Page 13 of The Mafia's Septuplets
“Will it be honest?”
The question surprises me. I expected tears, denials, or demands to contact police or lawyers. Just normal civilian responses to abnormal circumstances. Instead, she’s asking for truth from the man whose world just destroyed hers.
“More honest than anything you’ve known before.” I accelerate past a late-night delivery truck, noting how its driver avoids eye contact. “Henri protected you with lies of omission. I won’t have that luxury.”
“Because I inherit the shop.”
“Because you inherit everything that comes with it.” I glance at her profile, noting the way grief and understanding war across her features. “Including enemies you never knew existed.”
She falls silent for several miles, processing everything I can’t fully explain without destroying what remains of her innocence. When she finally speaks, her voice carries a determination that makes something primal stir in my chest. “Henri died protecting me.”
“Yes.”
“And you killed the men who shot him.” There’s a note of gratitude there, and perhaps an even darker note, like glee, for a second.
“Yes.”
“Then I suppose we understand each other.”
I study her reflection in the passenger window, seeing steel beneath the grief and shock. She’s stronger than I initially realized, which makes her infinitely more dangerous. Right now though, she needs care, not being overwhelmed with all the truths of my world.
My phone buzzes with updates from Timur, confirming local authorities are responding to reports of gunfire at Maison Laurent. The cover story is already in motion. Henri Laurent died defending his shop from common criminals, and therewill be nothing left behind to suggest organized crime or international vendettas.
Willa hasn’t spoken since we left the shop. Her breathing has steadied, but I recognize the signs of someone holding themselves together through sheer will. The adrenaline crash will hit soon, and when it does, she’ll need medical attention. I want to ensure she isn’t injured anyway. There is no bleeding that I see, but she could be bleeding internally if she was hurt.
I turn onto the private road leading to my estate, passing through security gates that recognize my vehicle’s transponder. The antebellum mansion rises from manicured grounds like something from a different century, all white columns and gracious proportions. It’s designed to project old Southern wealth, the kind that comes from generations of careful cultivation rather than recent acquisition.
“Where are we?” She sounds distant and detached.
“Somewhere safe.” I park near the main entrance and kill the engine. “My home.”
She doesn’t protest when I help her from the car, which worries me more than resistance would. Henri’s blood still stains her clothes, and her skin feels cold despite the mild night air. Shock is setting in properly now, and it can be dangerous if left untreated.
Inside, the house maintains its careful illusion of Southern gentility with antique furniture, oil paintings, and expensive Persian rugs. Everything chosen to suggest old money and older values, nothing to hint at the violence that funds this lifestyle.
I guide Willa to the main sitting room, settling her on a leather sofa that probably belonged to some long-dead plantationowner. She perches on the edge like she might flee at any moment, though I suspect she lacks the energy for dramatic escapes.
“I’m calling Dr. Volkov,” I say, already reaching for my phone. “He needs to examine you to make sure you weren’t injured in the chaos.”
“I’m fine.” The protest lacks conviction.
“You’re in shock, not fine. There’s a difference.”
Dr. Volkov arrives within twenty minutes, carrying a medical bag. He’s served our organization for years, since I helped his son out of a drugs charge when the kid was caught at a buy. Dr. Volkov whisked him to rehab, and I paid the cops to omit his son’s name from the files. He understood the cost was service and discretion as needed but was surprised to learn I’d still be paying him generously for his work. He’s a former military surgeon who asks no questions and keeps no records except in his memory, which is exactly the kind of professional my world requires.
His examination is thorough but gentle, checking Willa for injuries while monitoring her vital signs and psychological state. I watch from across the room, noting how she submits to his ministrations without complaint.
“She’s physically unharmed,” he says quietly to me afterward, “But there’s severe psychological trauma, as expected. Her pulse is elevated, and her blood pressure is concerning. I’d recommend mild sedation to help her sleep tonight.”
I frown. “Is that necessary?”
“Unless you want her collapsing from exhaustion tomorrow, yes.” He prepares a mild tranquilizer. “She needs rest to process what she’s experienced.”
I nod my agreement, and he moves over to her again, needle in hand. Willa accepts the injection without argument, which tells me more about her condition than any medical assessment could. Within minutes, the tension starts leaving her shoulders, and her breathing deepens.
“The guest suite,” I tell Alina, my housekeeper, who appears with characteristic efficiency. “Make sure she has everything she needs.”
I help Willa upstairs to a room decorated in soft blues and creams. There’s nothing threatening or masculine about the space. She sits on the bed’s edge while I remove her shoes, noting how the sedative is already taking effect.