26. Santo
The handcuffs bit into my wrist as I yanked against them for the hundredth time that day, the metal link between us clanking as my father’s arm jerked with my movement.
“This is kidnapping,” I snarled, glaring at my father, who sat beside me, both of us confined to the private jet’s leather seats. “I’m a grown man. You can’t just—”
“I can and I have,” he replied without looking up from his tablet. “Until you can demonstrate rational thinking, you’ll stay exactly where I can see you.”
From across the aisle, Yiayia clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “Aristides, must you be so dramatic? Handcuffs, really?”
“Would you prefer he chased that poor girl across continents, Mother?” my father countered, not bothering to look up. “After what he did?”
Yiayia sighed, adjusting the cashmere shawl around her shoulders. “Of course not. That dear girl deserves peace after what our foolish boy put her through.” She fixed me with a withering look. “I’m simply saying there must be more dignified solutions than treating him like a common criminal.”
“I’m right here,” I muttered, testing the cuffs again and finding the metal as unyielding as my father’s resolve. The chain connecting us was barely fifteen centimeters long, forcing an uncomfortable proximity between us.
Theia Irida snorted from her seat beside Yiayia. “What you did to Tia was unconscionable, Chrysanthos. I’ve never been more disappointed.”
Her words stung more than her using my full name. Irida had always been my staunchest defender.
“Tia made you better, and this is how you repay her kindness?” she continued, her tone softening when she spoke of Tia.
“I need to go after her,” I pleaded. “She’s getting further away with every minute. If I don’t stop her now—”
“Then what?” Domna interrupted. “You’ll force your presence on her after she explicitly asked to be left alone? Haven’t you done enough?”
My father’s dark eyes pierced mine. “You’ll chase her through America? Create an international scene? Force her to listen to your apologies while you’re still thinking like a spoiled child?”
I slumped back against the seat, the fight temporarily leaving my body.
Dimitrios emerged from the jet’s galley, balancing a tray with four crystal glasses of amber liquid. “I thought we could all use a drink,” he announced. “Though some of us might need it more than others.”
“Any word from Konstantin?” my father asked as Dimitrios carefully handed out the drinks, adjusting his movements to accommodate our restricted mobility.
My uncle’s expression darkened. “He’s staying behind with Kayla. Things are... tense.”
“Finding out you have a half-brother that your husband kept a secret would upset anyone,” Dimitrios said.
Irida sat straighter, her voice unwavering. “Matthaios is my son. Not Michail’s. He forfeited that claim the moment he chose to marry a stripper a week before our wedding. ”
The cabin fell into stunned silence at Irida’s impassioned outburst. My father was the first to recover.
“Theia Irida,” he said gently, “we’ve always honored your wishes regarding Matthaios. No one has ever questioned your right to raise him as you saw fit.”
Domna reached across to place her hand over her sister-in-law’s. “You raised him with love. That’s what matters. The rest... we carry together.” Her voice carried the weight of decades of shared history. “Kayla has every right to feel betrayed by our family.”
Dimitrios sipped her drink thoughtfully. “First Tia leaves because of Santo’s scheming, and now Kayla is upset with Konstantin. We’re not having much luck with the women in this family lately.”
“They need time,” my father said, and I realized he was speaking to me again. “And frankly, so do you.”
“How long are you planning to keep us like this?” I asked, lifting our joined wrists. “A day? A week?”
My father’s lips twitched. “Until we arrive in New York and meet with the investigators. Then we’ll see.” He shifted in his seat, forcing me to adjust as well. “Two days minimum, I’d say.”
“Two days?” I groaned, letting my head fall back against the headrest. “And how exactly are we supposed to manage... everything?” I gestured vaguely with my injured hand .
“We’ll manage,” my father replied simply. “Consider it a lesson in consequences, Chrysanthos. Something long overdue.”
Domna leaned forward. “When we land, Aristides, you will remove those ridiculous restraints. We have enough scandal brewing without adding to it.”
“The handcuffs stay, Mother,” my father replied firmly. “At least until we’re settled in the penthouse.”
