Page 27 of Malicious Claim (Dark Inheritance #1)

The Burden of a Name

Makros was at his desk in his office, scanning the thick dossier in front of him, going over the pages with deliberate concentration.

Reports, budgets, surveillance transcripts, seemed like jigsaw pieces.

It was not that he was unaware of the broad sweep of things, but it was the minute details, the nuances, that took work.

Effort which no one may ever be able to comprehend.

His fingers curled into fist around the page before he could force himself to relax. All that lay before him needed strict examination. There could be no mistakes.

A quiet knock on the door broke his concentration. He exhaled and slammed the folder shut silently.

"Come in."

The door creaked open and the Crete family's accountant, Luigi, stepped in. His posture was stiff. He was a fastidious man, reserved and methodical. Makros had never been a huge admirer of him.

"Sir," the man said, his tone even, though his eyes flickered for a moment to the side. "I apologize for intruding. There is a small issue with the documents you signed previously."

Makros raised his brow, annoyance flashing for a moment in him. “What problem?”

The accountant hesitated, reaching into his leather binder and pulling out a few crisp pages. He laid them on the desk with careful precision.

"Initially, I thought the signatures had been signed off in haste," he said. "But when I examined them more closely... they don't match, sir. I—I thought it was prudent to bring them to your attention before processing."

Makros's gaze fell on the papers. He had known it before the accountant had even spoken.

His jaw clenched, but he quickly went stoic again. He eased back into his chair, tapping his fingers on the armrest. "You're telling me I didn't sign these?"

The accountant hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "I'm saying they seem forged. Off. Different.”

Silence.

Makros let the moment drag on, observing the man, allowing the intensity of his gaze to bear down on him. Then he sighed, shaking his head.

"That would be a daring accusation," he said, reaching for the papers. "Unless, of course, you think I am incapable of signing my own name?"

The accountant went pale. "No, sir, of course not. I only—"

Makros pulled a pen from his pocket, twirling it between his fingers. "I punched a guy yesterday," he said, his voice careless, dismissive. "Hard enough that my hand's been having a bad day.”

The accountant swallowed hard.

Makros smiled faintly. "That would explain why the signatures are a little inconsistent. Wouldn't it?”

There was a moment of silence, then the accountant nodded quickly. "Of course, sir. That makes perfect sense. My apologies for overlooking that."

Makros took the papers and, with slow movements, signed each one again. Carefully this time.

"Make sure these get through without a hitch," he told him, shoving them back across the desk.

"Yes, sir."

The accountant hastened to pick up the papers, ducking his head before leaving.

As soon as the door shut, Makros took a fresh sheet of paper. He scrawled his name on the paper, then again, then again, until it was indistinguishable from the original. It wasn't until then that he relaxed.

By evening, Makros had more pressing matters on his mind. The Russian meeting, Dragon had informed him about the previous day.

It was the kind of deal that made him nervous, even beforehand. The Russians wanted something, and they did not often plead for it. He did not enjoy owing them debts, and he enjoyed being cornered less.

He thought he should go to the meeting with Leila.

Why not? She was his wife.

He walked to Leila's bedroom, where she was perched on the end of her bed, daydreaming of a sort. The moment she saw him, however, her expression altered.

"Get dressed," he told her.

Her gaze flicked to him, wary. "For what?"

"We're going out."

Her frame stiffened. "I don't want to go anywhere with you."

Makros scoffed. "I didn't ask what you wanted."

He tossed a dress onto the bed beside her. The fabric was silky, black, and way too short.

Leila examined it with barely concealed revulsion. "No."

His humor failed him. "No?"

She tipped up her chin. "Find another doll to play dress-up with."

His tolerance was wearing thin. "Leila—"

"No," she repeated, her tone tougher.

Makros exhaled slowly. The urge to press the issue, to remind her who was in charge, was strong. But time was ticking, and he had no intention of delaying the Russian meeting over a dress.

A muscle in his jaw flexed as he took a step back. "Wear whatever you want."

Her eyes narrowed, not trusting his quick surrender.

The vehicle was waiting by the time they came out. Nicolai waited by the passenger door, holding it open. Leila hesitated half a second, her eyes flicking to Nicolai as if attempting to weigh her options. She must have known there was none.

She released a quiet breath and slid into the leather seat. Makros sat beside her before the door shut.

The ride was silent at first.

Makros's fingers tapped on his knee, his thoughts elsewhere—on the meeting, the Russians, the sinister drag of details that was supposed to flow to him like water but instead felt like roadblocks.

Then Leila moved beside him.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked, her voice even.

Makros looked at her. "Business meeting."

She snorted. "And I have to attend because...?"

He grinned. "Because I said so."

She let out a breath, turning her face away from him, and looking out the window as the city lights whizzed by. "Of course."

"You should be thanking me," Makros stated.

Leila turned back to him, her brow furrowed. "For what?"

"For allowing you to dress however you pleased," he said, tilting his head a quarter of an inch. "I could have insisted."

Her lips pursed in a tight line, but her glare did not waver. "You're not as powerful as you think."

Makros smiled, but there was nothing more than a ghost of it. "And you're not as free as you act."

That dissolve any more arguing.

Makros allowed the silence to hold, allowing her to fume in it. He had no interest in debating with her that night. There were more important things to resolve. And the moment they got to the meeting, she would know it for herself.

He knew that this meeting was going to be tough. But what bothered him most was the thought that, for the first time in a long while, he could not quite anticipate what was to come.

He hated that feeling.