Page 37 of Malicious Claim (Dark Inheritance #1)

A Gift in Gold

Makros emerged from the suite wearing a new black silk shirt.

All evidence of blood had been discreetly concealed.

His movements were fluid, unhindered by the stitch beneath his clothing, but Leila noticed the manner in which his fingers would occasionally touch the stitched skin lightly—an involuntary tell. He was aware of it.

Good.

She walked with him along the corridor, his position impossible to decipher as they moved toward the conference room. Whatever it was that stood behind the door, she knew it was more than just business as usual. She also couldn't shake the memory of the assassination attempt from her mind.

Makros did not knock upon reaching the door. He simply pushed the heavy oak doors open.

Within, four men sat at a table lacquered in black obsidian, each of them dressed stylishly.

A thin man with wire frames and speckled gray hair leaned back, twirling a gold pen between his fingers.

Another, younger, with shaved head and a scar running along his cheek, had already taken up a whiskey nursing it.

The dark-haired male in the center of the room, whose presence rivaled Makros', lifted his eyes from the cigar he was rolling with intense focus.

"Makros." His voice was smooth, practiced. "You're late."

Makros smiled and slumped into the chair across from him, sprawling like the room were his to command. "I got shot."

The atmosphere shifted with the flash of tension. Then the man chuckled briefly, and shook his head.

"I see your luck hasn't changed."

Makros glanced at the cigar. "Still rolling those yourself, Caruso?"

Caruso raised a brow. "Still getting in the way of bullets?"

The others at the table laughed lightly, but the mood remained sharp, taut. Leila didn't sit. She chose to stand behind Makros, arms crossed.

Caruso took a slow drag of his cigar before exhaling. "I assume you're still alive for a reason."

Makros propped his elbows on the table. "That depends. Are we talking about my survival, or my patience?"

Scar-Cheek smiled. The older man with the pen didn't blink, just kept twirling the pen.

Caruso nodded toward him. "You remember Matteo."

Makros shot the older man with a sidelong look. "Uh, yeah. The numbers guy."

Matteo dipped his head. "And you're the gambler. Still as impulsive as ever, I see.".

Makros waved off the comment. "Tell me why I'm here, Caruso."

The crime lord scraped ash from his cigar. "Simple. The supply chain you stole last month? It was never yours to steal."

Leila's spine went rigid.

Makros, though, was completely relaxed. "Oh?"

Caruso breathed. "It was going to another party. A client."

Makros' smile was on the verge of being amused. "And I'm supposed to care because?"

Caruso's lips only curled slightly. "Because that client is someone you don't ever want as an enemy."

There was quiet in the room.

Makros glanced around at the men sitting at the table, and then at Caruso. "Who?"

Caruso tapped his fingers on the top of the table. "I think you should know."

Makros said nothing immediately. He pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking. Then, still not averting his eyes, he took a wild guess, "The Orel Bratva."

Leila stiffened. "Gosh, not those men. Why can't he keep his nose out of Russian affairs?"

Matteo smiled faintly, like a teacher pleased with a pupil's correct answer. Scar-Cheek finished the last of his whiskey and set the glass down on the table with a slow, deliberate motion.

Makros exhaled, then settled back into his chair. "I didn't know they were getting supplies from you."

Caruso let the comment hang. Then he replied, "It wasn't my choice."

Makros' eyebrow twitched. "That's a nice way of saying they've got their claws in you."

Caruso smiled, but it wasn't quite genuine. "We have shared interests."

Leila saw the small unease in Makros' posture. It was the kind that signaled that he was doing some calculations, piecing together bits of missing pieces.

The Orel Bratva.

They were prudent, powerful, and vengeful.

If they had their hands in Caruso's business, it wasn't just a question of a supply chain.

It was an absolute takeover of his company.

That is evidence of how powerful they were.

And if Makros had inadvertently crossed into their business they could be coming for his empire too.

Leila's gaze flicked to Caruso and wondered if he had set up Makros.

Makros whistled, tapping his fingers once on the tabletop. "Well, that's a shame. I liked doing business with you when you had teeth."

Caruso's expression turned angry. Matteo's pen stopped spinning.

Scar-Cheek grinned. "You really want to enrage the man who's keeping your ass alive?"

Makros shot him a derisive look. "Am I supposed to think Caruso prevented the Orel Bravta from shooting me?"

Silence.

Then Caruso said, "No. But I can stop you from getting shot all the same."

Leila saw the tension between them. This was no empty threat. Caruso spoke as if he were aware of an attack in progress.

Makros knew it too. He let the words settle before standing. "If the Orel Bratva have an issue, they can come to me."

Caruso's gaze sharpened. "They will."

Makros smirked. "Good. I'd hate to waste a plane ticket to Moscow."

Caruso didn't share his amusement. He took another slow drag from his cigar, then tapped the ash into the tray beside him. "They don't want a meeting, Makros. They want compensation."

Makros tilted his head to one side. "Compensation? For what? For being so sloppy as to let their product fall into my possession?"

Matteo sighed. "You don't get it, do you? There wasn't any shipment."

Leila watched as Matteo exchanged a look with Caruso. A silent conversation.

Makros leaned forward. "I heard you perfectly well. You've been letting the Orel use your channels for their needs, and now they think they own you. But I'm not their messenger boy, and I don't answer to Russians either."

Caruso sighed, fingers tap-tap-tapping on the tabletop. "You're taking a risk."

