Page 37 of Arranged with Twins

Leo

T he ingredients for tonight’s dinner are already arranged on Sienna’s kitchen counter when I arrive at her penthouse. She greets me at the door wearing one of my dress shirts over leggings, her hair pulled back in a messy bun. “You’re early.” She rises on her tiptoes to kiss me.

“Traffic was lighter than expected.” I hand her the bottle of wine I brought, though I know she won’t be drinking it. “What are we making?”

“Pasta with mushroom cream sauce for me, and I thought you could handle dessert.” She leads me into the kitchen. “I found a chocolate soufflé recipe that doesn’t look too complicated.”

“You trust me with something that requires actual technique?” I roll up my sleeves and survey the dessert ingredients. “Soufflés are notorious for collapsing.”

“I have faith in your ability to follow directions.” She ties an apron around her waist and begins heating oil in a heavy pan. “Besides, if it fails, we can always eat ice cream straight from the container.”

The domesticity of cooking together feels both foreign and natural. I can do the basics, though I’ve eaten meals prepared by professional chefs for most of my adult life, but watching Sienna move around her kitchen with easy confidence makes me understand what I’ve been missing.

I focus on separating eggs while she sautés mushrooms, filling the kitchen with rich, earthy aromas. “How was your afternoon with Nadia?”

“Productive. She’s creating something beautiful that will actually fit properly.” Sienna adds cream to her pan, stirring slowly. “Mother’s going to hate that I rejected her stylist’s selection.”

“Your mother’s opinion matters less than your comfort.” I whisk egg whites until they form soft peaks. “This is my foundation’s event. I want you to feel confident, not like you’re being displayed for someone else’s benefit.”

She pauses in her stirring to look at me. “You know, four months ago I would have worn whatever she told me to wear without question.”

“What’s changed?”

“You. Us. This.” She gestures between us with her wooden spoon. “I’m tired of letting other people make my choices for me.”

“As you should. You have a life too.”

We work in comfortable silence for several minutes. She tosses pasta in her cream sauce while I fold chocolate into my whipped egg whites. The soufflé goes into the oven just as she plates our main course.

“Perfect timing.” She carries our plates to the small dining table by her windows, where Manhattan glitters below us.

The pasta is excellent, tasting rich and satisfying without being heavy. Sienna eats with more appetite than I’ve seen from her in weeks, which relieves some of my concern about her pregnancy symptoms. “This morning’s brunch sounded particularly unpleasant,” I say, twirling pasta around my fork.

“It was the usual criticisms and control tactics.” She takes a sip of sparkling water. “Though there was something different this time.”

“Different how?”

“I overheard them arguing before I went inside.” Sienna sets down her fork to look at me. “Father was talking about missed payments and someone pressing him for something he didn’t want to do. Mother offered to handle it herself, but he told her to stay away from someone named Adrian.”

Every muscle in my body goes rigid. Vincent’s been more reckless than I thought if he’s discussing Adrian openly enough for Sienna to overhear. “Adrian,” I repeat, keeping my voice neutral despite the fury building in my chest.

“Father said he was dangerous. The whole conversation felt serious, like they were discussing something that frightened them both.” Sienna studies my face. “Do you know who Adrian is?”

The question remains unanswered while I calculate how much truth I can tell her without causing panic.

She’s already dealing with pregnancy stress and her parents’ manipulation.

“Adrian Petrov runs a rival organization.” I choose my words carefully.

“If your father’s involved with him, it explains some of the financial pressure he’s been under. ”

“Is he someone you’ve dealt with before?”

“He used to work for me. I trained him and groomed him to help lead the organization one day.” I grimace. “Too bad ambition made him impatient. He split away five years ago, taking men and resources with him.”

Sienna nods slowly. “Should I be worried about Father’s connection to him?”

“I’m handling it.” The words come out hard, and I force myself to soften my tone. “You don’t need to worry about your father’s business problems. That’s not your responsibility.”

She accepts this answer, though she clearly still has questions. We finish dinner while discussing safer topics, sticking to her morning sickness symptoms, my upcoming legitimate business meetings, and plans for the weekend.

After clearing the plates, I insist on washing dishes while she relaxes on the couch. The soufflé has risen perfectly in the oven, and I just need to plate it.

