Page 19 of The Mafia's Septuplets
This information hurts though I screen that from my expression. Willa considering withdrawal from our arrangement would eliminate the legitimate justification for maintaining close contact, reducing our relationship to what it’s always been beneath the surface—predator and prey, with her playing the role for which she was born.
The thought of her escaping my orbit before I can properly claim her sends a tendril of something dark and possessive through my chest in recognition that my feelings have progressed far beyond simple attraction. “What did Woods tell her?”
“Dissolution would require your consent, given the complexity of the financial arrangements.” He pauses, studying my reaction closely. “She didn’t take that news well.”
I imagine Willa’s response to learning she can’t simply walk away from Henri’s legacy, and the image fills me with dark satisfaction of which I’m not proud but don’t deny. She’s trappedin my orbit now, whether she accepts it gracefully or fights every step.
Fighting would be more entertaining, though ultimately futile.
I consider approaches balancing tactical necessity with personal desire. Willa responds better to honesty than manipulation, but complete transparency about my intentions would send her running before I could explain the dangers she faces. “Schedule a meeting with her for this afternoon. Here, not at the shop.” I move to my desk and begin reviewing the morning’s correspondence, projecting calm authority despite the anticipation building in my veins. “We need to discuss the practical aspects of our partnership.”
“Iskander—”
“The meeting will happen, Timur. The only variable is whether she attends voluntarily or requires persuasion.”
He accepts my tone without further argument, though his expression suggests this conversation isn’t finished. Instead, he stands and moves toward the door, pausing at the threshold with final words of warning. “Be careful. Personal obsessions have destroyed better men than either of us.”
After he leaves, I think about the situation. Willa probably believes she can maintain a safe distance from my lifestyle. She’ll discover soon enough that isn’t the case, no matter her or Henri’s good intentions.
The harbor traffic continues its eternal dance below, each vessel following currents both visible and hidden. Some ships navigate by charts and instruments, relying on technology and experience to reach their destinations safely. Others trust instinct and weather patterns, reading signs that can’t be measured.
I’ve always been a man who relied on measurable data. Willa has introduced variables that resist calculation and emotions operating by rules I can’t wrap my head around.
My phone rings with an unknown number, though I recognize the international prefix immediately. Moscow, which means only one person would be calling at this hour, or at least, routing through a VPN in Moscow to make the call and obscure his true location. “Mikhail.” I answer on the second ring, keeping my voice neutral despite the anger building in my chest.
“Iskander Taranov, it’s been too long. I trust you received my previous message.” His tone is as cold as a Siberian winter.
“I did. Subtle as always.” Sarcasm layers my words.
He lets out a harsh laugh. “Subtlety is wasted on men like us. We understand only power and the consequences of weakness.” There’s amusement in his voice, the kind that precedes violence, which he always finds amusing like a true psychopath. “Your tailor friend discovered that lesson recently.”
Rage builds in my chest like molten steel, but I keep my tone conversational. “Henri Laurent died defending his shop from common criminals. It was tragic, but hardly relevant to our business.”
“So the papers say,” he says drily. His laugh carries no warmth. “You have only yourself to blame for ‘our business’ and whatever effect it has on those around you. You set this all in motion eight years ago when you killed my brother. Everything since then has been preparation for this conversation.”
The truth settles between us like a blade drawn for combat. Mikhail hasn’t come to Charleston for territorial expansion or financial opportunity, as I knew. He’s merely confirming he’shere for revenge, and he’s prepared to destroy everything I’ve built to achieve it.
I steady my voice and organize thoughts threatening to spiral into violence before speaking again. Mikhail wants me angry, hoping an emotional response will lead to tactical mistakes. “What do you want?”
“Justice, closure, and the satisfaction of watching you lose everything you value before I kill you.” His voice drops to something intimate and deadly. “Starting with that pretty seamstress who’s captured your attention.”
The threat against Willa transforms my anger into something colder and infinitely more dangerous. Mikhail can target my businesses, my associates, and even my life, but threatening her crosses a firm line. “Touch her, and I’ll make your brother’s death look gentle.”
“Will you? It seems she wants nothing to do with your protection. Perhaps she’d prefer the honest brutality I offer to your sophisticated manipulation.”
The call ends before I can respond, leaving me staring at the phone while Charleston’s morning beauty mocks my growing fury. Mikhail has drawn battle lines that make this conflict personal beyond any hope of negotiated resolution, and he seems to have knowledge he shouldn’t. Unless he’s spoken directly to Willa, which I very much doubt, it seems someone is giving him at least scraps of information.
He wants to hurt Willa to hurt me, which means she’s become a weapon in a war she doesn’t understand. The knowledge should drive me to maintain distance and remove her from the battlefield before she becomes collateral damage. Instead,it crystallizes my determination to keep her close enough to protect, regardless of her preferences or protests.
I scroll through my contacts and find Willa’s number, noting the late morning hour. She’s probably at the shop, trying to maintain some routine while her world transforms around her. I’m about to complicate her day further with concerns she’d prefer to ignore.
The phone rings four times before she answers, her voice carrying professional courtesy stretched thin by obvious stress. “Willa Reynolds.”
“It’s Iskander.” I settle back in my chair, noting how her breathing changes when she recognizes my voice. “We need to talk.”
“I think we’ve talked enough for one week.” Her tone holds careful neutrality, like she’s trying really hard to maintain boundaries. “If this is about business matters, you can contact Woods.”
“It’s about your safety.”