Page 16 of The Mafia's Septuplets

I don’t argue. I feel wrung out and emptied of everything except bone-deep weariness. Harper helps me to my bedroom and closes the curtains against afternoon sunlight that feels too bright for my current emotional state.

“We’ll figure this out,” she whispers as I curl under my familiar comforter.

As sleep claims me, I wonder if some problems are too large for good intentions and stubborn loyalty to solve.

One week later,I stand outside Maison Laurent and force myself to breathe normally. The shop looks exactly the same from the street with its elegant storefront, tasteful signage, and understated luxury that attracts Charleston’s elite. Nothing visible suggests that eight men died here just days ago, andHenri’s blood soaked into antique floors before professional cleaners erased every trace of violence.

The bell chimes as I enter, that familiar sound now laden with memories I’d rather forget. Inside, everything has been restored to perfect order. New display cases replace the ones destroyed by gunfire and fresh bolts of fabric occupy shelves where bullet holes once marred the walls. Even the air smells normal, like cedar, wool, and the faint hint of lavender Henri always preferred.

It’s like the attack never happened, except for the crushing absence of the man who made this place a sanctuary.

Henri’s lawyer, Mr. Woods, waits in the office with documents spread across the antique desk like battle plans. He’s exactly what I expected, being in his sixties, with an expensive suit I’m sure Henri made, and professional discretion that comes with managing wealthy clients’ affairs. “Miss Reynolds.” He stands when I enter, offering condolences that sound genuine despite their formal delivery. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Henri spoke of you often and always with tremendous pride.”

The words make me draw in a sharp breath, hurting in the moment as I realize I’ll never hear him say such things to me again. I settle into the chair across from his desk and focus on the legal documents rather than the emotions threatening to surface.

“The will is straightforward,” Woods says, opening a leather portfolio. “Henri left you seventy-five percent ownership of Maison Laurent, along with all associated assets and responsibilities.”

“Associated responsibilities.” I repeat the phrase slowly. “Such as?”

He’s not coy, but he doesn’t seem enthusiastic about the revelations he makes. “The business relationships Henri cultivated over the years, including supplier contracts, client agreements, and certain…financial arrangements that require ongoing attention.”

Financial arrangements. Such careful language for money laundering operations I’m only beginning to understand. “What about the other twenty-five percent?”

“That remains with Mr. Taranov, as per their partnership agreement established three years ago.”

I nod, processing this confirmation of what I already suspected. Iskander didn’t just invest in Henri’s shop like he mentioned that fateful night. He also owns a quarter of everything I’ve just inherited. Including, presumably, the criminal enterprise hiding behind hand-sewn buttonholes and bespoke tailoring.

“There are also these items.” Woods produces a sealed envelope with my name written in Henri’s careful script. “They are personal effects he wanted you to have.”

Inside, there I are Henri’s gold thimble he’d worn for forty years of professional tailoring, and a letter that makes my throat close with grief I thought I’d processed.

Ma petite,the letter begins in Henri’s elegant handwriting,if you are reading this, then I am gone, and you must make difficult choices I hoped to spare you from making at least for many years.

The rest details Henri’s awareness of his business arrangements with Iskander, his careful protection of my ignorance, and his faith that I’m strong enough to handle whatever truth emerges after his death. He doesn’t apologize for keeping secrets, but he explains them with the gentle honesty that characterized our entire relationship.

Trust your instincts,the letter concludes.Trust Iskander, who is a good man despite being in a bad business, and remember that family is not always blood, but always choice. You were my daughter in every way that mattered. All my love, Henri.

I fold the letter and tuck it into my purse alongside the thimble. “What happens if I refuse the inheritance?”

His expression suggests this possibility hadn’t occurred to him. “I suppose the business would revert to Mr. Taranov’s control, though Henri’s will specifically states his desire for you to continue his legacy.”

Continue his legacy. That responsibility settles across my shoulders like Henri’s old wool coat, feeling heavy, protective, and carrying the scent of everything I’ve lost. My phone buzzes with a text from Harper:You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. It’s not too late to walk away.

I send back a thumbs up emoji, knowing it is too late. It’s been too late since the moment Henri chose to step between a bullet and my heart. Running away now would make his sacrifice meaningless, and I refuse to dishonor the man who gave me everything worth having in my life.

“I accept all of it.” In minutes, I’m signing documents that bind me to a world I don’t fully understand.

He nods approvingly and begins organizing the papers when I hand them back to him. “Mr. Taranov will be pleased. He’s been quite concerned about the shop’s transition.”

As if summoned by mention of his name, the front door chimes again. Iskander’s presence fills the showroom even before he appears in the office doorway, wearing another perfectly tailored suit and an expression I can’t read. “Miss Reynolds.” His voice carries the same controlled tone I remember from our fabric selection session—professional courtesy masking deeper currents. “I wasn’t expecting to find you here so soon.”

“Where else would I be?” The question emerges sharper than intended. “This is my shop now.”

Something flickers in his gray eyes, but his expression remains neutral. “Of course. I simply thought you might need more time to recover from recent events.”

“You mean recover from finding you gone when I woke up in your house?” The words slip out before I can stop them, revealing hurt I shouldn’t feel about a man I barely know.

Woods clears his throat diplomatically. “Perhaps I should give you both privacy to discuss business matters.”