Page 139 of Dagger in the Sea

39

Adriana

Placinga firm hand on my back, Turo glanced at the two security guards who stood by the Porsche Cayenne and got a nod in return. He guided me to the entryway of my father’s apartment building in Vouliagmeni, an upscale beach and café neighborhood on the southeast outskirts of Athens where the hotel my father had always worked was located.

I took in a breath as we walked through the small gated courtyard and climbed the steps to the heavy wooden front door.

The first time I’d been to this flat was when he’d just moved in. I was nine years old. We’d spent the day together and ended up back here with a box of our favoriteprofiterolesin hand and a film I’d picked out at the video rental shop. He went to have a cigarette in the kitchen and got on the phone. He spoke loudly, and maybe he thought I was too young to understand the art of innuendo or maybe he just didn’t care, but I realized he was speaking with a woman, a girlfriend. I’d understood every insinuation, every filthy suggestion that had come out of his mouth. I’d lost my appetite for the chocolate sauce soaked cream puffs, and he’d gotten annoyed with me and called me a spoilt brat.

The last time I’d seen my father was several months ago. We’d met at a café down the road from here. I’d laughed as I listened to his tales. He was a great entertainer, the ultimate storyteller—he reveled in the buildup, the cast of characters, the drama. Then there’d been a pause, and he’d launched into how things were “fine” but he had that restless look about him. That look that said,“everything would be so much better, if only…”

He’d told me about a new business idea and how excited he was about it. He’d need fifty thousand euros, however, to get it off the ground with his business partners. My father had many friends and “business partners” many of whom were figures of “the night”, as they were called—nightclub, beach café, and bar owners. A shady lot who constantly opened and closed businesses.

I’d promised to consider giving him the money. I wanted to see him thrive, and I’d given him a great deal of cash for the last idea, a sailboat charter company. The company was doing well, or so he’d said, and I hoped it was true, and that his infatuation with the business had not waned.

I’d wanted to please him, like I always did, and I ended up giving him half of what he’d asked, twenty-five thousand. He’d been disappointed, but pleased all the same. That was the last time we met. We’d spoken on the phone, but he didn’t share any news about how the new business was shaping up, and I hadn’t asked.

The shooting that night at Island had shaken me to the core because I knew. Iknewit had to be related to my father.

Now, I wanted answers. And no story of his would soften my resolve for the truth.

I hit the button with his name on it, and a loudbuzzclick, unlocked the door, Turo pushing it open for us. We took the small elevator to the third floor where I rang the bell at his flat. Footsteps became louder on the other side, and I shifted my weight, strangling the leather handles of my handbag.

The door pulled open.

My father.

Tall with more strands of gray in his thick, coppery brown hair than I remembered, and the bulky muscles from decades of water sports obvious through the thin fabric of his T-shirt. His lined and darkly bronzed skin spoke of a life lived outside, under the sun. His hair was messy, and his brown caramel eyes, although glassy and fatigued, suddenly leapt into tense lines. The worn tiger.

“Adriana?” my father said.

“Babá.”

We kissed on both cheeks, hugged but my back stiffened under the pat of his hand. I pulled back from him, and his eyes narrowed at Turo and darted back to me.

“This is Turo, my security guard. Turo, this is my father, Yianni Karantis.”

My father’s face furrowed at my use of English, and he shot Turo a dark glower. A rush of Greek erupted from him, demanding to know why I was at his home with a stranger in tow at this ungodly hour of the morning.

“In English, please,” I said. “Turo’s American.”

That got me a darker, deeper scowl.

“I trust Turo with my life,” I said. “In fact, he saved my life that night I got shot at. I trust him with whatever you have to tell me about this…situation.”

Yianni crossed his long, formidable arms across his chest, his jaw jutting out. “Okay.”

The apartment was small but well furnished with the same modernistic chrome and glass and wood furniture he’d always had, a style that I’d always found cold and lifeless. A wide, sun-soaked veranda opened up before us and made the apartment seem bigger and warmer than it actually was.

We sat in the small living room. “Kafé?” Yianni asked, taking a quick sip of his frappé, lighting a hand-rolled cigarette.

I only shook my head, my gaze falling to the large glass ashtray full of butts and ash on the table between us.

“No, thank you,” Turo replied, his eyes darting over the room, landing on a framed photo of little girl me in a red bathing suit, my father’s arm slung around my shoulders, both of us smiling after windsurfing on the beach at the hotel.

“When was the last time they contacted you?” I asked.

“Two weeks ago,” he said, sipping his coffee. “Two men came to this bar where I was with a few friends and told me that their boss had lost all patience with me and expected a payment.” He made a face, that particular Greek expression of the“what could I do? What did he expect me to say?”variety.

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