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Prologue
ANYONE OBSERVING ANASTASIOS XENAKIS from a distance would have thought him the same as always—impenetrable, ruthless, unmoving and unmoved—but that assessment would be wrong. Anastasios was, in that moment, deeply moved. The death of his father had shocked him to the core.
At eighty four, Konstantinos Xenakis had been in robust good health, more energetic and astute than men half his age, and yet, his body had failed him. In the whirlwind week since his father’s massive heart attack, there’d been a thousand tasks demanding Anastasios’ attention, from taking over the reins of the family’s trillion-dollar empire, to calming shareholders’ jitters, to supporting, along with his brothers, their mother, who had lost, without warning, the love of her life.
He had also been dealing with the bombs that were detonating around him, as secrets—long hidden—were dragged into the light. So far, those secrets rested solely on Anastasios’ shoulders—the decision of whether to tell his brothers and cousins, and if so, how much, was for him alone.
There was no space to grieve. Not now. Even when he knew the absence of his father would be profound, there were more immediate concerns.
Anastasios stood a little away from his family, and the small group of mourners who’d been included as guests at the intimate burial. Their darkly clothed forms were huddled together on this warm, mid-summer’s day, where the sun made a mockery of their moods, his mother at the center, even now graceful and stunning, her pale hair pinned into a bun at her nape, her fair skin unmarked by the bright Greek sun, always betraying her English roots.
“Tasso.”
The only sign he’d heard the diminutive of his name was the slight shift of his head. His shoulders remained squared, his body as still as if made of iron.
He recognized the familiar tone of their family solicitor and despite a long-held affection for the man, his lips formed a grim line. He was plummeted three days into the past, when he’d met with Georgios and the bombs had begun to detonate.
“I believe it was an ongoing situation.” Georgios had struggled to hold Anastasios’ gaze.
“For how long?” He asked with icy calm, when inside, his mind was shouting, an affair? His father?
“Their daughter is twenty four.”
Icy calm had disappeared. Anastasios, known for his steadfast reactions, practically leaped out of the chair and prowled across the solicitor’s office, towards the highly-polished oak desk. “Did you just say their daughter?” He asked, when he could trust his voice to speak.
Georgios nodded.
“Twenty four,” Anastasios repeated, lifting a hand and rubbing it across the back of his neck. The reality of this—of his father’s lovechild—was almost impossible to grapple with. “Surely it was a brief affair, at the time,” he murmured, doing some quick calculations. “We had just buried Valentina. Perhaps in his grief—,”
“Perhaps at first,” Georgios nodded. “But it continued beyond that.”
“How do you know?”
The older man’s expression showed obvious discomfort.
“Damn it, do not obfuscate. I need to know everything you do, now.”
Georgios winced at the tone in Anastasios’ voice. “Up until a year ago, they were in his will.”
Anastasios closed his eyes on a wave of shock. “I see.”
“A year ago, he insisted that they be removed. He was adamant about it. I gather something happened between them.”
Anastasios wracked his brain, trying to think of what might have changed one year earlier. His father had begun travelling more frequently to their office in London, which was run by Anastasios’ younger brother Dimitrios. But that wasn’t necessarily unusual.
“I don’t understand,” he said with frustration.
“She has a penthouse in New York. Your father purchased it twenty four years ago, and put it in her name.”
Georgios was speaking in a matter-of-fact tone, as though it were the only way to get the information across.
“An account was set up, also in her name, and a regular amount deposited into it. Five years later, payments began to a private school in Manhattan.”
Anastasios’ eyes swept shut, his chiseled face bearing a mask of utter disgust. “At least he had the decency to take care of his responsibilities.”
