Page 113 of Malicious Claim

Petrov. The name itself was a power to be feared. The man was a man out of time, hard-eyed and unyielding, his face chiseled from stone. He had built his empire in the shadows,ruling by patience and procedure. Everything he did was calculated.

If he had burned Makros's business, it was because he had already calculated the costs.

Makros sat beside his father, no guards accompanying them.

On the other side of the table, Petrov set down his glass and exhaled, watching them with a sophisticated calm.

"You took your time coming."

Makros's father smiled calmly. "We do not rush for threats."

Petrov smiled softly, but his eyes were devoid of humor. "Threats? No, my friend. That was a lesson." He lazily gestured to the two men seated to either side of him who approved his words with a nod. "Your son refused to listen to reason. We had to remind him that there is a price for disrespect, else he continues to disregard us."

Makros inched forward a bit, resting his forearms on the tabletop. His voice was soothing. Controlled. Frozen.

"Burning my business down was not a lesson. It was an opening move to war."

Petrov gazed at him for an instant, his expression blank. Then he smiled. “And yet, you're here," he said. "That speaks to me of a desire for no war."

Makros met his glare unflinchingly. "I don't." He paused for an instant. "But that doesn't mean that I'm afraid of it."

The room became quiet.

Makros felt the shift in the atmosphere. A mistake. But he hadn't insulted anyone by what he'd said.

His father leaned back, watching Petrov guardedly. Then he sighed. "You do not wish for war either, Fyodorovich. Otherwise, you would already have made a second move."

Petrov did not answer, but the twitch of his brow spoke volumes.

Makros's father continued, his voice sharpening. "I'm disappointed in you old friend." He clicked his tongue and shook his head. "If I were a less capable man, I would have responded in a way that you would never recover from. But that is not why I have come."

Makros looked at his father with wise consideration. He remembered why he was held in respect.

Petrov took a slow breath, fingers tapping on his glass. "Then why are you here?"

Matteo leaned in now, his voice even. Dangerously precise.

"You wanted control over one of Crete's docks," he said. "Over a misguided shipment. But that would be greedy of you. I'm here to offer something else. Something more reasonable."

Petrov raised an eyebrow. "And what would that be?"

Matteo allowed the silence to linger.

"I would have been generous—if you hadn't destroyed my property. But now, it will cost you." His tone was still suave, but the steel underlying it was impossible to ignore. "I'm giving you a place in Greece to store your products."

Petrov's expression didn't change, but Makros saw the slight shift in his posture. Interest.

Makros' dad continued. "You need a place where you can make your deliveries safely. I'm giving you a warehouse. Completely secured. No harassment whatsoever."

Petrov's silence stretched on, his head clearly running the math.

"You'll have protection," Matteo went on, "but we'll charge you five percent." He let the significance of that sink in before delivering the coup de grâce. "Or—you can burn another one of my buildings down, and we burn three of yours. Your choice."

The room grew quiet again.

Makros watched Petrov's men glance at one another. One squirmed. The other sat rigidly. They were used to bargaining. But they weren't used to being trapped.

According to an unwritten rule, once those involved in the negotiations started to talk, the others were to stay silent. It was referred to as table manners.

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