After a thorough search of the yacht, she and Hakan had navigated the Aphrodite back to Santorini, towing the Donzi. Hakan had told Christos’s trusted police contact Max Heros about the yacht, the bodies, and the bloodstain on the helipad. They had no idea who had taken Christos or why. Until they better understood the situation, containment was key, and Max was keeping the information on the down-low. Working openly with the authorities had never been her boss’s modus operandi, and in this case she was willing to follow his lead.
Especially given the strange Latin text message that had been sent to her father’s cell. She had eventually translated it: Often it is not even advantageous to know what will be. A quote from Cicero, it offered no clues, just a dark omen. She kept rereading the message, desperate for a lead. Although kidnappers usually transported their hostages to a safe house before calling in a ransom demand, this felt different. This felt as if they were being taunted.
She forced her mind back to the present, wishing she could’ve brought Aegis to the party for moral support. She stepped into the restaurant, surveying the Christmas wreaths decorating the whitewashed walls and the mistletoe suspended from the archways. Waiters served Greek delicacies and poured Cristal champagne. Laughter infused the space. The men wore bespoke tuxedos, and the women paraded the latest designer couture.
She stopped to greet Ahmed Khali, Paris Industries’ COO, a capable man who took his job seriously. He seemed harried. Did he know something about the kidnapping, or was he just anxious about his boss’s party being a success?
Shaking her head to clear her mounting paranoia, Thea headed straight for the emcee platform. Every ounce of her energy was needed to pull this off. She nodded to Hakan. Before stepping up to the microphone, she squeezed her eyes shut, remembering happier times, wishing that Christos would magically appear to welcome his guests.
She opened her eyes, stepped up, and adjusted the microphone. “Good evening, everyone. Welcome to our annual celebration.”
People turned to face the podium, and the noise tapered off. She scanned the faces, searching for a tightening of the lips, a quick glance away—any sign that someone here might be involved in her father’s disappearance. But other than Ahmed Khali’s quizzical look, only expectant faces glowing with good cheer gazed back at her. And no sign of her brother, Nikos, yet. She wasn’t looking forward to breaking the news to him—Papa’s kidnapping would probably unearth memories best kept in the past.
She forced a smile. “My family deeply appreciates your joining us here today.” She leaned back from the microphone and cleared her throat.
Murmurs of approval buzzed through the crowd. Glasses clinked. The guests had flown in from all over the world: business rivals, dignitaries, sheikhs, executives from Paris Industries, politicians, rock stars, socialites.
“While nothing would give me greater pleasure than introducing Papa and kicking off his celebration, I’m afraid I won’t be able to do that this evening.”
A few groans. A voice in the crowd shouted, “Where’s our man?”
She wished she knew. “A very dear member of the Paris Industries team, my father’s head bodyguard for the past twenty-two years, unexpectedly passed away this afternoon.” Keep your lies as close to the truth as possible, Papa had always advised. “Due to this tragic loss, my father is with the man’s family tonight. Christos sends his warmest regards and hopes you’ll take advantage of the extra champagne available since he won’t be here to imbibe.” She lifted a glass in the air. “To Christos.”
The ruckus in the restaurant intensified as people buzzed among themselves. The party mood quickly resurfaced. Sure, they were sorry they’d lost the chance to network with the man, but they wouldn’t miss the opportunity to enjoy his fine food and champagne.
The guest list had been strategically assembled for months, every person handpicked. Although Christos had a sterling reputation as a man of his word, he worked in a cutthroat industry where backstabbing and betrayal were de rigueur. And that made her job of looking for any unusual or suspicious behavior a challenge.
Her father’s BlackBerry was clutched in her left fist, and she prayed for it to ring. Other than the trail of dead bodies and the Latin text, they had nothing to go on. Time was one of the kidnapper’s most powerful weapons, keeping family members desperate for any news. The game was all too familiar.
Surveying the crowd, she recognized sister and brother Quan Xi-Ping and Quan Chi from the newspapers. The delegation from China. Only her father would have the balls to invite his competition in the Kanzi oil deal. Perhaps it’d be a good idea to introduce herself, see if the pair had anything to hide.
She set down her glass—no alcohol for her tonight—and stepped off the podium. Her legs were shaky from the stairs, the stress, and the stilettos. She wobbled on the last step. A strong hand steadied her.
She looked up. Rif stood in front of her.
“Your left eye twitches when you lie,” he said.
“Sorry, no time to chat.” She tried to step aside, but his large frame blocked her escape.