Santorini, Greece…
It was happening again.
Raph scowled at the six-foot, three-inch man staring back at him in the bathroom mirror. Fatigue had settled in pockets under his sleep-deprived eyes, and a black five o’clock shadow covered his olive skin. He took great pride in his appearance, but with the circumstances of the last week and a half, especially the last few hours, grooming had been the furthest thing from his mind.
Bending under the weight of sadness and unease, he turned on the faucet, splashed cold water on his face, then threaded his wet hands through his rumpled hair, pressing the black strands against the collar of his white shirt. Lifting a clean towel from a stack on the counter, he dried his face and eyed his reflection again. He still looked disheveled, but at least he felt somewhat refreshed.
He exited the bathroom and, ignoring the hum of voices coming from the living room, he headed in the opposite direction toward the large oak door at the end of the hall. As soon as he opened it, the smell of ammonia and antiseptic flooded his nostrils and the sound of air being forced through congested lungs filled his ears.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, Raph strolled over to the bed and gazed at the ninety-three-year-old patriarch of the Giannopoulos family sleeping in the middle of the bed. His wraithlike body was propped up by pillows on each side, and his skin was so pallid, he was almost indistinguishable from the white cotton sheet beneath him...
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