Page 115 of Malicious Claim

"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."

Chapter Forty Four

The Assassin's Trail Tightens

The jeweler's shop was tucked away in a quiet corner of Venetian.

It was the kind of shop where everything of value was on display within the sanctuary of glass cases. One glass case contained elegant pieces of diamonds set in platinum, another had gold rings fashioned with meticulous attention, and watches more valuable than what most men made in a year.

Dragon had come to this shop before, but today he was not here to purchase anything. He was following up a lead.

The doorbell just above the entry softly rang out as he stepped inside. The air was filled with the smell of aging furniture and expensive perfume. Behind the counter was an old man with silver-framed glasses adjusting a watch under the glow of a jeweler's lamp. His hands were firm, the kind that had worked with precision for decades.

Dragon slid the picture over the glass. The image was fuzzy, but the ring on the man's finger stood out—a dainty band with a distinct engraving.