Page 43 of Malicious Claim (Dark Inheritance #1)

The Moscow Negotiations

Winter in Moscow was savage, a beast that buried its teeth in the skin and refused to let go. Snow blanketed the streets, muffling the roar of the city, but inside the conference room of the Petrov estate, the atmosphere was anything but calm.

The room was built for power. Dark wood paneling ran from floor to ceiling, its highly polished surface reflecting the dancing light of a chandelier above.

A mahogany table long and wide dominated the center, its flanks guarded by high-backed leather chairs that had hosted generations of men who had controlled the Orel Bratva with iron fists.

The air was thick with the scent of expensive cigars, from the whiskey, and the faintest whiff of gun oil—a reminder to keep humble and that politeness here was mostly always a formality.

Makros and his father arrived, their pace slow, deliberate. They weren't here to just make an impression. They were here to remind the Russians who exactly they were dealing with.

There was a lone soldier in the room with an almost conspicuous presence.

Seated at the long mahogany table were the three most senior men of the Orel Bratva and at their head was Fyodorovich Petrov.

Petrov. The name itself was a power to be feared. The man was a man out of time, hard-eyed and unyielding, his face chiseled from stone. He had built his empire in the shadows, ruling by patience and procedure. Everything he did was calculated.

If he had burned Makros's business, it was because he had already calculated the costs.

Makros sat beside his father, no guards accompanying them.

On the other side of the table, Petrov set down his glass and exhaled, watching them with a sophisticated calm.

"You took your time coming."

Makros's father smiled calmly. "We do not rush for threats."

Petrov smiled softly, but his eyes were devoid of humor.

"Threats? No, my friend. That was a lesson.

" He lazily gestured to the two men seated to either side of him who approved his words with a nod.

"Your son refused to listen to reason. We had to remind him that there is a price for disrespect, else he continues to disregard us. "

Makros inched forward a bit, resting his forearms on the tabletop. His voice was soothing. Controlled. Frozen.

"Burning my business down was not a lesson. It was an opening move to war."

Petrov gazed at him for an instant, his expression blank. Then he smiled. “And yet, you're here," he said. "That speaks to me of a desire for no war."

Makros met his glare unflinchingly. "I don't." He paused for an instant. "But that doesn't mean that I'm afraid of it."

The room became quiet.

Makros felt the shift in the atmosphere. A mistake. But he hadn't insulted anyone by what he'd said.

His father leaned back, watching Petrov guardedly. Then he sighed. "You do not wish for war either, Fyodorovich. Otherwise, you would already have made a second move."

Petrov did not answer, but the twitch of his brow spoke volumes.

Makros's father continued, his voice sharpening. "I'm disappointed in you old friend." He clicked his tongue and shook his head. "If I were a less capable man, I would have responded in a way that you would never recover from. But that is not why I have come."

Makros looked at his father with wise consideration. He remembered why he was held in respect.

Petrov took a slow breath, fingers tapping on his glass. "Then why are you here?"

Matteo leaned in now, his voice even. Dangerously precise.

"You wanted control over one of Crete's docks," he said. "Over a misguided shipment. But that would be greedy of you. I'm here to offer something else. Something more reasonable."

Petrov raised an eyebrow. "And what would that be?"

Matteo allowed the silence to linger.

"I would have been generous—if you hadn't destroyed my property. But now, it will cost you." His tone was still suave, but the steel underlying it was impossible to ignore. "I'm giving you a place in Greece to store your products."

Petrov's expression didn't change, but Makros saw the slight shift in his posture. Interest.

Makros' dad continued. "You need a place where you can make your deliveries safely. I'm giving you a warehouse. Completely secured. No harassment whatsoever."

Petrov's silence stretched on, his head clearly running the math.

"You'll have protection," Matteo went on, "but we'll charge you five percent." He let the significance of that sink in before delivering the coup de grace. "Or—you can burn another one of my buildings down, and we burn three of yours. Your choice."

The room grew quiet again.

Makros watched Petrov's men glance at one another. One squirmed. The other sat rigidly. They were used to bargaining. But they weren't used to being trapped.

According to an unwritten rule, once those involved in the negotiations started to talk, the others were to stay silent. It was referred to as table manners.

Petrov smiled. The evening's first genuine smile. "Your son," he said quietly, stirring his vodka, "May learn a thing or two from you."

Makros did not react. He simply waited.

