Page 74 of Malicious Claim (Dark Inheritance #1)

Le Famiglie Italiane

In their underground world of crime three things ensured order, which were silence, loyalty, and blood. But lately, too much blood had been spilled, with Makros taking credit for most of the drop.

The murder of the Volkov brothers had sent ripples through the Italian Mafiadom like an earthquake.

Two of Russia's most feared and well-connected arms dealers, taken out in broad daylight on Russian territory.

The heat from their deaths was falling squarely on Makros, and even though he didn't pull the trigger, it didn't matter.

Perception was everything. In their world, if people thought you orchestrated a hit that bold, you either took the crown or took the fall.

Makros had decided to take the allegation like a champion. He let the rumors swirl, let the Russians believe he took out the Volkov because they were his rivals. It was risky... maybe even reckless.

Dragon had been asked to find out who had taken the hit on the Volkovs.

"He keeps piling them on," Dragon thought, grinding his teeth. "Find the man in yellow. Find E.B. Find out who took out the Volkov brothers. Who's betraying him this week? Who's planning to kill him next week? Christ."

It wasn't frustrating anymore. It was exhaustion wrapped in the tight bonds of loyalty. Makros had trusted him with so much for so long, but the burden of it all was starting to feel more like a leash than a badge of honor.

"I get it," Dragon thought bitterly. "He trusts me. Maybe too much. But I'm only one man."

It wasn't the missions that bothered him, not exactly. It was the feeling that no matter how many he completed, there would always be another one waiting for him. The flames of one unresolved task never quenched before another was thrown into the fire.

But still, he didn't stop. He wouldn't. Because he was Dragon. And as long as Makros kept asking, he would keep answering. Even if the chain around his neck kept getting tighter.

Dragon set up the meeting with the other Italian Mafia families, knowing it was a necessary step to put out the flames sparked by the Volkov brothers' deaths.

The meeting took place in a private estate on the outskirts of Florence, far from the prying eyes of outsiders. The four men in the room were crucial allies to the Cretes, each holding a different slice of power in the Mafia world.

Dragon entered the room with the ease of someone who knew exactly what his presence meant.

He didn't have to posture or pretend to be someone he wasn't, intimidating, powerful, or confident.

He already was all those things. He was Makros' sword, after all.

But lately, that sword felt less like a weapon and more like a shield, taking the blows that Makros should've been facing instead.

He surveyed the room.

Dragon surveyed the room.

Luigi Alfonso, also known as Scar Cheek, ran Venice now, but his father had been the real terror back in the day. Luigi just inherited the fear.

Matteo Tommaso was from Naples. His family built that empire brick by bloody brick. Matteo would do everything he could to ensure not one brick crumbled.

Caruso Rossi came from old money and older secrets. The Rossi name had always been quiet, but everyone knew not to poke at what kept them rich.

Bruno Giacomo's father made Milan look clean. Bruno just polished the image. Finance, tech, fashion, you name it, he had his fingers in it.

They were all sons of kings. And in this room, every single one of them wanted a shot at the throne.

Dragon gave a single nod, letting the silence stretch before cutting into it.

"I called this meeting because the Volkov murders have ignited a fire," he said in a steady and measured voice. "And everyone's pointing fingers at Makros."

He scanned their faces, watching for a flicker of guilt, of fear, of recognition. None came.

He stepped forward.

"Makros didn't kill the Volkovs. But if any of you lit that fire thinking he'd burn alone, think again."

There was a collective sigh in the room.

Caruso leaned back in his chair. "Why should we be convinced he didn't do it? He betrayed the Volkovs, they drop dead in their own backyard, and suddenly Makros is in Greece. Now he's looking for who will take the fall."

"He didn't do it," Dragon said evenly.

Matteo raised a brow. "That's not what he's letting people believe."

Dragon gripped the table with both hands leaning forward to make himself very clear. "Makros wanted the Russians to think he did it. But he didn't."

Scar-Cheek gave a humorless chuckle. "Not denying a murder is the same as doing it, Dragon. It might earn recognition and power, but it also earns enemies."

Caruso snorted. "And now you come here asking us if we did it."

"I'm asking," Dragon said calmly, "if any of your families had a hand in it."

There was a pause. The kind that stretched too long.

"No," Matteo said first. "It wasn't us. The Volkovs did good for our business."

"Same here," Scar-Cheek grunted. "Too much heat."

Caruso gave a curt shake of his head. "I'd at least have made a statement out of it. That was too surgical for my style."

Bruno tilted his head, but said nothing more.

Dragon let the silence settle. "Then we have a bigger problem. Someone wanted to bring the heat on Makros."

Scar-Cheek lit a cigar, the smoke curling in rings as he exhaled. "Maybe that's what he gets for playing too many sides. Should've picked a lane with Aleksei."

"He made the right call at the time," Dragon replied.

"For him," Matteo murmured, "But not for anyone else."

This was what he feared, there was blood in the water and the sharks were hungry to devour the Cretes.

Dragon straightened. "Makros is still the crowned prince of Italy and that title wasn't given lightly.

It came from blood, legacy, and years of proving he could lead this thing when others couldn't. That loyalty isn't just to a man, it's part of what has kept us from tearing each other apart.

So if anyone here is thinking of making a move.

.. think carefully. There are better ways to handle the Volkov brothers death than turning on your own. "

Scar-Cheek exhaled a puff of smoke, amused. "Tell your prince that if he wants to wear the crown of Italy, he better start acting like a king. Because one more step in the wrong direction we would start to think he's not suited for the position he's been given."

Dragon didn't flinch. "I'll let him know."

With that he stepped out of the building without looking back. He lit a cigarette as he got into his car.

Pieces were moving. Not fast, but deliberate and precise.

Makros was still wearing the crown, sure. But people were starting to place their queen on the board. And in this game, queens didn't just check kings. They bled them slowly.

As Dragon started the car, the weight of another unresolved mystery pressed down on him. If none of the families were behind the Volkov brothers' deaths, then who the hell did it? Vincenzo?