Chapter Five
The Art Of War
Don Matteo flung the door open, and its force almost collided against Makros face. He caught it with one hand, stepping into the dimly lit office.
The scent of an old leather chair, backwood cigar, and sharp liquor filled the air. Bookshelves, lots and lots of them, occupied the huge space. The office would've easily been mistaken for Crete's private library, except that was further down the corridor.
It was funny that the Don was obsessed with reading so much, considering the fact this was supposed to be the most feared man in all of Italy and its borders.
He sat unhurriedly. His wrinkled knuckles pressed against the desk and he let out a contemplative sigh before speaking. “What is this marriage I hear about?”
Makros pulled out one of the two chairs facing the Don's and sat in the same unhurried nature his father had exhibited earlier.
“My reward,” he said. He had considered it best to start with a simple answer.
“You were supposed to execute all of them, Makros,” he growled.
“And I did. But I want her. And I, Makros, can have anything I want.”
“Perché la puttana?”
“Who? Leila?” A smirk curled on Makros’s lips. “She's not a whore, she's my muse. My wife. And I'll appreciate you treating her as such.”
Don's fist slammed the desk, rattling the crystal glass beside him. “Nonsense! Marrying the enemy's daughter. What game are you playing?”
Makros leaned against the desk, his expression relaxed, but his eyes sharp. “Game? No, Dad, this is real. They took what's valuable from me, and now I, Makros have taken everything from them.”
Don Matteo studied him, scepticism flickering in his gaze. “Revenge is done with a bullet, not a wedding ring.”
Makros exhaled dramatically. “You see that's where we differ. You call it revenge, I call it returning a favor. The Crawford’s have certainly been paid back.”
“And what about the girl? She is Crawford, isn’t she?” Don Matteo pressed, still looking confused.
“Ricordo. She’s mine.” Makros’s voice was calm, lethal. “She walks because I allow it. She breathes because I haven’t taken that from her yet. And every second she exists under my roof is a reminder that the Crawfords no longer belong to history... they belong to me.”
He continues. His voice was low, measured. “Not out of love. Not out of mercy. She’s here and mine because power demands proof and she’s the blood-stained proof that I never lose.” His eyes burned with wicked certainty. “Not even God could unbind what I’ve taken. She’s not a prisoner—she’s a statement. A living, breathing declaration that I own what was once untouchable.”
Silence stretched between them now. Don Matteo, for all his authority and power, could never truly understand his son or predict him. The boy had always been unpredictable, but to call him reckless would be a grave mistake.
“You were supposed to kill everyone,” Don Matteo muttered. “I don't care what you do with the girl, just make sure you tame her. You must stop at nothing until her greatest fear is you.”
Makros smirked. “And what do you think I've been doing?”
Don Matteo studied him once more, then leaned back into his chair. The old man hated it, but he had to admit–if Makros was doing something, he had probably considered all angles.
“For your sake, Makros,” he said quietly. “I hope you're not making a mistake.”
Makros laughed heartily, enjoying himself a little too much. “Relax old man. I don't make mistakes.” With that he stood up and turned, sauntering towards the door. He paused before the door.
“Oh, and one more thing, Dad.” He didn’t look back, he didn’t need to. His voice was calm, deadly, and carved from ice. “If anyone touches my wife...If anyone so much as breathes near my wife, I’ll turn them into an example. I won’t just make them my enemy. I’ll erase them. Bloodline or not. I’ll bury them so deep that history forgets they ever existed. That includes you. Alright, thanks for the pep talk.”
“Careful,” his father said sternly.
Makros, however, chuckled. There was something euphoric about riling up the Don. Then, with a flick of the wrist, he shut the door behind him.
Makros moved through the halls, happy to be surrounded by familiar walls again. Dragon materialised beside him, but he barely flinched.
“How was the talk with Don?”
