Page 11 of The Mafia's Septuplets

4

Iskander

The muzzle flash illuminates the destroyed showroom in stark relief as I put two bullets center mass into the first shooter. His body crumples behind an overturned display case, expensive fabrics scattered around him like confetti at a macabre celebration. The acrid scent of gunpowder mingles with the metallic tang of blood, creating an atmosphere thick with violence and death.

I pivot toward Willa, my hand already reaching for her arm to drag her to safety, when Henri’s desperate cry cuts through the chaos.

“Non!”

The word carries absolute conviction and is the sound of a man making an irreversible choice. I turn just in time to witness Henri Laurent throw himself between Willa and the second gunman’s raised weapon. The bullet meant for her chest finds his instead, and the old tailor staggers backward with crimson blooming across his pristine white shirt.

Time fractures. Everything slows to individual frames of horror as Henri’s sacrifice unfolds before me. His body twists with the impact, arms spread wide like he’s embracing death itself. The gunman’s expression shows surprise at this unexpected intervention, and it’s a split second of confusion that costs him his life.

I put three rounds into him before he can find the trigger with his finger again. His weapon clatters to the floor as he joins his partner in death, but the damage is done. Henri collapses beside the cutting table where Willa and I had been measuring trouser hems just minutes earlier.

“Stay down,” I shout at Willa as she tries to crawl toward Henri’s fallen form. I rush forward to cover her body with mine, pressing her against the floor while I scan for additional threats. “Don’t move until I clear the room.”

“Henri?” Her scream tears through me with jagged edges. “Let me reach him, please?—”

“I know but stay down.” I keep my weight across her back, one hand holding her firmly in place while the other maintains my weapon’s ready position. “He’s hit, but moving now will get you killed if there are more in here.” There surely are. Mikhail wouldn’t be so sloppy as to send just two men to kill me.

Through the ringing in my ears, I catch the sound of approaching footsteps from the shop’s rear entrance. There are multiple sets, moving quickly. Either Balakin sent more men in a second wave to join the others still in the store, or my backup has arrived. I shift my aim toward the sound, finger resting on the trigger.

Timur’s familiar silhouette appears in the doorway between the workspace and storage area, followed by four of our best operators. They flow through the space like lethal shadows, weapons raised and scanning for targets. Within seconds, they’ve established firing positions and begun their sweep. I hear two gunshots.

“Clear left,” Dmitri calls from behind the fabric displays.

“Clear right,” Viktor says from near the fitting rooms.

“Two more hostiles in the alley,” says Timur, lowering his weapon slightly. “Anton and Pyotr are handling them.”

The brief firefight outside lasts maybe thirty seconds, with sharp cracks of gunfire followed by sudden silence. When it ends, the night feels unnaturally quiet, as if Charleston itself is holding its breath.

“Building secure,” Timur says, moving toward our position. “Seven total hostiles down.” If he’s right about Mikhail’s numbers, we might have taken out most of his team tonight.

Only then do I allow myself to shift some weight off Willa, though I keep her partially shielded with my body. She immediately scrambles toward Henri, reaching for him with desperate urgency.

The old tailor lies on his back among scattered pins and fabric samples, blood spreading beneath him in an ever-widening pool. His breathing comes in wet, labored gasps, and I can see from the wound’s position that the bullet found his lung and maybe his heart. Either way, he’s dying.

Willa grasps his hand with both of hers, tears streaming down her face as she whispers his name. He focuses on her withtremendous effort, and his lips move with words I can barely hear.

“Ma petite,” he pushes out in a stuttering whisper. Blood flecks his lips as he speaks. “I am...so proud of you.”

“Don’t talk.” Willa applies pressure to his chest wound with one hand while maintaining her grip on his fingers. “Help is coming. Just hold on.”

I nod, though we all know there’s no help coming that will matter. Henri Laurent has perhaps minutes left, and he’s choosing to spend them on final words rather than futile struggles for breath.

“Take care of...the shop,” he continues, each word costing him precious energy. “You have...everything you need. Trust yourself,ma petite. Trust...”

He meets my gaze over Willa’s shoulder, and a transfer of responsibility I never asked for but can’t refuse passes between us. Henri Laurent is entrusting me with more than his business partnership. He’s giving me unofficial guardianship of the closest thing to a daughter he ever had. “Trust Iskander,” he finishes so softly I barely hear them from just a few feet away. His hand goes slack in Willa’s grip, and the light fades from his eyes. Henri Laurent dies as he lived—with quiet dignity and absolute devotion to protecting what mattered most to him.

Willa’s sob echoes through the destroyed shop, raw and broken. She presses her forehead against Henri’s still chest, uncaring of the blood, and her shoulders shake with grief that transcends simple loss. This man helped her, shaped her, and gave her purpose when the world offered nothing but foster homes anduncertainty. His death doesn’t just leave her alone. It severs her connection to everything safe and familiar in her existence.

Something twists deeply in my chest as I watch her mourn. Not sympathy exactly, though I recognize the emotion. It goes deeper than that, being something fiercer and more possessive. It’s an unfamiliar urge to gather her against me, to shield her from this pain and every other threat the world might offer. I’m compelled to make her mine in ways that go far beyond business arrangements or temporary protection.

The realization should disturb me. Instead, it settles into my bones with a sense of inevitability. I knew it from the first time I saw her as that Richardson tried to intimidate her. She’s mine.

Timur approaches with tactical reports and evidence photographs, but I barely register his words. My attention remains fixed on Willa, cataloging every detail of her grief while processing what Henri’s death means for both of us.