Chapter 5 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.” “Y 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?” Makros ignored the question, posing a better one. “Where's Leila?” “She's fine. Maria is helping her get settled.” Makros halted, his entire body stiffening. “You left her with who?” Dragon cursed under his breath. “Shit! Boss, wait.” Makros didn't wait. He stormed down the hall, pushing open his bedroom door. All he saw was chaos. Pure and undiluted. Leila, holding a handful of Maria's hair flung her across the room, sending her knocking the lamp on the nightstand. Before Maria could recover, Leila dug her foot into her face. The sound of bone crunching filled the air and Maria spat out a bloody tooth. “What the fuck?” Dragon said from behind his boss, staring bulged-eyed at the scene. He would have considered this the hottest thing he had ever seen. Except this wasn't two girls trying to be sexy. “Enough,” Makros ordered coldly, cocking his pistol. Leila froze. “She attacked me with a knife!” Leila quickly defended. “Puta!” The struggling girl spat, struggling to rise. “You.” Makros pointed the pistol at Maria who had managed to stand up despite her injuries. “Get out of my room. If you ever come in here again, I won't be held accountable for what I'll do to you.” “Makros, per favore...ascoltami! (Makros, please...listen to me!)” “No, Maria. You're done. You're no longer welcome in my bed or my room.” Maria’s face crumpled. “Tu mi hai usato! (You used me!),” her voice crack, “lo ti amo, Makros!” “Love? You don't know the meaning of the word, Maria. Now, get out.” Maria's hands clenched at her sides. Tears gathered at the corner of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. “You'll regret this.” Then she turned and stormed out. Dragon let out a low whistle. “That was dramatic.” Makros cut him a glare. “Get out.” Dragon chuckled and followed Maria out, shutting the door behind him. Now alone, Makros shoved Leila onto the bed. He crouched in front of her, his gaze penetrating the depth of her soul. “Are you insane?” He asked, too softly. “Don’t call me that and…she attacked me first.” Leila didn't see it coming, a backhand slap delivered sharply across her face. “I can call you whatever I want.” Leila held her cheek as it burned, stunned. If it wasn't for the gun he had on him, she probably would've returned the slap. Makros straightened. “Take off your clothes,” he said. There wasn't a shadow of doubt in his voice. No hesitation. And most certainly no room for negotiation. Leila’s spine went rigid, her breath catching in her throat. “What?” she asked, her stunned expression shifting, morphing into something rawer. First, disbelief, then horror. Makros’s eyes were keen, unrelenting, unforgiving. “I said, remove your clothes.” His breathing was even, but his patience strained like that of an over-pulled rubber band on the verge of breaking. Leila took a step back, her chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. Realization struck like a blade to her gut, cutting through any illusion she harbored. Something real was coming. Panic rose. “Makros, I beg you.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, desperate, imploring. “Don’t do this. I’ll do anything. Anything but this.” She reached for him not in defiance, not in rebellion, but in sheer desperation. Her fingers had barely grazed his wrist before he moved. Slap. The sheer force of it snapped her head to the side. A sharp sting bloomed across her cheek, hot and unforgiving. Another strike landed on the opposite side of her face before she could even register the pain, before her mind could process the shock. Harder. Her ears rang, her vision blurring for a fraction of a second. The taste of blood pooled on her tongue. And then, his hands were on her dress. Tears! Ripping! Destroying! The fabric yielded beneath his grip, giving way to her exposed skin—her bra barely holding her breasts in place, her stomach taut, her panties the last flimsy barrier between vulnerability and violation. Leila gasped, her hands flying up to shield herself, but he was faster. Stronger. He grabbed her wrists and flipped her over, pressing her down against the mattress with a weight that stole the breath from her lungs. “Makros, stop!” she choked out, thrashing beneath him. Her nails clawed at the sheets, at his arms, at anything that could break his hold. “Please, please don't do this!” There was no mercy in his grasp, no hesitation in his touch. Only possession. Only control. Only him.