Page 71 of Malicious Claim (Dark Inheritance #1)

Office Hours

Kim led the way and Leila followed. Both their heels tapped faintly against the polished concrete floors of the factory. The mechanical hum of machines grew louder as they approached the production floor.

As they stepped into the heart of the operations, Kim paused and clapped her hands—twice.

It was almost useless.

The sound was barely registered over the roar of industrial machines, but as intended, one curious glance spread the attention grabbing like wildfire. A few heads turned, then more, until the room slowly quieted and all eyes turned toward them.

Kim cleared her throat. "Alright, everyone. This is Lady Leila. Some of you, if not all, already know she's the boss' wife and she was instrumental in the design that won the Shoes of Nobles award."

There was a ripple of nods and murmured acknowledgment.

Kim didn't wait for it to settle. She took another breath and dropped the bomb without fanfare. "Lady Caterina has been relieved of her duties. As of today, Mrs. Leila will be taking her place."

Being called Mrs. instead of lady bothered her slightly.

A thick pause blanketed the floor. Then, like a stone thrown into calm water for ripples, one person clapped. Another followed. Within seconds, the room filled with polite applause, maybe genuine, maybe performative—but Leila took it.

"Thank you," she whispered at first, then louder, "Thank you so very much for accepting me."

It was surreal. She didn't even know what her job fully entailed yet. But applause was applause. And recognition—whether earned or not, was a decent balm for anxiety.

"Back to work," Kim instructed, and the space shifted back into motion like a machine resuming its rhythm.

They climbed a narrow zigzag staircase that gave a view of the factory floor below. At the top, Kim stopped at a sleek glass door and opened it.

"Your office, Mrs. Leila," she said, with a subtle apology in her tone. "Sorry about the name tag. It'll be changed soon."

Leila's eyes narrowed at the plaque on the door: Caterina.

That...that... it was pointless to think like that, especially since she no longer mattered.

"Thank you, Kim," she muttered.

"My office is just down there," Kim said, pointing to the far right. "You'll find my number saved on the office phone if you need anything. Just call."

With that, Kim turned and headed down the hallway.

Leila didn't go in immediately. She lingered by the doorway, watching Kim until she disappeared into her own office. Then, with a slow breath, she stepped into her new space.

The scent of someone else's perfume still clung to the air—roses, too sweet, too familiar. The decor was cold, clinical.

"Damn, this bitch even lacks basic aesthetics. How did she even manage a shoe company?" she spoke aloud to herself.

And for the first time since arriving in Greece, Leila felt something close to anger.

She was a replacement.

Makros' wife replace. Caterina's replacement. She seemed like the woman who stepped in once others had been discarded.

Did she own anything that had started with her?

Suppressing the rising discomfort, Leila began to explore. The room was pristine—Caterina was many things, but messy wasn't one of them. The desk drawers were organized with detailed ledgers, factory orders, correspondence, and a thick file of financial records.

In the filing cabinet, a framed photo caught her eye: Caterina and Makros at some gala. He was smiling, actually smiling—and Caterina had her hand on his chest like it belonged there.

Leila sneered and tossed the frame into the trash can.

Returning to the desk, she eyed the floral arrangement. Red roses in a crystal vase.

Ugly.

She scribbled down notes on a pad she found in the drawer, starting a list:

Replace roses with chrysanthemums.

Change wall art (too minimalist, no personality).

Swap desk chair (uncomfortable).

Get rid of the scented diffuser (smells like a funeral home).

Add a bookshelf with design catalogues and my work.

She folded the note neatly and placed it on the desk.

Why make a note? Why claim this space like in a matter of days, or at most weeks she'd be on a jet back to Italy? It felt like a waste of effort really.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. No calls. No visitors. Just silence and paperwork. She spent most of it deep in thought, staring out the window or flipping absentmindedly through designs.

Her mind drifted back to Italy.

Dario Conti was dead, but men like him never died quietly. There would be whispers, blood feuds. Stefanos wouldn't forget. His pride wouldn't let him. He would come for her. And he wouldn't be merciful.

But more pressing than any of them... Nicolai.

He knew too much. He knew everything.

If he so much as whispered half of what he knew in Makros' ear, the delicate web she was weaving would fall apart.

She had three choices:

Side with Nicolai and Vincenzo, destroy Makros and follow through with her revenge.

Forgo the entire revenge plot, settle into this life, try to coexist with Makros and survive. Or... burn it all. Side with no one. Destroy every single player and build her empire from the ashes.

That last one sounded most appealing.

But she still wasn't sure.

Somewhere between these thoughts, she fell asleep on the couch.

When she woke, the factory was quiet again. Work was over.

She collected her things, picked up the folded note, and stepped out. At the bottom of the stairs, she spotted Kim ending a call.

"Signora Leila," Kim greeted. "Makros just left."

"Of course he did," Leila muttered, not surprised. "Please see that these changes are made in my office as soon as possible."

"Sure thing," Kim replied, taking the note with a nod.

Outside in the lot, Enzo stood by a sleek black car, spinning the keys like it was just another day. He saw her approach and pressed the button to unlock the doors.

"Signora," he said, opening the door.

Leila slid in, watching him circle around to the driver's side. The second he got in, she noticed his eyes flicker to the rearview mirror.

Again.

"What is it with that look?" she asked sharply.

Enzo blinked. "What look?"

"That look," she snapped. "Like you're trying to figure out if I'm worth driving around."

Enzo gave a crooked grin. "Sheesh, no. It's just... you got shot at yesterday. And today? You're sitting there like it was just a coffee stain on your jacket."

"Why is everyone treating that like a big deal?"

"Because it is a big deal," he said, surprisingly sincere. "Coming close to death isn't something you just brush off."

Leila looked out the window, quiet. Her arm still ached beneath the bandage. The real wound wasn't physical—it was the paranoia, the constant looking over her shoulder, wondering when someone would come to collect the blood debt.

She reached into her bag, fingers brushing the cool steel of the gun.

Just in case.