Page 112 of Malicious Claim

She got to the communication room and glanced around cautiously. With steady hands, she slid the key card through the scanner.

A tense second passed.

Then a sharp beep sound.

The red light flickered green.

She exhaled. She was in.

The room smelled of stale cigarettes. It was dimly illuminated by the glow of monitors and blinking red indicators.

Leila ignored the distractions of the other machines.

She went straight to the secure line on the control panel dialing the number Dimitri had given her from memory.

It rang once.

Then it connected with a click. A voice, low, cautious answered. "Who is this?"

She closed her eyes briefly, steadying herself. "Leila. I'm sure Dimitri must've told you about me."

There was a brief pause.

Vincenzo's voice came out easily. "Talk."

She didn't waste time.

"You want Makros out of the way," she said. "I want revenge."

There was a shift on the other end, the faint rustle of movement. Then, a quiet chuckle. "And what exactly are you offering?"

Leila's fingers curled around the mic.

"I can give you information. Access. Everything you need to bring him down."

A long silence. Then a thoughtful hum. "And in return?"

She took a deep breath, steady, unwavering.

"I want you to destroy him."

Another pause. Longer this time.

"Now we're getting somewhere."

Chapter Forty Three

The Moscow Negotiations

Winter in Moscow was savage, a beast that buried its teeth in the skin and refused to let go. Snow blanketed the streets, muffling the roar of the city, but inside the conference room of the Petrov estate, the atmosphere was anything but calm.

The room was built for power. Dark wood paneling ran from floor to ceiling, its highly polished surface reflecting the dancing light of a chandelier above. A mahogany table long and wide dominated the center, its flanks guarded by high-backed leather chairs that had hosted generations of men who had controlled the Orel Bratva with iron fists. The air was thick with the scent of expensive cigars, from the whiskey, and the faintest whiff of gun oil—a reminder to keep humble and that politeness here was mostly always a formality.

Makros and his father arrived, their pace slow, deliberate. They weren't here to just make an impression. They were here to remind the Russians who exactly they were dealing with.

There was a lone soldier in the room with an almost conspicuous presence.

Seated at the long mahogany table were the three most senior men of the Orel Bratva and at their head was Fyodorovich Petrov.

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