Page 10 of The Mafia's Septuplets
“Willa, you know I would not ask this late on your day off if there were any other option. Monsieur Taranov is very important to our business, and I gave him my word the suit would be perfect.”
The guilt lands exactly where Henri intended. He’s done so much for me over the years, providing not just employment but also mentorship and a sense of purpose, and I owe him. When I was sixteen and desperate, he saw potential in my shaky handstitches and gave me a chance to prove myself. I’ve never let him down, and I can’t start now. It’s out of love, not obligation, that I say, “All right.” I ignore Harper’s dramatic protests. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Bless you,ma petite. The suit is hanging in the fitting room, and I’ve left detailed notes about the required adjustments in case I’m back later than I expect, but this fitting is going well.”
After I hang up, Harper launches into immediate objection mode. “Absolutely not. You just finished telling me you’re going to keep things professional, and now you’re running off to see him alone after hours?”
“I’m not seeing him.” I stand and reach for my coat, trying to project more confidence than I actually possess. “I’m altering his suit. Henri said the shop is empty.”
She rolls her eyes. “This is exactly how romantic disasters you don’t see on Hallmark movies begin. Girl tells herself she’s being professional, girl ends up in compromising situation, and girl makes choices she later regrets.”
Her concern is genuine, but I’ve made my decision. Henri needs my help, and I won’t disappoint him over my own confused feelings about a client. “I’ll be fine. It’s just hemming and shoulder adjustments.”
She sighs dramatically. “Promise me you’ll text when you get there and when you leave.”
“I promise.” I grab my keys and head for the door, trying to ignore the nervous energy building in my stomach. “I’ll be home by eleven.”
“Willa.” Harper’s voice stops me at the threshold. “If anything feels wrong—anything at all—you leave immediately.”
I nod and step into the hallway, closing the door behind me before I can change my mind. The elevator ride to the parking garage gives me time to question my decision, but I push aside the doubts. I’m a professional doing a job for an important client. It’s nothing more complicated than that.
The drive to Maison Laurent takes fifteen minutes through Charleston’s quiet evening streets. The historic district feels different at night, making me think of the days when the gas lamps were genuine, and thieves awaited to pick pockets. That was well before my time, and I’m letting my imagination get away with itself. With a stern internal talking-to about getting hold of myself, I park in my usual spot behind the shop and use my key to enter through the back door.
The workspace feels different without Henri’s presence this late at night. We rarely work after hours, and when we do, it’s always been an all-hands-on-deck sort of situation. By myself, it feels larger somehow, and filled with the particular silence that comes from being alone in a place that’s usually bustling with activity. I flip on the lights and find Iskander’s suit hanging exactly where Henri promised, along with a note detailing the required modifications.
I’m setting up my sewing station when the front door opens. My heart jumps then settles when I realize Henri is returning a bit sooner than he expected. I call out a greeting as footsteps approach through the main showroom. “Back here, Henri.”
“I was wondering if you’d be here.”
The voice makes me freeze. It isn’t Henri’s familiar French accent but Iskander’s low, controlled tones. I turn slowly, finding him silhouetted in the doorway between the showroom and workspace. He’s wearing dark jeans and a charcoal sweater that emphasizes his broad shoulders, looking less formal but no less imposing than usual.
“Mr. Taranov.” I try to keep my voice steady. “Henri didn’t mention you’d be stopping by…or that you had a key.” I feel a dart of betrayal, though Henri had no reason to suspect I don’t want to be alone with this man.
“I wanted to ensure the alterations meet my requirements.” He steps into the workspace, his presence immediately making the room feel smaller. “I hope you don’t mind the interruption.” He holds up the key. “As for this, I received it when I invested in the store a few years back when Henri was having a little financial difficulty.”
I swallow a lump in my throat upon learning he owns a percentage of the shop. Henri never told me, but it’s not my business to know.
I should mind that he’s here and let himself in though. Harper’s warnings echo in my head, reminding me about the dangers of being alone with dangerous men in empty shops, but when Iskander smiles, that polished charm I’ve seen him use with Henri replaced by something warmer and more genuine, my objections dissolve.
“Of course not.” I gesture toward the fitting platform. “Would you like to try on the jacket to confirm the adjustments?”
“That would be helpful.”
He removes his sweater, revealing a white dress shirt that fits his torso like it was painted on. I help him into the suit jacket, trying to ignore the way his muscles shift under the fabric and how his cologne seems to wrap around me like an invisible caress.
For a moment, I considered adding a 'dangerously distracting' surcharge to his bill.
“The shoulders feel perfect now.” He examines himself in the three-way mirror while I check the fit across his back. “I think the hem could go up another half-inch.”
I kneel to pin the adjustment, acutely aware of his proximity as I work. He stands perfectly still, but I sense his attention focused on me with laser intensity. When I glance up to ask about the trouser length, I find him watching me with an expression that makes my pulse stutter. “Is something wrong?”
“No.” His voice has dropped to something intimate and rough. “Nothing’s wrong at all.”
The moment stretches between us, loaded with possibility and danger in equal measure. I should stand up to maintain professional distance and remember Harper’s warnings about mysterious men and the disasters they bring. Instead, I find myself lost in the gray depths of his eyes, wondering what it would be like to close the space between us and discover whether his mouth tastes as dangerous as it looks.
The fantasy shatters when the front window explodes inward.
Glass sprays across the showroom in a glittering cascade, followed immediately by the sharp crack of gunfire. Iskander moves faster than I thought possible, cleanly producing a gun from inside his jacket. He fires twice in rapid succession, and I hear a body hit the pavement outside.
“Get down.” His command cuts through my shock as he grabs my arm, pulling me toward the cutting table. Another muzzle flash illuminates the destroyed window, and he shoves me behind our makeshift barrier as a bullet tears through a rack of finished suits.
The workspace erupts in chaos around us. More gunshots follow, popping rhythmically as if someone is methodically destroying the shop. I hear fabric tearing, wood splintering, and the crash of Henri’s beautiful display cases hitting the floor. Iskander returns fire, his hand steady despite the danger.
“Stay down and don’t move.” He positions himself between me and the broken window, reloading quickly.
Through the terror and confusion, I catch movement in my peripheral vision. Henri appears in the doorway, having entered through the back entrance. His face is pale with shock as he takes in the destruction of his life’s work. He starts toward us, probably trying to help, and I see another gunman emerge from behind an overturned display case.
The shooter raises his weapon, aiming directly at me. Henri sees it too, and his expression transforms from confusion to fierce determination. “Non!” Henri lunges forward, throwing himself between the gunman and me just as the shooter pulls the trigger.