The snow was falling in sparse, gossamer flakes, which melted instantly as soon as they touched the wet cobblestone path. The two figures, tightly embraced, seemed to be dancing to the silent rhythm of the snowfall. Muffled groans and heavy breaths accompanied their spasmodic movements. From the lit house at the back of the garden, the sound of festive music drifted in, as if from another world. It would have been pointless to shout. In the house, they hadn’t even heard the gunshot. The closed windows and the loud music had taken care of that. There wasn’t the slightest hope that anyone would hear a cry for help. Orestis Ermeidis was surely dead. He had seen him fall, his head shattered by the bullet. For a moment he had frozen. Then, with heavy steps, as if walking through water, he began to follow his killer who was moving away. He didn’t realize when he started to run. Nor how he ended up lunging at him.

They struggled with the murder weapon between them. Both grabbed it with all their strength. They fought to wrench it away. The seconds, in harmony with the languid snowflakes, passed slowly. And then that terrifying bang and time sped up. The weapon between the two bodies had gone off. For a moment, neither of them moved. As if they were waiting, breathless, for the verdict of a merciless judge. A moment later, Argyris Giannopoulos’s hands went limp. He fell to his knees. His body slumped. He died before his face touched the cold layer of snow.