Page 64 of Malicious Claim

"That would be a daring accusation," he said, reaching for the papers. "Unless, of course, you think I am incapable of signing my own name?"

The accountant went pale. "No, sir, of course not. I only—"

Makros pulled a pen from his pocket, twirling it between his fingers. "I punched a guy yesterday," he said, his voice careless, dismissive. "Hard enough that my hand's been having a bad day.”

The accountant swallowed hard.

Makros smiled faintly. "That would explain why the signatures are a little inconsistent. Wouldn't it?”

There was a moment of silence, then the accountant nodded quickly. "Of course, sir. That makes perfect sense. My apologies for overlooking that."

Makros took the papers and, with slow movements, signed each one again. Carefully this time.

"Make sure these get through without a hitch," he told him, shoving them back across the desk.

"Yes, sir."

The accountant hastened to pick up the papers, ducking his head before leaving.

As soon as the door shut, Makros took a fresh sheet of paper. He scrawled his name on the paper, then again, then again, until it was indistinguishable from the original. It wasn't until then that he relaxed.

By evening, Makros had more pressing matters on his mind. The Russian meeting, Dragon had informed him about the previous day.

It was the kind of deal that made him nervous, even beforehand. The Russians wanted something, and they did not often plead for it. He did not enjoy owing them debts, and he enjoyed being cornered less.

He thought he should go to the meeting with Leila.

Why not? She was his wife.

He walked to Leila's bedroom, where she was perched on the end of her bed, daydreaming of a sort. The moment she saw him, however, her expression altered.

"Get dressed," he told her.

Her gaze flicked to him, wary. "For what?"

"We're going out."

Her frame stiffened. "I don't want to go anywhere with you."

Makros scoffed. "I didn't ask what you wanted."

He tossed a dress onto the bed beside her. The fabric was silky, black, and way too short.

Leila examined it with barely concealed revulsion. "No."

His humor failed him. "No?"

She tipped up her chin. "Find another doll to play dress-up with."

His tolerance was wearing thin. "Leila—"

"No," she repeated, her tone tougher.

Makros exhaled slowly. The urge to press the issue, to remind her who was in charge, was strong. But time was ticking, and he had no intention of delaying the Russian meeting over a dress.

A muscle in his jaw flexed as he took a step back. "Wear whatever you want."

Her eyes narrowed, not trusting his quick surrender.

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