“You don’t have to clean up,” Sienna calls from the living room. “I can handle it later.”

“I want to.” Taking care of these small domestic tasks feels like caring for her in concrete ways. I scrub the cream sauce from her pan, using the repetitive motion to process what she told me about Vincent and Adrian.

After that, I sever dessert in the living room, where Sienna has curled up in the corner of her sectional couch. “It didn’t collapse.” She accepts her bowl with a smile. “I’m impressed.”

“Don’t celebrate until you taste it.” Despite my words, I’m pleased with how it turned out.

She takes a bite and closes her eyes in appreciation. “This is incredible. Did you already know how to make soufflé?”

“Nope. I used your recipe from YouTube.” Her surprised laugh makes me smile. She settles against my side when I join her on the couch, her head finding its natural place on my shoulder.

We eat dessert while soft music plays in the background. Sienna’s breathing gradually deepens, and when I look down, her eyes are closed, the empty bowl balanced precariously in her lap.

I remove the bowl carefully and adjust the throw blanket to cover her more completely.

Pregnancy exhaustion has been hitting her hard in the evenings, and I don’t want to wake her by moving around too much, but I can’t stay.

The information about Adrian requires immediate attention, and Ilya will be waiting at the estate with whatever intelligence he’s gathered today.

I press a soft kiss to her forehead and slip out of the apartment, leaving her security detail with strict instructions to stay alert.

When I arrive home, Ilya is waiting in my study with several manila folders spread across the conference table.

His expression tells me the news isn’t good before he says a word.

“Vincent’s in trouble, and we might be in trouble too.

” Ilya opens a folder containing phone records.

“We intercepted communications suggesting Vincent’s been providing intelligence about your operations, including shipping schedules, security rotations, and even guest lists for events you’ve attended. ”

The betrayal stings worse than I expected.

Vincent sheltered me after my parents’ murder when no one else would take the risk.

Now, he’s repaying my debt of gratitude by feeding information to my former protégé.

I suspect he’s been forced to by the pressure of his debts, but that doesn’t excuse his actions. “How long has this been going on?”

“Phone records suggest regular contact starting in April, but the intelligence sharing probably began more recently. It was maybe four months ago, around the time of your engagement announcement.” Ilya points to a pattern in the call logs.

“Adrian’s been patient, building Vincent’s debt first, then applying pressure gradually. ”

“What’s Adrian asking for now?”

Ilya’s expression grows darker. “Access to your client database, shipping routes through the ports you control, and operational details about your security protocols. Vincent’s been stalling, which explains why the pressure is escalating.”

I lean back in my chair, considering everything. Adrian isn’t just trying to steal territory or clients. He’s positioning himself to dismantle my entire operation from the inside, and he’s using one of the men I used to trust to do it.

“The attack at the Ritz.” The pieces click into place with sickening clarity. “Vincent provided the security details.”

Ilya nods sharply. “It looks that way. The attacker knew exactly where to position himself, which exits would be covered, and when your detail would be most distracted.”

I exhale slowly, realizations settling in. “If he’s mapping my operation, he’ll look for weak points.”

Ilya nods. “Sienna fits the profile. She’s close to you and Vincent, and he probably doesn’t know how many men are guarding her. If he wants leverage?—”

“She’s the most vulnerable pressure point,” I finish grimly. “We need to move fast. What are our options?”

“Confront Vincent directly and demand he cut ties with Adrian. It might work if he still has any loyalty left.” Ilya doesn’t sound convinced by his own suggestion. “Or we could try to buy Vincent’s debt from Adrian, remove his leverage, as you talked about.”

I shake my head. “I had that idea when I thought he might just be plotting to take over Vincent’s business. Adrian won’t sell to me. This isn’t about money. It’s personal.” I stand and move to the windows overlooking my estate’s grounds. “He’s been planning this for months and probably longer.”

“Then we prepare for war.”

War means casualties, collateral damage, innocent people caught in the crossfire. It means Sienna becomes a target simply by association with me.

“Add more to her security detail,” I say without turning around. “Ensure she has round-the-clock surveillance and armed escorts for every movement. I don’t care if she complains about the visibility.”

“She’s already got more protection than most heads of state.” Ilya’s dry observation makes me turn back to face him.