Page 57 of Malicious Claim (Dark Inheritance #1)

The Special Prisoner.

MAKROS'S POV

I leaned back in my seat, fingers tapping idly against my knee as the car wove through the streets. The driver, Enzo, wasn't new, but he didn't live in the Crete estate either. Some of the men had families, homes elsewhere. They worked in shifts, coming and going as needed.

The late-morning sun was relentless, causing heat rippling off the asphalt as we hit another stretch of traffic. Horns blared, drivers shouted from their windows, and the line ahead crawled forward, inch by frustrating inch.

Enzo exhaled sharply. "Damn mess. You want me to take the side roads, boss?"

I barely glanced up. "Won't matter if we hit another jam."

"True, but I know a way through the back streets. Won't be as smooth, but at least we'll keep moving."

I nodded. "Do it."

He veered off the main road, cutting through narrow streets lined with old buildings and sun-faded awnings. The air smelled of fresh bread from a bakery we passed, mixing with the heat of the day. The drive was bumpy but at least we were moving, well until we weren't.

Up ahead was a roadblock.

Enzo cursed under his breath as he brought the car to a stop. "Che palle . (Of course, just our luck.)"

Some of the officers lounged by their cars, chatting idly, but the moment their eyes landed on the customized plates, and tinted car, their posture shifted. Recognition flickered across their faces, followed by quick, knowing glances between them. They wouldn't dare waste my time.

Enzo rolled down the window, flashing a grin. "Busy day, huh?"

One of the officers—Romano, according to his badge, smirked. "Busier now." His gaze flicked to me. "Didn't expect to see you coming this way."

"Didn't plan to," I said, resting my elbow against the window frame. "Traffic's a mess on the main roads. Figured I'd take a shortcut."

Romano chuckled. "Yeah? Well, you know how it is. Gotta keep an eye on things."

I pulled out a few crisp lira notes and handed them over. Romano took them smoothly, the motion effortless. "You've already done more than enough for me, Signor Makros," he murmured, pocketing the money.

I arched my brow. "I've not done anything special yet."

"What could be more special to me than paying for my daughter's operation?"

"Ah, just you wait and see. I hope she's doing alright these days?"

"She's perfect. Thank you."

"All good, all good."

Romano nodded, stepping back. With a motion to the others, the barricade lifted.

The car moved forward, and I didn't spare them another glance.

The facility was only a few miles ahead, tucked away in an abandoned industrial zone where time itself seemed meaningless.

The air reeked of rust and decay, a fitting scent for what this place housed.

A forgotten graveyard of steel and concrete, stripped of life and purpose, left to wither under the weight of its own neglect.

I hadn't set foot here since the prisoner was transported.

I couldn't risk it. There was no need. He had nowhere to go, no one coming for him.

Yet every time I was reminded that he was here—breathing, waiting.

..it lingered in the back of my mind. A problem locked away wasn't a problem solved.

Deep down, I knew the only real solution was to end him, but some part of me hesitated.

Whether it was sentiment or something darker, I couldn't say.

Enzo eased the car to a stop, gravel crunching beneath the tires.

The facility was unmarked, blending into the decaying industrial zone.

I had left the prisoner in the hands of five men, and they were exactly where they should be stationed outside, alert.

But they weren't just guards. They were the best. Loyal not by obligation, but by choice.

I could sleep soundly knowing every single one of them would die for me without hesitation.

I stepped out of the car, the heat pressing down as the door shut behind me. Alessio was already moving, his sharp gaze sweeping over the vehicle before settling on me. He gave a curt nod. "Wasn't expecting you today."

"Would it have changed anything if you had?"

Alessio's lips twitched, not quite a smirk. "Maybe. Could've made sure we had fresh coffee at least."

I let out a dry chuckle. "That's your concern? Not the prisoner who'd slit your throat if he got the chance?"

Alessio shrugged. "He's not going anywhere. But good coffee? That's a daily struggle."

I shook my head, stepping past him toward the entrance. The scent of rust and damp concrete clung to the air.

He fell into step beside me, his tone shifting. "We should move him."

I glanced at him. "Why?"

"A kid went missing a couple of days back. Not unusual, but the cops are tearing through every abandoned building, facility, and warehouse. We've kept things quiet, but no place stays off the radar forever." He paused. "Better to move him before anyone gets too curious."

I let out a slow breath. "Fine. I'll make the arrangements."

Alessio gave a satisfied nod, falling back as I moved forward. The other men stepped aside, murmuring their greetings, but I barely acknowledged them. My focus was ahead.

Inside, dim lighting cast my shadow long against the concrete walls. My footsteps echoed through the narrow corridor, the only sound in the stillness. There were just a handful of rooms along the hall, all empty, hollow spaces stripped of purpose.

Except for one.

At the very end, a heavy steel door stood closed. I pressed against it, and the metal groaned in protest as it swung open.

He was already on his feet.

The chain bolted to the far wall rattled as he moved, his wrists bound in front of him, one ankle shackled to keep him from going too far. There was a chair and table welded to the floor. In the corner, the small bed looked barely slept in.

His eyes locked onto mine, sharp and burning. His breathing was steady, controlled, but the tightness in his stance told a different story.

Then he lunged.

The chain jerked tight with a brutal snap, stopping him just inches away from me. He fought against it, muscles coiled, breath becoming heavier. A low, guttural sound rumbled from his throat.

