Page 192 of Malicious Claim

There was a dinner party Vasilis was hosting. His company had just turned sixteen years old.

Makros sat in the backseat of the black SUV, eyes lazily tracking the passing lights outside the tinted windows.

Nicolai drove using one hand, the other one drumming rhythmically against his leg to the beat of an old Italian song playing from the speakers.

Makros glanced up, catching Nicolai's reflection in the rearview mirror. An unpleasant and unwelcomed thought flickered in his mind briefly before he pushed it away.

The Bronx Hotel appeared up ahead, tall and strikingly beautiful, all glass, glowing with enthralling lights. Valets danced between cars that probably had names beside what their manufacturer called them. Guests strutted in like walking ads for wealth and riches.

"Che festa lussuosa (this party is luxurious)," Nicolai muttered before his eyes fell on an elegantly dressed figure. "Hey, boss, that Polly Prairie over there?"

Makros followed him with his eyes to a tall, champagne-dress woman, laughing too loudly as she clung on someone's arm.

He didn't recognize her. "Is she meant to be someone?"

Nicolai killed the ignition, twisting around in his seat. "Seriously? Polly? Was there for you when your—"

Makros cut him off. "I don't remember her."

"Ah, I see," Nicolai answered. "You don't want to talk about her because of Leila. You used to have bitches line up your doorsteps and keep a list of every single one. Now you're forgetting them like they're nothing."

Nicolai heard the door shut with a soft thud before he even registered Makros already walking toward the grand entrance. He scrambled out, handed the key over to a valet and jogged to catch up.

At the lobby entrance, security scanned them with a handheld metal detector. Makros came out clean. Nicolai? Not so much. The device beeped sharply.

"I'm his bodyguard," Nicolai said quickly, flashing a smile and gesturing at Makros. "Security detail."

"No guns allowed inside the premises," the guard said firmly, extending his hand. "You can retrieve it on your way out."

Nicolai hesitated, looking to Makros for backup, but all he got was a short nod of approval. With a sigh, he handed over his pistol.

"That's an M12," Nicolai muttered as he placed it gently in the guard's palm. "Special issue. Please don't let the janitor walk off with it."

The guard gave him a flat stare. Nicolai patted his chest before walking on.

Makros shook his head as they stepped into the grand ballroom. "This guy," he mumbled under his breath.

Inside, the atmosphere was thick with elegant decorations. Soft jazz played from a live quartet in the corner, and the scent of different food and drinks clung to the air.

Though the event had only just begun, a few well-dressed guests were already seated around tastefully decorated round tables. The crowd was full of elite CEOs, high-ranking executives, and a few socialites thrown in for color.

Makros selected a table near the center and sat down. Nicolai hovered.

"What are you doing?" Makros asked without looking up.

"Um, standing guard like a loyal soldier?"

Makros glanced at him and sighed. "For god sakes, Nic, sit down before someone mistakes you for an overpaid waiter."

Nicolai chuckled and pulled out the chair beside him. "I thought of myself as a bodyguard... But really, boss, why didn't you bring Leila? It's a dinner party. Look around you everyone's got their plus-one. People might start thinking things about us."

Makros shot him a glare. "Okay, Nic. Nobody gives a damn who you're fucking these days. Just shut up and let me think."

Nicolai raised both hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. But—"

The gentle clinking of a spoon against glass silenced the room.

All heads turned toward a tall man in an immaculate charcoal suit. Mr. Vasilis. His silver hair was slicked back, and he held his champagne flute with the confidence of someone who had negotiated empires into existence.