"Your father was a heartless man," Makros said, his voice lower now, but no less menacing.
Leila's nails dug into her palms. She had no reply to him.
Makros moved in, closing the space between them. "Do you want to know why I let you live?" His voice lowered, almost teasing. "Because I had questions, Leila. I needed to know why. Your family ripped mine apart, and I never got to ask why before I had to bury them."
Leila swallowed. Memories surfaced in her mind of her father and his men returning from mission, faces somber, the bloodstain on them. It was always self-defense. Kill or be killed her father had told her.
But now? Now doubt wrapped itself around her ribs like a vice.
"My father..." she started, but the words got lodged in her throat.
Makros' face clouded. "Was a murderer, just like me."
Leila flinched.
He exhaled roughly, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know why they did it, Leila. I don't know what reason your father had, what garbage excuse he gave himself to make it seem required." His jaw clenched. "But I do know one thing—your family didn't waste any time."
Leila looked away, pressing a hand to her forehead. Her heart ached painfully in her chest.
Everything she had known, everything she had held onto—it was collapsing beneath her feet, rendering her unstable.
Did I know my father at all?
She wanted to protest, to demand proof, but in her heart, she already knew that Makros wasn't lying. His hatred had been too intimate, too raw. And if she put together everything she had found out from Stefanos and Estela it all falls into place.
She clenched her fists. "If that's the case..." Her voice cracked. She took a deep breath and steadied herself. "If that's the case, then what am I to do with this?"
Makros let out a low, humorless laugh. "That's up to you, agápi mou. You wanted revenge. Now you have the entire story."
Leila shut her eyes.
Revenge.
She had spent so much time dreaming and plotting his downfall. Had fantasized, over and over, about making him suffer. But now...Now she was no longer certain she wanted it.
She turned to him again, her eyes probing him with intentionality. "Did killing them make you feel better?"
Makros' expression did not change. "No."
Leila's breath shook and she felt her body shudder slightly. "Then what was the point?"
Makros didn't answer right away. He merely gazed at her, waiting to see if she would reach the conclusion on her own.
"I could ask you the same, Leila. Why do you want me dead? Justice. Revenge." He exhaled. "In the end, it didn't bring my family back."
With that, the gravity of it all came crashing down upon her.
Chapter Fifty five
Riding the Edge
Makros woke early. The air was crisp, laced with the faint scent of cypress and morning dew. From his balcony, he surveyed the vast sprawl of his estate—rolling vineyards draped in the hush of dawn, stone pathways weaving through manicured gardens, and beyond them, the silver sheen of a reflecting pool, still and undisturbed. The world outside his gates had yet to stir.
He leaned against the wrought-iron railing, a cigar balanced between his fingers, exhaling slow ribbons of smoke as the first slivers of sunlight stretched across his land. Behind him, Leila still slept, her dark hair a stark contrast against the pale sheets.
He inhaled deeply, letting the burn of the tobacco settle in his lungs before exhaling a slow stream of smoke. His mind drifted, not to his empire, not to the future, but to the past. Moments like this were rare. Too rare.
Serenity had never belonged to him. Responsibility demanded vigilance, and vigilance left no space for idleness. He had learned that young. Someone else had taken all the freedom, the laughter, the recklessness, the weightlessness of a life without burden. They had once stood side by side, but only one had been expected to hold the line. Only one had carried the weight.