The jet’s engines hummed steadily as we crossed the Atlantic. Night had fallen, and the cabin lights dimmed. Irida and Domna had retreated to the private sleeping quarters at the rear of the plane, leaving just my father, Dimitrios, and me in the main cabin.
“I need to use the bathroom,” I said after several hours of uncomfortable silence.
My father sighed deeply, as if I’d requested something monumentally inconvenient rather than a basic human necessity.
“Fine.”
The awkward shuffle to the lavatory was an exercise in humiliation. Each step required coordination, and my father’s expression remained stoically neutral as we maneuvered through the narrow aisle.
“This is ridiculous,” I muttered as we reached the door.
“Yes,” my father agreed, “your behavior has been. ”
The logistics of using the facilities while handcuffed to another person were as mortifying as expected. My father turned away to grant what minimal privacy he could, but the indignity of the situation wasn’t lost on either of us.
When we returned to our seats, Dimitrios had moved to sit opposite us.
“You know,” he said conversationally, “when I first met Tia, I thought she was your temporary obsession.”
I stiffened, not wanting to hear it.
“But then I watched her stand up to you. Watched her work.” Dimitrios leaned forward. “She has backbone and heart. She deserved better than to be collateral damage in your vendetta against Katalina.”
“It didn’t stay that way,” I protested. “What I felt for her—what I feel for her—is real.”
“Perhaps,” Dimitrios conceded. “But you built that feeling on a foundation of lies. Now you’re surprised the structure collapsed?”
My father’s hand fell heavily on my shoulder. “The moment you decided to use her for revenge, you compromised everything that followed. Even if your feelings changed, the deception remained. That’s what she can’t forgive. ”
“Then what am I supposed to do?” I demanded, frustration boiling over. “Just let her go? Pretend the best thing that ever happened to me didn’t exist?”
“For now? Yes.” My father’s voice was firm. “You give her the space she asked for. You respect her enough to honor that request.”
“And then what?”
Dimitrios exchanged a glance with my father. “Then you prove you’ve changed through actions, not just words. If you ever get another chance—if she ever allows it—you show her who you are.”
“How?” The question emerged more desperately than I intended. “How do I fix this?”
My father sighed, the sound weary and weighted with experience. “Some things can’t be fixed, Chrysanthos. Some broken trust never mends. You need to accept that possibility.”
The truth of his words dimmed my hopes. For the first time since Tia walked away, I confronted the reality that she might never come back. The thought made it difficult to breathe.
The New York penthouse became both sanctuary and prison. Days stretched into humiliating routines— showering, eating, sleeping—all requiring coordination with my father, who kept the handcuffs firmly in place.
“This can’t continue indefinitely,” I argued on our fifth morning.
“It will continue until I’m convinced you’ve learned something,” he replied, brushing his teeth with his free hand.
Our family’s arrival in New York had stirred media attention even before the police interviews began. Detective Malone seemed amused by our handcuffed state during questioning.
“Interesting parenting technique,” he remarked.
My father merely nodded. “My son makes poor choices. Having him cuffed to me has afforded me the best sleep since he began walking.”
The detective’s questions about Stavros’ death were pointed, reopening the homicide case with new forensic evidence. The poison had been administered over time, making the murder both calculated and intimate.
Later, Dimitrios brought news that made the situation grimmer.
“Angela’s driver gave an interview,” he said. “Claims she hired him to kill her daughter-in-law because she opposed Nolan’s marriage. ”
My father’s jaw tightened, the only visible sign of his anger.
“Not just a murderer, but a repeat offender. First Stavros, now this.” He shifted, causing our handcuffs to clink.
“I want everything we have on Angela’s finances for the last thirty years—every transaction, every account, every shell company.
If she hired someone once, there’ll be something. ”
Dimitrios nodded, already reaching for his phone. “What about Leon and Nolan? They’re refusing all contact.”
“They’ll have to face facts eventually,” my father replied. “Their mother killed their father. No amount of family loyalty changes that truth.”