I didn't flinch.

"Enough," I said, tilting my head.

He stilled, chest rising and falling, fingers twitching like they were aching to close around my throat.

I sighed, stepping past him toward the table. "Sit down. Relax. I'm only here to talk, not kill you."

For now.

I pulled a notepad and pen from my coat and tossed them onto the table. "I know you have something to say. Go ahead. Be dramatic."

His fingers tightened around the pen, slow at first, then feverish. The only sound in the room was the frantic scribbling of ink on paper.

I picked up the notepad as he slid it toward me, eyes never leaving mine.

What's the problem? Too scared to unchain me?

My gaze flicked back to him. He tilted his head, a slow, taunting smirk in his eyes.

How about you come closer?

I let out a low chuckle. "You always did love theatrics."

I tossed the notepad back, and he caught it without missing a beat. A second later, he pushed it toward me again.

Let me out of here you piece of shit.

"Relax," I said. "Your time will come. Everything's falling into place, better than I expected. Enjoy your stay while it lasts."

I let the words settle, watching him. His grip on the pen tightened as he scribbled something, the letters rough, barely legible. Then, without hesitation, he stretched the notepad toward me.

The instant my fingers brushed the notepad, pain lanced through my palm sharp and suddenly. He'd buried the pen deep with ruthless precision. I gritted my teeth, yanking the pen free. Blood welled up instantly, warm and thick against my skin.

A sharp crack echoed as my fist connected with his jaw, snapping his head to the side. He barely flinched. Then his shoulders shook, and a muffled laugh rumbled from his chest.

I wiped my bloody palm against my handkerchief, smearing crimson across the white fabric. My voice stayed low, even. "You just made things worse for yourself."

He lifted his head, eyes burning with the same defiance as before. No regret. No fear. Only silent, seething hatred.

I stepped back, shaking the sting from my knuckles. "Enjoy your stay," I said, turning for the door. "I'll be back when I decide what to do with you."

I arrived home late, expecting Leila to be asleep. Instead, she was awake, sitting on the edge of the bed reading a book .

"Where were you?" she asked the moment I stepped in. She placed the book on the bedside table.

I sighed, undoing the first button of my shirt. "Taking care of business."

Her lips pressed together. "Business," she echoed, pausing for a beat. "Or were you with someone?"

That made me pause. I turned fully to her, amusement tugging at the corners of my mouth. "Jealous, are we?"

Her gaze stayed steady. "Yes."

I laughed quietly. "Didn't take you for the possessive type."

She stood, closing the space between us. "I'm not. But I don't like sharing what's mine."

I tilted my head, watching her. "You don't have to."

Her lips parted slightly, but she wasn't done yet. "Then what were you doing?"

Brushing my fingers along her jaw, I let my touch linger. "I already told you. Handling business."

She narrowed her eyes, catching the injury on my palm. "How did you get that?"

I glanced down, flexing my fingers as if testing the pain. "Got careless," I said smoothly. "Nothing serious."

Her gaze flicked to mine, searching. "Careless how?"

I exhaled through my nose, shaking my head with a small smirk. "You ask too many questions."

She didn't smile. "And you never give enough answers."

"Because I don't answer to you, Leila. End of discussion."

"Sure. End of discussion."

I leaned in, my breath warm against her skin. "Pack a bag or don't. We're going to Greece tomorrow."

She blinked. "Greece?"

"You heard me."

"For what?"

I gave her a vague smile. "You'll see."

She huffed. "For how long?"

"A few days. Maybe two weeks. Not more than."

Her arms folded tighter. "You're being annoyingly vague."

I only smirked.

With a dramatic sigh, she looked up at me through her lashes. "Fine. But before we leave... I want something."

I raised a brow. "What?"

She stepped closer, pressing against me. "I want you to take me to the dungeon."

A chuckle escaped me. "Are you that desperate?"

She nodded shamelessly. "Yes."

"You do realize I have another one in Greece?"

She smirked. "It's not about the place."

"Then what?"

She licked her lips. "I want you to do whatever you like to me. And I want it now. Because I love being used."

I drew in a slow breath, satisfaction settling deep as I gripped her chin and tilted her head up.

"Oh," I murmured, my grip firm. "I'm going to use you until you don't know what to do with yourself."

"So, what are we waiting for?"

My fingers curled around Leila's wrist, firm, possessive. "Come."

She followed without hesitation, her breaths shallow with anticipation. I led her through the dimly lit hallway, where silence pressed heavy around us. The dungeon lay deeper into the house, past the main living area, tucked away from prying eyes and unnecessary interruptions.

We stopped at a set of double doors, and I pushed them open. The air greeted me like an old lover. I motioned for her to go in before stepping inside myself. I exhaled slowly, letting the space settle around me.

My gaze swept over the tools lining the walls, each meticulously placed, each holding its own purpose. Floggers, crops, restraints. Chains dangled from the ceiling, their metal links catching the lantern's glow. The St. Andrew's cross stood against the far wall, its thick wooden frame waiting.

I stepped forward, my fingers trailing over a coiled whip. I smirked in satisfaction. Each tool had a voice, a rhythm, a purpose. I knew their weight, their bite, the reactions they could pull.

Behind me, Leila stood in silent anticipation.

I turned to her.

"Strip," I commanded.

Without second thoughts, she obeyed.