Disorganized Crime: A Kat Makris Greek Mafia Novel by Alex A. King Page A

hundred percent. Her commitment to her family is unwavering. Everything she does is for her family and the people in her care."
    "Like …" I felt around in the metaphorical darkness. "…you?"
    "This whole village. She has performed miracles for people here. Is she a good person, a bad person, who can say? Whether a person is good or bad is sometimes a matter of perception. From here—" The sweep of his arm encompassed the whole church. "—she is a saint."
    "You talk too much, Father Harry," a voice cut in.
    Grandma was back.

----
    I was faking it when I remembered Detective Melas's business card. Everyone else was indulging in a siesta, and I wanted my share of the napping goodness, but sleep wasn't happening, no matter how hard I reached for it. Finally I just lied to myself and said I'd drifted off for a moment, and surely that counted—right?
    My hand went pocket diving. It pulled out Detective Melas's business card. Black on white. Nothing fancy. Definitely not American Psycho quality. Grandma wasn't home—Xander had driven her into Volos after the church—but that didn't stop me tiptoeing into the kitchen for the phone. I unhooked it from the wall and tiptoed back to my room. My cell phone was in my handbag, but I was pretty sure it wasn't set to call from Greece, and I wasn't in the mood to argue and plead with customer disservice, who would understand half of what I said and nothing I meant.
    Detective Melas picked up on the third ring. "Melas," he said.
    No time to waste on small talk. I poked him in the ear with my pointed question: Who was my father and why would anyone snatch a guy who'd been gone thirty years?
    A long silence happened. During that time I wondered if I'd accidentally dialed Xander.
    "Want my advice?" he said, finally. "Go home. Call a friend, beg, borrow, steal if you have to, but get a plane ticket home and go. Today."
    "Can't. I don't have a passport."
    "Jesus," he said. "I don't want to know how they got you into Greece."
    "Same way they got me out of the United States: illegally."
    " La la la . I'm not listening."
    "Anyway, I think I might be changing my mind about leaving. I'm not going anywhere if my father's here."
    "Do you have any proof he's in Greece?"
    "No."
    "So he could still be in America."
    "My grandmother doesn't think so."
    A big sigh leaked out of him. "Your family is …"
    I imagined him scratching his head, hunting for the right word. One that wouldn't get him killed.
    "… dysfunctional."
    "Everybody's family is dysfunctional. It's like the law of families, or something."
    His laugh was more like a bark. "Your family is more messed up than most. Don't tell me you don't know what they are."
    The picture was getting clearer by the minute. "Let's pretend I'm stupid."
    Another sigh. The man had talent. "Okay. Jesus. Your father was your grandmother's right fist before he took off thirty years ago. She barked the orders, and he took care of people who needed their minds changing—or worse. A lot of stories around about what happened to him. I don't know which is true. One story goes, she wanted him to marry some girl—another Family's daughter—to cement a business deal."
    "What deal?"
    "Tobacco. It's one of Greece's biggest crops. Your grandmother wanted in. Had transport lined up and a buyer in Bulgaria waiting to go."
    "Why tobacco?"
    "In those days taxes on tobacco were low. But in other European countries taxes were rising and people were looking for cheaper alternatives to what was on the shelves. Legal or not, didn't matter. Never does to addicts. One of the biggest names in the Greek tobacco industry had a daughter your father's age. Her father wanted connections in Bulgaria and your grandmother wanted tobacco. So they pledged their two kids to the cause. Then your father disappeared. There were stories he was dead, buried in a speed bump, drowned out at sea. Rumors your grandmother shot him herself."
    My face was going hot-cold-hot. Menopause already? Couldn't be.