Makros stood before his men in the warehouse, the traitor kneeling before him, hands bound.
Leila watched from the corner, her heart pounding. She had seen Makros kill before. But this was different.
"I just don't get it," Makros said, voice as tough as steel. "Messages to Vincenzo. Money exchanging hands. You've been selling information to my adversary." He lifted the file he was holding in his hand. "And for what? A few dollars?"
The traitor spat blood onto the floor, glowering up at him. "You don't scare me, Makros."
Makros snarled. "Then you're more stupid than I thought."
He pulled a knife from his belt—a slender, curved dagger honed to a fine point.
No gun. No quick death.
Makros crouched before the man, laying the cold blade against his neck. "Do you know what's interesting about a slow cut?" he whispered. "The body doesn't go into shock right away. You feel everything."
The traitor's breath caught.
Makros drew the blade through his skin—just far enough to draw a fine red line.
"You wish to inform me about the second spy?" Makros asked.
The man gritted his teeth.
Makros sighed. Then he inserted the knife in his side, twisting it. The man screamed.
"I'm going to carve you up, bit by bit." Makros' tone was level. "Or you can give me a name, and I'll make it quick."
The man sobbed, the fight going out of his body.
"Dimitri."
Makros nodded. "Good. And where's he now? Ah han, only whispers."
Makros leaned in closer as the man whispered Dimitri's location to him.
Then, in one swift motion, he slit the man's throat.
Leila flinched as the blood spilled onto the concrete.
Makros wiped his blade clean. "Dragon come closer," he ordered Dragon. He whispered into Dragon's ear and Dragon gave a curt nod.
Then he turned around, catching Leila's eyes in the dark.
He knew she had been watching.
She came to his bedroom following the execution.
When Makros entered the room, the air was thick with the scent of red wine and something darker—desire coiled low and waiting. Makros sat in the amber glow of the bedside lamp, his shirt hanging open to reveal the hard lines of his chest, the fabric rumpled around his elbows. His tie dangled uselessly from hiscollar, forgotten. A glass of deep red wine rested between his fingers, the liquid swirling lazily as he eyed her entrance with unreadable calm.
She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.
Her heels clicked softly across the floor, each step slow, deliberate. When she reached him, she dropped to her knees without ceremony, the silk of her dress pooling around her thighs.
Her hands slid up his legs, slow and possessive, feeling the tension in his muscles beneath the fine fabric of his trousers. Her nails traced along the inside of his thighs, stopping just short of where he’d begun to harden.
“Let me please you tonight, Makros,” she purred, her voice a sultry invitation laced with something more dangerous.
He arched a brow, taking a slow sip of wine, letting it coat his lips like blood. “What’s this?” he asked, his voice low and edged with suspicion. “A sudden change of heart?”
