Free Disorganized Crime: A Kat Makris Greek Mafia Novel by Alex A. King

toothless, his eyes yellow, and he smelled like lemonade.
    "Papou is what those Sicilians call a consigliere," Grandma told me. "He is my symvoulos ."
    Her adviser.
    "Is he really your grandfather?" I asked.
    "He is nobody's grandfather, which is a good thing."
    The old man spoke. "A Nazi pig shot off one of my balls during the war."
    "That's awful," I said, trying to be sympathetic. "I'm sorry.'
    He nodded. "It was my favorite one, next to the other one." He looked up at Grandma. "What are you going to do with her?"
    "What can I do? Keep her here until we find Michail."
    "Nuh-uh." I shook my head to punctuate. Hopefully they'd get the message. "I'm going home. There's no evidence Dad left the country—alone or with anyone else. There I've got the police and the FBI. They'll know what to do."
    "The FBI," Papou muttered. "There is a problem we need."
    Grandma explained. "A family like this, we want the law enforcement to stay far, far away from our business."
    "Unless they are ours," the old man said.
    "You have law enforcement?" I asked, wide-eyed. "You mean like health inspectors?"
    The two of them laughed. Grandma patted me on the arm. "I will be back. Enjoy yourself, Katerina. This is for you." She hoofed it back to her yard, where Xander was waiting with a phone in his hand. He gave her the phone, then followed her inside while she chattered to whoever was on the other end. A business call. I could tell by the way her soft, wrinkly face turned to stone.
    The old man wasn't done with me yet. "Come, Katerina. You can get me something to eat."
    "What would you like?"
    "Everything except vegetables. Meat only. I want to die soon, so I am clogging my arteries with fat."
    "Some diets claim a high fat diet is better for you."
    "Really?" He thought about it for a moment. "Then which diet is the worst?"
    "Probably the baked goods diet. Something with lots of carbs and sugar."
    "Okay." He nodded to the plate I'd just picked up. "Load it up with desserts. Do not skimp or I will shoot you."
    I looked over the desserts lined up on the table, each one begging for one shot at giving me diabetes.
    "If you want to die, why not shoot yourself?"
    "Your grandmother will not let me have ammunition for my gun."
    "So," I said, thinking about it. "Theoretically I could put vegetables on your plate and there's nothing you'd be able to do about it?"
    In a flash, the shotgun was in his hand. The barrel slammed into the backs of my knees. "Oof," I said as my scaffolding temporarily collapsed. It took me a moment, but I pulled myself upright. "Hey, old man, hit me again and I'll make a completely ineffectual threat."
    "What kind of threat?"
    I thought about own worst fears. "I'll push that chair of yours into quicksand. Or roll you into a cage filled with geese."
    "Geese are evil," he said. "I wouldn't wish them on an enemy."
    "They really are. It's a surprise there aren't more horror movies about geese."
    "I know people in the Greek movie business. I will let them know."
    "Great," I said, already scratching that movie off my must-see list.
    He hit me again, not as hard this time. "Where's my cake?"

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    A fter the party , the drinking, the dancing, the food, everyone napped. Everyone except Grandma and me. We were in her kitchen. She was baking and I was watching her weave magic with simple carbohydrates and fat.
    "Am I really the first woman born in the family since you?"
    Grandma glanced up at me from the hairy stuff she was slicing. Baklava 's hirsute cousin by the looks of it. "Where did you hear that?"
    "Detective Melas."
    "Melas, eh? What was he doing?"
    "Investigating the fire."
    She grunted. "He has a big mouth."
    "What's the big deal?"
    "Eh, nothing. He is right, you are the first. Nobody has made a girl—even me—except your father."
    "What about Aunt Rita?"
    Grandma's expression turned constipated. "I wanted a daughter. Rita is what I got. A man who wears women's clothes."
    "Hey," I said, "if Aunt Rita calls herself a woman, she's a