavros Christakis’ Death Ruled a Homicide, 30 Years Later…”
Uncle Stavros was my father’s older brother and a former CEO of Olympus Motors before passing on the position to my father and starting up his own company. C-Star.
“The NYPD has opened an investigation after a witness came forward,” I said, my voice sounding distant to my own ears. “They believe he was killed.”
“This will destroy Aunt Irida,” Dimitrios said softly. Our aunt had never recovered from her eldest brother’s death.
The sound of female voices floated from the hallway moments before the doors opened. My mother entered first, followed by Aunt Irida. Behind them came Kayla, and then Dede.
She wore a simple blue T-shirt and dark jeans, with her hair held back by a hairband. Our eyes met briefly before she glanced away.
“What conspiracy are my sons plotting this morning?” Mother asked in English.
“We have received some unexpected news,” I said, rising. “It concerns Uncle Stavros.”
Aunt Irida stiffened, her hand finding Mother’s arm. “What about my brother?”
I told my family about the news, choosing my words with care as I explained what the article revealed. The silence that followed was absolute.
Then Aunt Irida made a keening wail that seemed to emerge from some ancient well of grief. She swayed dangerously, and I moved to support her, but Dede reached her first.
“Here, sit down,” Dede murmured, guiding my aunt to the nearest chair. The compassion in her eyes as she kneeled beside Irida stirred a longing inside me that was entirely separate from the family crisis unfolding before us.
The doors opened again, admitting Chrysanthos and Tia, their faces bright with the glow of young love that had not yet encountered true hardship. Their expressions sobered immediately upon reading the room.
“Father?” my son said. “What’s happened?”
I crossed the room toward him, holding out a tablet. “Read this.”
“What is it?” Tia asked, leaning closer to see.
Chrysanthos tilted the tablet so she could read the article and explained who Stavros was and when he died.
Mother and Aunt Irida immediately blamed Angela, my uncle’s widow, convinced she’d murdered him thirty years ago. My brothers argued for caution, while my son and Tia observed with fresh eyes.
Dede rose from Irida’s side, her gentle authority filling the room. “Irida, you should lie down,” she said, helping my aunt to her feet. “This can’t be good for your heart.”
“Deanna’s right,” Mother agreed. “Come, Irida. We need to rest.”
“I’ll help,” Kayla offered, supporting Irida’s other side.
“I’ll come too,” Tia said, squeezing Chrysanthos’ hand before releasing it.
As the women moved toward the door, my eyes remained fixed on Dede. I wanted nothing more than to follow her and address her silent departure last night. Instead, I remained where I was.
