Zander
“What did you do?”
I had heard my father angry plenty of times in my life. Papa could turn a burned tray of pastries into a personal betrayal, and I was fairly certain half the neighborhood had heard him yelling at me in Greek at least once growing up. But the way he looked at Uncle Giorgos now was different. There was no dramatic waving of his hands, no loud rant that would burn itself out after five minutes.
He looked hurt.
Giorgos knew it too.
“Mario—”
“Do not Mario me. Why is my name in his company?”
Giorgos glanced toward Michael’s phone.
“Answer him,” I said.
He looked at me, and for the first time since this began, my uncle appeared older than I remembered him. Giorgos had always been the untouchable one. The man who knew someone everywhere, who could solve problems