I watched this exchange silently, struck by how quickly my father had pivoted from managing my personal crisis to addressing a devastating family scandal.
The ease with which he moved between disciplining his wayward son and protecting the Christakis legacy spoke to decades of shouldering responsibilities.
That night, laying in bed next to my father, I stared at the ceiling thinking of Tia. I’d called her obsessively. She hadn’t read my texts or responded to my messages.
By the second week, the handcuffs had left permanent marks on my wrist. Physical discomfort was nothing compared to the emotional toll of constant scrutiny and Tia’s absence .
Angela’s arrest dominated the news cycle. We spotted Leon at the courthouse during her bail hearing, standing on the defense side. He didn’t acknowledge us, even when Irida attempted to approach him.
“He needs time,” my father said. “This isn’t easy for them.”
Domna’s testimony proved valuable to the investigation. Her clear recollections of Stavros’ final months provided the context the investigators had lacked.
“He suspected she was unfaithful,” she explained to Malone. “Angela would have lost financially if she divorced. Three weeks later, he was dead.”
I found myself drawn into family concerns despite my preoccupation with Tia. Every day, I’d stare at my phone, willing it to ring. Each night, the disappointment was fresh again.
“I’m removing these,” my father announced on the morning of the twenty-first day, producing a key. “You’ve earned that much.”
The absence of metal against my skin felt strange. I rubbed my wrist, the indentations deep and red.
“Thank you,” I said simply.
He nodded, studying me with eyes that missed nothing. “You’re different.”
“Am I? ”
“You’re quieter. More thoughtful.” He placed a hand on my shoulder. “Pain changes people, Chrysanthos.”
That afternoon brought news that Angela Christakis had taken the Alford plea deal offered by prosecutors, resulting in a mere five-year sentence. The family’s reaction was immediate and fierce.
Yiayia’s hands trembled as she traced the edge of her teacup. “Five years,” she whispered. “That’s all his life was worth to them?”
Though relieved to have some justice, my father, uncles and Matthaios thought the punishment woefully inadequate for the destruction she’d caused. With the legal battle effectively over, our anger had nowhere to go.
As the evening descended upon New York, I found myself standing on the penthouse balcony, my newly freed wrist still bearing the marks of three weeks’ captivity. Below, the city sprawled with lights, each one representing lives continuing without pause or awareness of my personal catastrophe.
“Here,” my father said, appearing beside me with two crystal tumblers. He handed one to me, then leaned against the railing. “You look like you need this.”
I accepted the drink silently, savoring the burn as it slid down my throat. We stood together, watching the city lights flicker against the darkening sky.
“I called her today,” I admitted. “After you removed the cuffs. ”
My father’s eyebrow raised slightly. “And?”
“Straight to voicemail.” The rejection stung as freshly as it had the first time.
“What did you expect?” His voice held no judgment.
I swirled the amber liquid in my glass. “I don’t know anymore.”
The silence stretched between us, not uncomfortable.
“Did you know,” my father began, his gaze fixed on the horizon, “that when I met your mother, I was engaged to someone else?”
I turned to him, surprised. He’d rarely spoken of my mother beyond practical facts.
“Her name was Helena. Society match, compatible families.” He took another sip. “Then I met Lydia at a gallery opening. Your mother challenged everything I thought I knew.” A faint smile touched his lips. “Two weeks later, I broke my engagement.”
“Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because I understand obsession. The all-consuming need to be with someone.” He turned to face me fully. “But there’s a difference between pursuing someone because you truly love them and pursuing them because you can’t accept losing.”
His words gave me pause. Love or pride? Which one drove me?
“When your mother died,” he continued, his voice softening, “I could have become bitter, resentful. Instead, I focused on raising you, becoming worthy of the love she gave me. ”
“By being deserving of it,” I whispered, understanding dawning.
My father nodded. “Exactly. Not by demanding it, but by deserving it.”
If there was any chance of redemption with Tia, it wouldn’t come from desperate calls or grand gestures. It would come from being honorable to her.