Page 2 of The Mafia's Septuplets

“No.” The stranger moves deeper into the shop with fluid grace. “You listen. You will apologize to the lady and pay your bill in full, plus a generous tip for her trouble. Only then, will you leave.”

Richardson puffs up like an indignant rooster. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

The stranger doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he removes his coat, hanging it on the brass hook by the door. The gesture seems casual, but there’s something in the way he moves that suggests power lurks just beneath the surface.

“Someone who doesn’t tolerate disrespect.” His tone remains conversational, but the temperature in the room plummets. “Especially toward women who are simply doing their jobs.”

I watch this exchange with fascination and growing unease. The stranger commands attention effortlessly, but there’s something predatory in his stillness. He’s like a wolf deciding whether to play with its prey or simply devour it.

Richardson seems to reach the same conclusion. His braggadocio crumbles under that unwavering stare, and he fumbles for his wallet. “Fine. Here’s your money.” He throws cash on the cutting table, and it’s a lot more than he owes, I realize with surprise, not having actually expected a tip. “I assure you, I won’t be coming back.”

“Good.” The stranger’s smile doesn’t reach his pale gray eyes. “I’m sure there are plenty of establishments that cater to men of your...particular standards.”

The insult is subtle but unmistakable. Richardson’s face flushes crimson, but he doesn’t challenge it. Instead, he strips off the jacket and tosses it onto a nearby chair.

“This place is finished anyway.” He straightens his shirt with shaking hands. “Overpriced and overrated.”

Neither the stranger nor I respond, though I make motions to pick up the suit jacket, planning to wrap it and give him his order.

He sneers. “Donate it to the poor. They might find it acceptable.”

I don’t say anything or try to give him the suit again. I, along with my rescuer, simply wait as Richardson gathers his things and storms toward the door. He pauses at the threshold, perhaps considering a parting shot, but one look at the stranger’s face sends him into the rainy night without another word.

The silence that follows feels heavy. I’m alone with a man I don’t know, in a shop that suddenly feels very isolated. The stranger turns his attention to me, and I resist the urge to step backward.

“Are you all right?” His voice is softer now, though no less commanding.

“Yes. Thank you.” I begin gathering the scattered pins from the floor, needing something to do with my hands. “You didn’t have to intervene.”

“He was bothering you.”

“I could have handled it.” The lie comes out sharper than intended.

“I’m sure you could have.” There’s amusement in his voice now. “You shouldn’t have to, but I’m certain you can take care of yourself.”

I risk a glance at his face and find him watching me with unsettling intensity. His features are sharp and aristocratic, withbone structure that speaks of good genetics and probably better nutrition. He’s focused on me like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve.

“I’m Iskander Taranov.” He extends a hand.

I hesitate before accepting it. His grip is firm, warm, and entirely professional. “Willa Reynolds.”

“A pleasure, Miss Reynolds.” He releases my hand but doesn’t step back. “I assume you work here?”

“I do.” I smooth my skirt, suddenly conscious of my appearance. “Are you looking for Henri? He stepped out, but I expect him back soon.”

“Actually, I was hoping to schedule a fitting.” His smile transforms his face completely, replacing the cold authority with something far more dangerous to my senses, which is obvious charm. “Henri mentioned he had an exceptional tailor on staff.”

Heat creeps up my neck. “He’s very generous with his praise.”

“Is he?” He tilts his head slightly. “Or simply accurate?”

Before I can formulate a response, the front door chimes again. Henri appears in the doorway, shaking rain from his umbrella and muttering something in French about the weather.

“Ah, Monsieur Taranov.” He spots Iskander immediately, and his entire demeanor brightens. “You’re early. I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

“Not at all.” Iskander’s attention shifts to Henri, but I sense his awareness of me hasn’t diminished. “Miss Reynolds has been taking excellent care of me.”

Henri beams with paternal pride. “Willa is my protégé. Everything I know about the craft, I have taught her.” He hangs his coat beside Iskander’s and approaches with the enthusiasm of a man greeting an old friend. “She will be handling your fitting personally.”