Page 1 of The Mafia's Septuplets

1

Willa

Ihave averybad feeling about this.

The rain hammers against the windows of Maison Laurent like an impatient customer demanding attention. I thread the needle with ease, even as the storm outside mirrors the tension coiling in my shoulders. The grandfather clock in the corner chimes eight-thirty, and I should have locked the door an hour ago, but Mr. Richardson insisted on a late fitting, and Henri always taught me that client service comes first.

“This is completely unacceptable.” Richardson’s voice cuts through the quiet shop like a blade. He stands before the three-way mirror in his half-fitted jacket, his face flushed with indignation. “I specifically requested the finest Italian wool, not this...discount fabric.”

I keep my expression neutral as I adjust the shoulder seam. “Sir, this is Ermenegildo Zegna, the same fabric you approved three weeks ago.”

“Don’t lecture me about fabric quality, girl.” He jerks away from my touch, nearly causing me to prick him with the pin. “I’ve been buying suits longer than you’ve been alive.”

The words sting, but I’ve heard worse. At twenty-eight, I’ve spent twelve years perfecting my craft under Henri’s guidance. Every stitch, every measurement, and every detail matters to me. This shop isn’t just my workplace but my sanctuary, and the only place I’ve ever belonged.

“Of course, sir.” I retrieve my measuring tape and step back. “Perhaps we could schedule another appointment to discuss alternatives?”

“Alternatives?” His laugh holds no humor. “The wedding is in five days. You think I have time for alternatives?”

I maintain my composure despite the way he towers over me. Richardson stands at least six feet tall, and he’s using every inch to intimidate me. The scent of his expensive cologne mingles with something sharper, like alcohol, maybe, or just the particular brand of entitlement that money breeds in certain people.

“I understand your concern.” I keep my voice steady. “However, the jacket fits beautifully. The fabric drapes exactly as intended, and the color complements your complexion perfectly.”

“You’re arguing with me?” His face darkens. “I’m paying you, which means I’m right.”

Actually, he hasn’t paid yet. The deposit covered materials, but the balance remains outstanding. I don’t mention this fact, though Henri’s lessons about diplomacy ring in my ears.Kill them with kindness, petite, even when they don’t deserve it.

“I’m not arguing, sir. I simply want to ensure you’re completely satisfied with the final product.” I fold my hands in front of me, a gesture that projects calm while hiding the tremor from irritation showing in my fingers. “Would you like me to explain the construction details? Sometimes, understanding the craftsmanship helps clients appreciate?—”

“Craftsmanship?” Richardson snorts. “This is amateur work at best. I could get better quality from Men’s Wearhouse.”

The insult hits its mark, but I don’t flinch. I’ve poured weeks into this suit, putting in hand-sewn buttonholes, a carefully shaped canvas, and meticulous attention to every proportion. It’s some of my finest work, and we both know it. “I’m sorry you’re unsatisfied.” The words taste bitter. “What would you like me to do?”

“Take five hundred off the price. Consider it compensation for my disappointment.”

Five hundred dollars. Nearly my entire commission for this piece. I think of my rent, due in three days, and the electric bill sitting unopened on my kitchen counter. “I’ll need to discuss that with Henri?—”

“Henri isn’t here.” Richardson steps closer, and I catch a stronger whiff of whiskey on his breath. “It’s just you and me, sweetheart, so what’s it going to be?”

The endearment makes my skin crawl. I take a step back, bumping into the fitting platform. The shop suddenly feels smaller, like the walls are pressing in as Richardson advances. “Sir, I really think we should wait for Henri to return?—”

“I think you should stop making excuses.” His voice drops to something that might pass for seductive if it weren’t sopredatory. “A pretty little thing like you should know how to keep customers happy.”

I shudder at his inference. I’ve dealt with difficult clients before, but this crosses a line. Henri trained me well in many things, but not in handling men who mistake vulnerability for invitation. “Please step back.” I try to project authority, but my voice wavers. “I need space to work.”

Instead of retreating, he reaches for my arm. “Maybe we can work out a different kind of arrangement?—”

“I suggest you remove your hand. Now.”

The voice that cuts through the tension belongs to someone else entirely. It’s deep, gravelly, and carries an authority that makes Richardson freeze mid-motion. I turn toward the source and find a stranger standing just inside the shop’s entrance.

He’s taller than Richardson, with dark hair and the kind of bone structure that belongs on magazine covers. His suit is impeccable, clearly custom, and seems to be one of Henri’s creations. It’s his expression that really captures my attention, being frigid and dangerous.

Richardson’s hand falls away from my arm, though he still tries to bluster his way through by speaking in a haughty tone. “This is a private fitting?—”

“Not anymore.” The stranger’s accent holds traces of something Eastern European, though his English is flawless. He doesn’t raise his voice but somehow fills the entire space with quiet menace. “The lady asked you to step back.”

“Now listen here?—”