Page 12 of The Mafia's Septuplets
“Iskander.” Timur’s voice cuts through my distraction. “We need to move. Police response time to this address is typically eight minutes. We have maybe four before the first units arrive.”
I stand slowly, helping Willa to her feet despite her obvious reluctance to leave Henri’s body. She moves like someone walking through a nightmare, disconnected from reality but functioning on autopilot.
“All seven carried Balakin tattoos,” Timur says, showing me photographs taken with his phone of distinctive ink work on the dead men’s arms. “These are professional soldiers, not local muscle. I’d say recent arrivals based on their gear and weapons, which makes me think we underestimated the number of men following Balakin now.”
“Timeline?” I guide Willa toward the shop’s rear exit, noting how she keeps looking back at Henri’s corpse.
“These men entered the country within the last seventy-two hours.” Timur falls into step beside us, his expression grim. “Mikhail’s definitely escalating faster than we anticipated.”
The alley behind Maison Laurent feels surreal after the violence inside. Charleston’s night air carries its usual salt tang and magnolia sweetness, indifferent to human suffering or the games powerful men play with other people’s lives
I remove my jacket and drape it around Willa’s shoulders, noting how the expensive wool swallows her slender frame. She’s shivering despite the mild temperature, shock manifesting as sudden temperature sensitivity.
“Where are we going?” Her voice sounds hollow, emptied of everything except basic function.
“Somewhere safe.” I unlock my car remotely, then pause before helping her inside. The Bentley’s pale leather and wood interior seems almost obscene in its luxury after what we’ve just witnessed.
Cool. Calm. Refined.
Timur draws me aside while Willa settles into the passenger seat. “Iskander, you realize what this means?”
“Henri’s dead. Mikhail killed him to send a message.”
“More than that.” My second-in-command’s expression carries warning I don’t want to acknowledge. “The girl inherits operational control of the shop. That makes her part of our laundering network whether she understands or not.”
I study Willa through the car’s window. She sits perfectly still, staring at her hands, which are still stained with Henri’s blood. There’s another splotch of his blood on her forehead from where she rested against his chest while crying. The sight sends another wave of possessive fury through me.
“She belongs to our world now,” I say, speaking the truth aloud for the first time. “As Henri’s successor, she’s part of this whether we planned it or not.”
“And as your obsession?” He sounds wary and perhaps even annoyed at the complication.
I turn to face him directly. “Careful.”
“You warned me once about emotional attachments becoming vulnerabilities. I ignored it and fell for Svetlana, who tried to kill me.” While mentioning the hitwoman who betrayed us and tried to kill him, he doesn’t back down despite the ice in my voice. “I’m returning the favor.”
He’s right, and we both know it. Everything about this situation violates the careful rules I’ve established for survival in our world. Don’t get personally involved with civilians, don’t let protective instincts override tactical judgment, don’t confuse business partnerships with romantic entanglements, and never trust blindly.
I’ve broken every one of those rules in the span of a single evening.
“Clean this up,” I say, settling behind the wheel. “Make it look like a robbery gone wrong. Henri Laurent died defending his shop from common criminals and nothing more.”
“What about the girl?”
“She comes with me.”
“Iskander—”
“She comes with me.” Steel enters my voice when I switch to the tone I use when discussion ends and orders begin. “That’s not negotiable.”
He accepts the decision without further argument, though his expression suggests we’ll revisit this conversation privately. He understands chain of command, but he also recognizes when personal interest compromises professional judgment.
Right now, I don’t care about his concerns.
I start the engine and pull into Charleston’s late-night traffic, hyperaware of every vehicle that follows too closely or takes too many turns in our direction. Paranoia keeps people alive in my business, but it also transforms simple actions like driving home into calculated risks.
“What happens now?” Willa stares out the passenger window at the city flowing past.
“Now you learn to survive in a world Henri tried to keep you from seeing.” I turn onto the highway leading to my estate, mentally reviewing security protocols that will need immediate revision. “It won’t be easy.”