Perhaps it was the look of anguish on Andreas' face or a paralyzing, simultaneous chill felt in each one's spine, but each stood perfectly still, quietly waiting for Andreas to speak.
Andreas only paused long enough for them to look directly into his eyes. 'A terrible thing has happened, Sotiris has been killed.' Unconsciously, he crossed himself.
No one moved, not a word was said. It was an eternity. It was three seconds.
'Noooooooooo…' The word went on forever. The mother kept pitching it higher and higher, twisting her hands about the man's arm, then grabbed her face in her hands. Still struggling to scream, but without the breath for it, she started pounding on the man's chest. He did not move. He did not blink.
Andreas did not know what more to say, and so he said the obvious. 'I'm so very sorry, Mr and Mrs Kostopoulos.'
3
Andreas never got used to delivering such dreadful, unexpected news. He didn't want to; his skin was thick enough. He watched Mrs Kostopoulos go from pounding on her husband's chest to sobbing against it, but he wasn't judging how they chose to mourn. There should be no rules for grieving. Especially for a child.
Ginny Kostopoulos was twenty-four when she met fifty-year-old Zanni. Like so many other Eastern-European beauties migrating to Greece in search of work, she put her natural charms to good use on celebrity-filled island beaches catering to the desires of thirsty sun worshipers. Zanni's were obvious from the start, and Ginny, an unwed mother of a four-year-old son, did not object. They married as quickly as he could divorce wife number two. Zanni adopted the boy, giving him the name Sotiris after Zanni's late father. He had two grown daughters from his previous marriages and, together with Ginny, twin ten-year-old girls. Sotiris was the only son.
Andreas waited patiently; he knew the question would come soon. It always did.