Page 65 of Malicious Claim

The vehicle was waiting by the time they came out. Nicolai waited by the passenger door, holding it open. Leila hesitated half a second, her eyes flicking to Nicolai as if attempting to weigh her options. She must have known there was none.

She released a quiet breath and slid into the leather seat. Makros sat beside her before the door shut.

The ride was silent at first.

Makros's fingers tapped on his knee, his thoughts elsewhere—on the meeting, the Russians, the sinister drag of details that was supposed to flow to him like water but instead felt like roadblocks.

Then Leila moved beside him.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked, her voice even.

Makros looked at her. "Business meeting."

She snorted. "And I have to attend because...?"

He grinned. "Because I said so."

She let out a breath, turning her face away from him, and looking out the window as the city lights whizzed by. "Of course."

"You should be thanking me," Makros stated.

Leila turned back to him, her brow furrowed. "For what?"

"For allowing you to dress however you pleased," he said, tilting his head a quarter of an inch. "I could have insisted."

Her lips pursed in a tight line, but her glare did not waver. "You're not as powerful as you think."

Makros smiled, but there was nothing more than a ghost of it. "And you're not as free as you act."

That dissolve any more arguing.

Makros allowed the silence to hold, allowing her to fume in it. He had no interest in debating with her that night. There were more important things to resolve. And the moment they got to the meeting, she would know it for herself.

He knew that this meeting was going to be tough. But what bothered him most was the thought that, for the first time in a long while, he could not quite anticipate what was to come.

He hated that feeling.

Chapter Twenty Eight

The Russian Meeting

The warehouse was a corrugated tin-sided building with rust around the corners. It was a grid of beams. It was positioned at the border of the dockyard, half abandoned, but its location served it well because it had one road in, and one road out. It was the appropriate place for trade to be negotiated and, as needed, for bodies to disappear.

Makros's car, a black Mercedes vehicle, slowed in its braking, its engine whispering softly before sputtering out completely.

Nicolai in the front seat tapped his hands on his knee with strained tension. Makros slipped a magazine into position with a faint click. Leila, who knew such moments intimately, still held the tense atmosphere with a shadow of apprehension.

As they emerged, a second car pulled to a halt, its lights flashing behind them. Stefanos and Dragon had tagged along as backup, but if there had been any others, it would have been seen as insulting to the Russians.

Makros remained silent as his men climbed out of their vehicle.

Before them, the Russians waited. Six men, nicely spread out, and while they appeared to be relaxing, it'd be dumb not to suspect they were the most dangerous bratva.

Between them stood the leader:Mikhail Volkov.Broad-shoulders, thick beard, and a frozen gaze. On his right was a slightly leaner version but just as dangerous. His brother Sergei.

Makros stepped forward, his mittened hands shoved into the pockets of his coat, showing no fear.

Mikhail smiled. "Makros."

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