Page 201 of Malicious Claim

When Makros entered the ward, his father looked a tinge smaller than he remembered. Blood flowed from a hanging bag into his arm, and the machines around him beeped softly. It was the first time Makros had seen him this messed up. Even wounded, Don Matteo still looked like he could tear a man in two.

"So you finally show your face," Don Matteo growled.

Makros took only about three steps into the room before stopping. "Yes, I came as soon as I heard."

"You heard?" The Don let out a bitter laugh that turned into a violent cough. Then he took a deep breath and continued, "The estate was gutted. Half of the Cretes men are either dead or injured. Your cousin Stefanos is gone forever."

Makros felt a chill run over his body, but he tried to remain composed and keep an impassive face.

"Don't give me that dead-eyed stare. This is your doing. You let Aleksei walk free and you let him kill a high ranking member of the Orel Bratva. Now look. You—you brought weakness into this family. You brought disrespect to the Cretes name. Maybe it should've been your brother I made Don."

There it is, Makros thought. He finally said it out loud. What he had wanted to hear for years.

"I'll fix it, Papa," he said coldly .

"Fix it?" his father snapped, then winced and clutched his side. "Can you bring Stefanos back? Can you alone fix the war that's coming? Without spilling unnecessary bloodshed?"

Makros looked him in the eye, unblinking. He didn't answer. There was no point.

Blood was the only remedy to what had begun. It started with their blood but it would end in the Orel Bratva blood, he swore it silently to himself.

Don Matteo's expression darkened, and he continued. "You've changed ever since the Crawford murder. Let's not even talk about how you goofed by marrying their daughter. For all I know, she could be putting a bigger target on our backs. But I let you do your thing, believing a man should be allowed to let his instinct guide him. But I'll tell you what, your instincts disgust me."

Then came the knife.

"Stefanos' blood is on your hands. Get out. Now."

Don Matteo spat at the floor.

Makros turned on the nonchalant switch in his brain. There was nothing left to say, his father had said it all.

He turned around to leave.

Dragon followed without being told.

Out in the hallway, Dragon broke the silence. "He didn't mean that about your brother."

Makros didn't answer at first. He didn't want to. Because he liked it better thinking he had meant it. What his father had said about his brother hadn't stung. In a way Dragon could not grasp, they'd settled. Somewhere deep, and warm.

Makros paused, fingers flexing once at his side before stilling.

"He meant it."

Dragon gave him an unreadable look. "Maybe. Or maybe he just wants you to start taking things more seriously as Don."

"Alright Dragon," Makros said, resuming his walk. "I've heard you. Now leave me alone."

Makros stepped inside with Leila trailing behind. They took in the aftermath of the damage together. The place had clearly been torn apart by bullets not too long ago. The walls had been patched up in a hurry, the holes lazily covered with paint that didn't exactly match. Furniture had been dragged back into place, but the scars were still there, like the dining chair with a taped-up leg, or the table that was compressed in the middle. Everything looked like it had been through a lot.

Leila reached out, her voice barely a whisper. "Makros..."

He turned to her sharply. "Take your hands off me."

"Mak—"

"I said don't!"

He didn't even shove her that hard. But her foot caught on the edge of a rolled-up rug under the coffee table, still crooked from the attack. She stumbled and fell, her head striking the sharp edge of the glass table with a sickening crack.

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