Petrov smiled. The evening's first genuine smile. "Your son," he said quietly, stirring his vodka, "May learn a thing or two from you."
Makros did not react. He simply waited.
Finally, Petrov lifted his glass and sipped his vodka slowly. Then he set it down, glaring Matteo in the eye.
"I will consider your offer."
Matteo nodded once. "Good."
The meeting was at an end.
The war was postponed at least for now.
As Matteo and Makros were about to leave, Fyodorovich slumped back in his chair, stirring the remaining vodka in his glass. His sharp eyes snapped between father and son before he said anything, his voice light, almost nonchalant.
"Old friend," he said, pausing long enough for them to look over their shoulders. "You came all this way. It would be a shame for you to leave without indulging in our hospitality."
Matteo's brow shot up, but Fyodorovich just smiled—this one genuine.
"Tonight is my daughter's birthday," he continued. "We're having a banquet. A real one. No schemes, no threats. Just food, family, and good company." He lifted his glass a little. "Stay. Eat. Drink. Let's part ways in better spirits than we came."
Matteo stared at him for a long moment before a slow, knowing smile crept onto his face. "It would be rude to refuse."
Fyodorovich chuckled. "Exactly." He gestured towards one of his soldiers. "Have them brought in and made comfortable."
The soldier waved them over.
Makros lagged behind his father, making his way through the halls of Fyodorovich's estate. The structure was as formidable as it was secure—thick walls, high ceilings, the kind of architecture that had seen more bloodshed than celebration.
They were led to separate rooms. Matteo disappeared behind one door without hesitation, but Makros lingered a second longer.
"Someone will come and get you when the banquet begins," the soldier said before turning to leave.
Makros exhaled a breath, shrugging his shoulders as he gazed around at his temporary residence. The space was large but unadorned. A fire crackled softly in the corner, unable to clear Moscow's chill out of his bones. The bed was sturdy, the furniture costly but minimal. A reminder that hospitality did not extend so far for men such as Fyodorovich Petrov.
But he barely considered it. His thoughts were elsewhere.
Leila.
It was a curse the way she easily filled his head. He hadn't even realized he was reaching for his phone until he was holding it. One call would not be the worst thing.
Except that there was no number to call. No way to hear her voice unless he was standing over her.
His jaw snapped tight.
Fine. If he could not talk with her, he'd focus on something he could control.
He called Dragon instead.
The phone rang barely twice before the gruff voice answered. "Yeah?"
"Tell me you've got something."
Dragon sighed. "If I had something, you wouldn't be calling me—I'd be calling you."
Makros clenched his jaw. He had given Dragon one job: locate Dimitri. Where was the bastard in hiding? Who was he working with? And why had he skedaddled the moment crap had hit the fan?
It was infuriatingly annoying.
