Black widow, sharp tongue

The summer heat clung to Kaisariani like a sweaty shirt. Myrto Zervou sat on her balcony, fanning herself with an old newspaper, watching the neighborhood below. Her son, Aris, was hammering away in his workshop downstairs, the rhythmic thud-thud-thud mixing with the cicadas’ buzz.

Then, the shouting started.

"Thieves! Crooks!" Old Man Dimitris, the retired accountant from the corner kiosk, was waving his cane at a sleek black Mercedes parked outside the new shipping office down the street. Two men in suits stepped out, unfazed.

Myrto’s ears perked up. Trouble.

She shuffled downstairs, her black dress swishing, and found Dimitris red-faced, sputtering.

"Ti symvainei, Dimitri?" (What’s happening, Dimitri?)

"Those malakes," he hissed, pointing. "They’re stealing from all of us! The whole block!"

Myrto squinted. The sign above the office read "Nereus Logistics." Fancy. Too fancy for Kaisariani.

That evening, over fasolada, Aris mentioned the new business.

"Mama, they hired me to build shelves. But something’s off. The boss, Pavlos, kept getting calls about ‘transfers’ and ‘offshore.’ And he paled when I knocked over a ledger."

Myrto’s spoon froze mid-air. "Ledger?"

Aris shrugged. "Full of numbers. And names. Like… the mayor’s."

A slow grin spread across Myrto’s face. "Ah, koroido…" (Ah, fool…)

*    *    * *    *    *

The next morning, Myrto marched into the shipping office, her handbag swinging like a weapon. A young receptionist blinked at her.

"Kalimera! I’m here about the charity donation."

The girl frowned. "What donation?"

"For the church!" Myrto thumped the desk. "You think God doesn’t see you hiding money?"

Pavlos, a greasy man in a too-tight suit, emerged. "Madam, please..."

"Ela, Pavlo," Myrto crooned. "I hear you like numbers. But do you know the best number?" She leaned in. "The one the tax office has for whistleblowers."

Pavlos’s face drained.

*    *    * *    *    *

That night, Myrto and Aris snuck into the office (Aris picked the lock—"For justice, Mama!"). The ledger was there; stuffed with fake invoices, shell companies, and bribes.

"They’re stealing millions," Aris whispered.

"And the mayor’s in it," Myrto muttered. She snapped photos with Aris’s phone.

The next day, she mailed copies to the tax office, the newspapers, and, just in case, her cousin in the police.

*    *    * *    *    *

A week later, Pavlos’s office was raided. The mayor resigned. And Dimitris bought Myrto the biggest bougatsa in Athens.

Over coffee, Aris grinned. "How’d you know, Mama?"

She sipped, smug. "A fish rots from the head down, pedi mou."

The neighborhood slept easier that night.

THE END.