She sucked in a breath as he touched her, firm and slow, the oil from the massage slick beneath his fingers.
"Makros..." she whispered, arching into him.
He bent lower, licking a path down her spine. "Say it again."
She turned her head to meet his mouth, kissing him with heat and hunger, her fingers tangled in his shirt as she pulled him on top of her.
"Take me inside," she breathed.
"So eager," he said against her lips. "I'll ruin you tonight."
Chapter Seventy-Three
Le Famiglie Italiane
In their underground world of crime three things ensured order, which were silence, loyalty, and blood. But lately, too much blood had been spilled, with Makros taking credit for most of the drop.
The murder of the Volkov brothers had sent ripples through the Italian Mafiadom like an earthquake. Two of Russia's most feared and well-connected arms dealers, taken out in broad daylight on Russian territory. The heat from their deaths was falling squarely on Makros, and even though he didn't pull the trigger, it didn't matter. Perception was everything. In their world, if people thought you orchestrated a hit that bold, you either took the crown or took the fall.
Makros had decided to take the allegation like a champion. He let the rumors swirl, let the Russians believe he took out the Volkov because they were his rivals. It was risky... maybe even reckless.
Dragon had been asked to find out who had taken the hit on the Volkovs.
"He keeps piling them on," Dragon thought, grinding his teeth. "Find the man in yellow. Find E.B. Find out who took out the Volkov brothers. Who's betraying him this week? Who's planning to kill him next week? Christ."
It wasn't frustrating anymore. It was exhaustion wrapped in the tight bonds of loyalty. Makros had trusted him with so muchfor so long, but the burden of it all was starting to feel more like a leash than a badge of honor.
"I get it," Dragon thought bitterly. "He trusts me. Maybe too much. But I'm only one man."
It wasn't the missions that bothered him, not exactly. It was the feeling that no matter how many he completed, there would always be another one waiting for him. The flames of one unresolved task never quenched before another was thrown into the fire.
But still, he didn't stop. He wouldn't. Because he was Dragon. And as long as Makros kept asking, he would keep answering. Even if the chain around his neck kept getting tighter.
Dragon set up the meeting with the other Italian Mafia families, knowing it was a necessary step to put out the flames sparked by the Volkov brothers' deaths.
The meeting took place in a private estate on the outskirts of Florence, far from the prying eyes of outsiders. The four men in the room were crucial allies to the Cretes, each holding a different slice of power in the Mafia world.
Dragon entered the room with the ease of someone who knew exactly what his presence meant. He didn't have to posture or pretend to be someone he wasn't, intimidating, powerful, or confident. He already was all those things. He was Makros' sword, after all. But lately, that sword felt less like a weapon and more like a shield, taking the blows that Makros should've been facing instead.
He surveyed the room.
Dragon surveyed the room.
Luigi Alfonso, also known as Scar Cheek, ran Venice now, but his father had been the real terror back in the day. Luigi just inherited the fear.
Matteo Tommaso was from Naples. His family built that empire brick by bloody brick. Matteo would do everything he could to ensure not one brick crumbled.
Caruso Rossi came from old money and older secrets. The Rossi name had always been quiet, but everyone knew not to poke at what kept them rich.
Bruno Giacomo's father made Milan look clean. Bruno just polished the image. Finance, tech, fashion, you name it, he had his fingers in it.
They were all sons of kings. And in this room, every single one of them wanted a shot at the throne.
Dragon gave a single nod, letting the silence stretch before cutting into it.
"I called this meeting because the Volkov murders have ignited a fire," he said in a steady and measured voice. "And everyone's pointing fingers at Makros."
He scanned their faces, watching for a flicker of guilt, of fear, of recognition. None came.
