Page 28 of Malicious Claim (Dark Inheritance #1)

The Russian Meeting

The warehouse was a corrugated tin-sided building with rust around the corners.

It was a grid of beams. It was positioned at the border of the dockyard, half abandoned, but its location served it well because it had one road in, and one road out.

It was the appropriate place for trade to be negotiated and, as needed, for bodies to disappear.

Makros's car, a black Mercedes vehicle, slowed in its braking, its engine whispering softly before sputtering out completely.

Nicolai in the front seat tapped his hands on his knee with strained tension. Makros slipped a magazine into position with a faint click. Leila, who knew such moments intimately, still held the tense atmosphere with a shadow of apprehension.

As they emerged, a second car pulled to a halt, its lights flashing behind them. Stefanos and Dragon had tagged along as backup, but if there had been any others, it would have been seen as insulting to the Russians.

Makros remained silent as his men climbed out of their vehicle.

Before them, the Russians waited. Six men, nicely spread out, and while they appeared to be relaxing, it'd be dumb not to suspect they were the most dangerous bratva.

Between them stood the leader: Mikhail Volkov. Broad-shoulders, thick beard, and a frozen gaze. On his right was a slightly leaner version but just as dangerous. His brother Sergei.

Makros stepped forward, his mittened hands shoved into the pockets of his coat, showing no fear.

Mikhail smiled. "Makros."

He nodded. "Volkov."

There was no immediate hostility. He'd read everything about this man. All the reports, all the information on past encounters. And yet, something about meeting in person was disquieting him. It wasn't the man that frightened him, it was something else.

Mikhail's eyes swept over him, dropping to Leila. "And this must be your wife."

Leila stood her ground and met his gaze. She didn't move closer, didn't step back. She only watched.

"Leila Crete," Sergei mused. "So the rumors are true. Mikhail, we should go give that one a try, conquer our enemies and bring their women in as wives."

" Net nichego sladshche ," Makros answered smoothly. (There's nothing sweeter.)

Mikhail chuckled. "A bold move. Your father must've been proud."

Makros bristled before smoothing it out. He let the comment pass with a jerk of his head. The Volkovs did not follow it up.

Mikhail motioned to the building. "Come on. Let's talk inside."

There was a reek of rust and the smell of old oil when they went in. It was the kind that seeped into the walls of such places. There was a single bulb above that cast broken, elongated shadows over the concrete floor.

Mikhail leaned against a steel table, arms crossed, his expression impassive. "Let's proceed. We called this meeting because there's still business between us that needs to be resolved."

Makros remained expressionless. "You're talking about the shipment."

Mikhail smiled. "That's right."

Makros tilted his head to one side. "Half was delivered. The other half didn't show up because someone sabotaged our mission."

Mikhail looked at Sergei and then at him. "You're forgetting something."

Makros exhaled through his nose. "Aleksei."

Mikhail's face darkened. "Finally." His fingers drummed once on the table before remaining motionless. "We know he escaped."

Makros curled his fingers. "Again, someone sabotaged that too."

Mikhail's eyes glinted with something more than amusement. "You still owe us. Malysh."

The name hit like a dissonance in a melody. Makros did not flinch, but his mind spun rapidly. Malysh? There was no record of a deal with that name. Was it a person? A code?

Then it finally hit him.

"Malysh? Honestly?" Makros raised an eyebrow, faking a knowing smile. "That was more than a year ago, Volkov. Figured you were beyond sentiment."

Then Mikhail smiled, shaking his head. "Fair enough."

The tension relaxed, but not much.

"You want Aleksei back," Leila stated boldly. "That means either he's useful to you. or he's dangerous."

Mikhail turned to her, interest shining in his cold eyes. "And what do you think?"

She lifted her head a little, her eyes serene. "I think that if this was about a missing man, you wouldn't be bringing it to the table. So how much is he really worth?"

Sergei's lips curled, gratified. "She's smart."

"She's observant," Makros restated, not looking at her. But he noted it—the way she had steered the subject, redirected attention from himself when he needed it most. He would never forget it.

Mikhail held Leila's gaze for another second before his smile evaporated. "It's not what he's worth that matters. It's what he knows."

"What does he know?" Makros asked, his voice calm.

Mikhail's eyes flickered back to him, blazing. "Enough that letting him escape was an unacceptable mistake. One which shouldn't have been made."

Makros did not blink. "There was a third party involved, an unexpected circumstance."

Mikhail's jaw tightened imperceptibly, but Sergei spoke first.

“You’re missing the point,” Sergei said, exhaling smoke from the cigarette he’d lit. “The issue isn’t that he got out. The issue is where he is now. And whose hands he’s in.”

Makros didn’t react, though the implications were clear. Aleksei wasn’t just missing, in fact he had been found. But by someone else.

Mikhail leaned forward, resting his hands on the table. "We know Aleksei has been speaking to our associates in Naples."

Makros stiffened.

It all came back full circle. The ‘ambitious’ Naples partner Don Matteo had mentioned.

Mikhail's voice was getting colder by the second. "We expected you to bring Aleksei to us. And now our problem has become yours. Take care of the Neapolitans."

Makros didn't let his expression change, but in his mind, the pieces clicked into place. The Russians weren't here to call in an old debt. They were here to make it clear that if their enterprise was compromised by Aleksei, Makros would be the one to suffer.

It was a threat.

By his side, Leila continued to watch Mikhail, weighing him. Makros knew that she too had caught the meaning of his words.