Finally, Petrov lifted his glass and sipped his vodka slowly. Then he set it down, glaring Matteo in the eye.

"I will consider your offer."

Matteo nodded once. "Good."

The meeting was at an end.

The war was postponed at least for now.

As Matteo and Makros were about to leave, Fyodorovich slumped back in his chair, stirring the remaining vodka in his glass. His sharp eyes snapped between father and son before he said anything, his voice light, almost nonchalant.

"Old friend," he said, pausing long enough for them to look over their shoulders. "You came all this way. It would be a shame for you to leave without indulging in our hospitality."

Matteo's brow shot up, but Fyodorovich just smiled—this one genuine.

"Tonight is my daughter's birthday," he continued. "We're having a banquet. A real one. No schemes, no threats. Just food, family, and good company." He lifted his glass a little. "Stay. Eat. Drink. Let's part ways in better spirits than we came."

Matteo stared at him for a long moment before a slow, knowing smile crept onto his face. "It would be rude to refuse."

Fyodorovich chuckled. "Exactly." He gestured towards one of his soldiers. "Have them brought in and made comfortable."

The soldier waved them over.

Makros lagged behind his father, making his way through the halls of Fyodorovich's estate. The structure was as formidable as it was secure—thick walls, high ceilings, the kind of architecture that had seen more bloodshed than celebration.

They were led to separate rooms. Matteo disappeared behind one door without hesitation, but Makros lingered a second longer.

"Someone will come and get you when the banquet begins," the soldier said before turning to leave.

Makros exhaled a breath, shrugging his shoulders as he gazed around at his temporary residence.

The space was large but unadorned. A fire crackled softly in the corner, unable to clear Moscow's chill out of his bones.

The bed was sturdy, the furniture costly but minimal.

A reminder that hospitality did not extend so far for men such as Fyodorovich Petrov.

But he barely considered it. His thoughts were elsewhere.

Leila.

It was a curse the way she easily filled his head. He hadn't even realized he was reaching for his phone until he was holding it. One call would not be the worst thing.

Except that there was no number to call. No way to hear her voice unless he was standing over her.

His jaw snapped tight.

Fine. If he could not talk with her, he'd focus on something he could control.

He called Dragon instead.

The phone rang barely twice before the gruff voice answered. "Yeah?"

"Tell me you've got something."

Dragon sighed. "If I had something, you wouldn't be calling me—I'd be calling you."

Makros clenched his jaw. He had given Dragon one job: locate Dimitri. Where was the bastard in hiding? Who was he working with? And why had he skedaddled the moment crap had hit the fan?

It was infuriatingly annoying.

"Dimitri's ghosting us," Dragon continued, voice low. "No chatter, no sightings. It's like he fucking vanished."

Makros dragged a hand down his face. "That's not an option. He didn't just disappear. Find him."

"I'm trying," Dragon bit back. "But it's not like your boy left breadcrumbs. He knew how to cover his tracks."

Makros didn't respond right away. Dimitri had always been good at slipping through cracks because he was a good soldier.

"Double the efforts," he finally ordered. "And keep an eye on Leila while you're at it."

There was a beat of silence on the other end.

Dragon exhaled sharply. "She's fine, Makros. Besides, Nicolai's watching over her."

Makros didn't say anything.

"She's fine," Dragon repeated. "Stop making it sound like she's gonna slip through your fingers the second you're gone."

Makros gritted his teeth. "Just keep an eye on her."

He ended the call before Dragon could argue again.

The silence that followed was heavy.

Makros put the phone down on the desk, staring at it as if it held the answer to all his problems. He hated waiting. Hated the feeling of being a lion in a cage, pacing the bars, teeth bared, with nothing to sink them into.

With a sigh, he rose from the chair and shrugged off his suit jacket. He required something to take his mind off things. Something to pass the time until the banquet started.

A knock on the door.

Makros turned, raising his brow. "Come in."

A young man entered, clad in the starched uniform of Fyodorovich's household staff. "Would you like a drink while you wait?"

Makros's gaze flew to the crystal decanter on the sideboard. "I have my own."

The servant nodded, hesitating before speaking again. "If you desire, there is a private gym within the estate."

Makros arched an eyebrow.

The man swallowed, shifting under his attention. "Mr. Petrov presumed you would prefer to—" he stopped, being very careful with his language, "—expend the time more actively."

Makros smiled. Fyodorovich was shrewd.

"Take me to it."