Not just ruthless. Not just lethal.
She was his savior. And for the first time in his life, he wasn’t sure if that terrified him or thrilled him.
“Somebody just tried to kill you,” Leila finally said after she was done. “You’re not bothered about that fact?”
Makros leaned forward, resting his hand on the stiches. He exhaled through his nose, chuckling. "Honey, if I lost sleep over every man who attempted to kill me, I'd never close my eyes."
She crossed her arms, watching him. "You were shot."
He glanced down at the bloody shirt. "And yet, I'm still breathing and he's not."
She shook her head. "One day, someone's going to get lucky."
Makros grinned, bending towards her. "Well, aren't you the lucky one?"
Leila didn't back down. She looked at him, firm, unblinking. "You should have died back there."
His hand brushed against her jaw, a light, mocking touch. "Disappointed?"
"Not yet," she replied. “I clearly told you not to let one harm come to your hair. Now this....”
"Come on," he said, standing up. "We have a meeting to attend."
Leila paused for a second before falling into step with him.
Chapter Thirty Seven
A Gift in Gold
Makros emerged from the suite wearing a new black silk shirt. All evidence of blood had been discreetly concealed. His movements were fluid, unhindered by the stitch beneath his clothing, but Leila noticed the manner in which his fingers would occasionally touch the stitched skin lightly—an involuntary tell. He was aware of it.
Good.
She walked with him along the corridor, his position impossible to decipher as they moved toward the conference room. Whatever it was that stood behind the door, she knew it was more than just business as usual. She also couldn't shake the memory of the assassination attempt from her mind.
Makros did not knock upon reaching the door. He simply pushed the heavy oak doors open.
Within, four men sat at a table lacquered in black obsidian, each of them dressed stylishly. A thin man with wire frames and speckled gray hair leaned back, twirling a gold pen between his fingers. Another, younger, with shaved head and a scar running along his cheek, had already taken up a whiskey nursing it.
The dark-haired male in the center of the room, whose presence rivaled Makros', lifted his eyes from the cigar he was rolling with intense focus.
"Makros." His voice was smooth, practiced. "You're late."
Makros smiled and slumped into the chair across from him, sprawling like the room were his to command. "I got shot."
The atmosphere shifted with the flash of tension. Then the man chuckled briefly, and shook his head.
"I see your luck hasn't changed."
Makros glanced at the cigar. "Still rolling those yourself, Caruso?"
Caruso raised a brow. "Still getting in the way of bullets?"
The others at the table laughed lightly, but the mood remained sharp, taut. Leila didn't sit. She chose to stand behind Makros, arms crossed.
Caruso took a slow drag of his cigar before exhaling. "I assume you're still alive for a reason."
Makros propped his elbows on the table. "That depends. Are we talking about my survival, or my patience?"
