Page 32 of Malicious Claim (Dark Inheritance #1)

The Crete in Discrete

Stefanos awoke with a curse, his skull throbbing like a war drum. A dull pain took up residence in his limbs, his wrists burning from the restraints digging into his skin. The smell of rust and wet concrete clogged the back of his throat.

His body tightened. He was tied to a chair, ankles bound, shoulders stiff from being placed in an unnatural position. Panic twitched in his chest, but he suppressed it. No clear memory of getting here assaulted his brain.

Light footsteps echoed in the room causing him to refocus his eyes.

Don Matteo stood before him, the dim overhead light casting sharp shadows across his lined face.

His expression was unreadable, but the weight of his gaze alone felt suffocating.

Two men flanked him—one near a cluttered worktable, the other beside a large shredder machine, fingers idly tapping against the metal casing as if itching to switch it on.

Stefanos' chest tightened.

The Don exhaled, almost bored. "You've made a stupid mess, boy."

Stefanos swallowed, his mouth dry. "Uncle—"

The Don's hand snapped up, quieting him.

"No explanations." Don Matteo's voice was calm, nearly soft. Then, without hesitation. "Cut off his dick."

Stefanos' stomach twisted.

One of the guards pushed the cluttered metal table. The wheels creaked as it rolled towards Stefanos. Stefanos eyed the content wearily: a knife, pliers, and a fat roll of plastic wrap.

Panic dug at his throat. "Uncle, please—have mercy."

The Don didn't even blink.

The guard took a plier, fingers unshaking as he undid Stefanos' zipper.

Stefanos bucked, muscles straining against the restraint, but the ropes did not yield. Panic flooded him as the cold metal touched him. He wet himself.

"No—please, Uncle—"

The plier bit into his flesh, but then with a flick of the Don's fingers the guard stiffened.

The silence was crushing.

Stefanos slumped, gasping, soaked with sweat and pee. Humiliation seared more fiercely than relief.

Don Matteo moved closer, placing a tight grip on Stefanos' shoulder. "If you lay hands on Leila again," he growled, voice low but ice-cold, "I won't be so kind."

"I promise—I won't—" Stefanos hardly managed to speak, trembling.

The Don examined him, then nodded. The guard picked up the knife and severed his restraints. Stefanos leaned forward, perspiration soaking through his shirt.

At the door, Don Matteo paused.

"You will forget this happened," he said, without turning. "And if Makros ever asks... you didn't touch his wife."

Later that evening.

The summons came without warning.

Leila hesitated outside Don Matteo's office, her stomach coiled with unease. She caught sight of Stefanos approaching from the opposite hall, his movements stiff.

For a moment, their eyes locked.

A nasty little glare flashed between them, silent accusations, silent questions. She wondered if he had made the Don call for her? And he too wondered if she had made the Don call for him?

Neither wanted to be here.

Stefanos hastened to the door, swinging it open first as if coming in first had an unspoken advantage.

Don Matteo sat behind his desk, hands folded neatly over a stack of papers. His presence filled the room, even without speaking.

"I have a job for you," he said at last, his voice firm and measured. "A routine delivery. A package to one of our associates."

Leila didn't move, though in her gut, her senses quivered. It didn't seem like some ordinary chore. It felt like something else; like a test.

Next to her, Stefanos moved imperceptibly. His jaw clenched in protest, but he did not speak. He would not risk refusal.

Don Matteo inclined his head forward. "You will go together." His eyes moved to Stefanos. "You will see to it that nothing goes wrong. And you will not touch her. Clear?"

The threat was as clear as ice.

" Si ," Stefanos growled.

Leila's muscles tightened. Something didn't feel right. "What's my part?" she asked, her voice even in spite of the unease worming its way under her skin. "Why involve me?"

The Don's lips curved, not quite a smile. "You'll be learning how we do things. Consider this an introduction to the Cretes' way."

Leila's stomach twisted. That meant her gut was right and it was a test. That meant doing exactly what she was told.

"And if I refuse?" she probed.

Don Matteo's expression didn't change. "Then Makros will hear about everything you've been doing when he returns."

Her blood ran cold.

Every muscle in her body locked up, but she forced herself to nod. "Understood."

Don Matteo stood. "Good. You leave at dusk. I suggest you both be ready."

He gestured toward the door. Dismissed.

Stefanos turned sharply, eager to leave. But Leila lingered, as if waiting for something.

The Don didn't disappoint.

"Oh, and Leila?"

She stiffened.

"Stefanos answers to you on this mission."

Her head snapped up. Even Stefanos halted mid-step.

"Excuse me?" he blurted out.

The Don tilted his head slightly, voice mild but firm. "Did you misunderstand?"

Stefanos clenched his teeth. No, he had heard perfectly.

Leila wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or terrified.

She gave a small nod. "Understood."

This time, when the Don gestured, she obeyed.

As she and Stefanos stepped into the hallway, silence stretched between them.

Then, Stefanos exhaled sharply, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

"Perfect," he whispered to himself. "Perfect fucking perfect."

They were instructed to hand deliver a sealed package to Salvatore Nicci, a middleman, very vaguely connected with the Cretes. He worked at an elite nightclub, a front for his far more clandestine business.

The instructions were simple: Hand over the package. Get verbal confirmation that everything was on track. Leave.

But there was nothing simple about the Don, or his errands.

He had already spoken to Salvatore. He wanted him to test Leila.

Push her. Intimidate her. Maybe even suggest she should stay behind as part of the deal.

Would she defer to Stefanos? Would she push back? Would she try to negotiate on her own?

More importantly, how would Stefanos handle it?

Would he step in and protect her? Would he ignore it? Or would he take advantage of the situation?

The real mission wasn't the delivery.

It was watching them both unravel.