Makros smiled. "No risk, no reward."

Scar-Cheek smiled. "Yeah? We'll see if you're rewarded when they blow your head off."

Leila's hand curled at her hip. She did not like seeing how much enjoyment Scar-Cheek was getting out of this exchange.

Caruso leaned forward at last, his cigar balanced on the rim of his plate. "Makros, I'm going to give you a choice. Either you get this straightened out, or you'll take the consequences."

Makros arched an eyebrow. "And what exactly does 'get this straightened out' entail?"

Matteo folded his hands. "The Orel are demanding a refund. You disrupted their supply. That means you replenish the loss... or you give them something of more value."

Makros' eyes darkened. "Something of more value?"

Caruso returned his look. "Something like a district."

There was stillness.

Leila's breath caught in her throat .

Makros' hands clenched on the armrest, his knuckles going white for an instant before he worked at relaxing them. He gave a short, bitter laugh. "Let me imagine. They're demanding my docks."

Matteo nodded once.

Makros clicked his tongue. "The Russians have to think I'm a fool."

Caruso's expression betrayed nothing. "You and I both know it was a mistake to take that shipment. The question is, what are you going to do about it?"

Leila waited as Makros swept the room with his gaze. His eyes flicked from Caruso to Matteo, and then to Scar-Cheek, who was all too smug.

Then he got up.

"I'll tell you what I'm going to do," Makros said, adjusting his cuffs. "I'm going to walk out of here with my docks intact."

Scar-Cheek snorted. "That so?"

Makros gave him a flat look. "Unless one of you is going to stop me?"

The room vibrated with tension. Leila kept her hand near her gun, waiting.

Caruso exhaled. "Makros. Be smart."

Makros sneered. "I am. That's why I'm not bending over for the Orel."

Caruso's jaw tightened. "You know they won't take 'no' lightly."

Makros' smirk widened. "Neither do I."

For a moment, nobody moved. Then Caruso sighed and leaned back, rubbing his temple.

"You're a pain in the ass," he muttered.

Makros placed both hands on the table and leaned forward slightly. "I'll think about compensation, but I'm not handing over my territory. They can take that up with me directly."

Caruso watched him, his eyes unreadable, then finally gave a slow nod. "You'd better be ready when they do."

Makros straightened. "I always am."

With that, he turned on his heel, brushing past Leila toward the exit.

Leila lingered for a moment, her gaze sweeping over the men at the table.

Caruso met her eyes.

"You're still alive," he said casually. "That means you're useful to him."

Leila smiled a little, humorlessly. "Depends on who you ask."

And then she trailed Makros out of the room, leaving behind them an unfinished deal and a war.

They went back to their suite. Makros loosened his cuffs, rolled up his sleeves, and exhaled. Leila didn't speak at first, just watched as he poured a red wine and swallowed half of it in one gulp.

She crossed her arms then said, "You're not seriously considering giving them anything, are you?"

Makros glanced at her over the rim of his glass. "What do you think?"

"I think you just asked the Russians to attack you."

He smiled. "And?"

She narrowed her eyes. "And that's just stupid blind arrogance."

Makros set his drink down and leaned against the bar. "I don't deal with men who think they can take what's mine. If I give them an inch, they'll want the entire city."

Leila hesitated. She felt like nodding in agreement, but there was something in Caruso's warning that unsettled her. "The Orel don't play fair, Makros. They will war with you."

His eyes darkened slightly. "I know."

She sighed. "So what's the plan?"

Makros smiled. "You'll see."

That did not inspire confidence.

She turned her head to the window. "For once, I'd like to be on the outside of one of your damn wars."

Makros had another sip, watching her. "Don't worry, no harm will come to you. I'll be right back."

Leila scowled. "What?"

He set his drink down and made for the door before she could catch him.

"Makros—"

The door shut behind her with a snap.

He had locked her in.

Leila stared at it in disbelief. Then she fist-banged on it. "Are you kidding me?"

"No," his unruffled voice came from the other side.

"Makros!"

She tried the knob. Nothing.

"I'll be back," he said. "Don't try to jump out the window."

Then his footsteps receded, and she was left fuming in the locked room.

In the hotel lobby once more, the tension of the meeting lingered in Makros mind, but he showed none of it as he approached the reception desk.

The woman at the desk glanced up, raising an eyebrow. "You look less bloody."

Makros smiled dryly. "For now."

He pulled some money out of his pocket.

The receptionist blinked. Then, slowly, she held out a hand for it. "For what?"

"I'd like to buy your gun for my wife," Makros said.

She drew out the gun, admiring it again, then passed it over.

Then, finally, Makros got around to looking into the attempt on his life.

The body had been stashed in a rear room of the hotel, held temporarily until it could be gotten rid of.

Makros came in, the scent of disinfectant and stale blood thick in the air. The man was on the ground, his face still twisted in death, yet there was nothing on him. No ID. No jewelry. Not even a phone.

Makros crouched next to the body, studying him. Then, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone and took a single photo.

Makros resolved to find out who he was.

And who sent him.

He returned to the suite to find Leila on the bed, her face a mask.

"I'm back," he said, coming in. "And I brought you a gift."

She regarded him warily. "Let me guess—another dress?"

He snorted. "Good heavens, no." He tossed the gun down on the bed beside her. "This."

Leila took it, tossing it over in her hands before awarding him a dry smile. "You know I'll kill you with this one day?"

Makros grinned. "Then at least I'll die with style.”