Page 21 of The Mafia's Septuplets

7

Willa

Three o’clock arrives faster than I’d hoped, finding me standing at the imposing gates of Iskander’s estate while second-guessing every decision that led me here. The wrought iron barriers part in silence, recognizing my approach through technology I can’t see but that I definitely feel watching me.

They don’t even make a sound. Not a creak, not a moan, not anything to indicate that they have even the slightest imperfection. It’s… a little unsettling, just like Iskander.

Ugh…

I’ve spent the past three days trying to avoid admitting I want him while simultaneously figuring out how to escape him. The contradiction exhausts me but facing it seems impossible when every rational thought collides with memories that make my pulse quicken.

Last night’s dream didn’t help. I woke tangled in sheets, heart hammering, and body aching with the need to feel Iskander’s hands on my skin. I’d been so close to an orgasm in that dream that waking felt like punishment.

Cruel. Teasing. He’d love that.

The circular drive crunches beneath my car’s tires as I approach the mansion, which is as I remember it. I park near the main entrance and check my appearance in the rearview mirror. I’m wearing a professional blazer, conservative blouse, and sensible heels. It’s all just a show of boundaries, even though my boundaries feel increasingly fragile. I hope I don’t crumble.

The front door opens before I can knock, revealing Alina’s serene smile. “Miss Reynolds, Mr. Taranov is expecting you in his study.” She leads me through hallways lined with oil paintings and Persian rugs. The house feels like a museum.

Iskander’s study occupies a corner of the mansion with windows overlooking Charleston Harbor. He stands silhouetted against the afternoon light, wearing dark slacks and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The casual elegance should make him less intimidating. Instead, it makes him more approachable, which feels infinitely more dangerous.

“Willa.” He turns when I enter, gray eyes conducting their usual assessment. “Thank you for coming.”

“You made it sound urgent.” I settle into the chair across from his desk, maintaining careful distance while noting how the light catches the silver threads in his dark hair. “Something about safety concerns?”

“Among other things.” He moves to the bar cart and pours amber liquid into two glasses. “Scotch?”

I shake my head. “It’s three in the afternoon.”

“It’s that type of conversation.” He sets one glass on the desk within my reach anyway, then claims the chair behind his massive desk. The mahogany surface could probably serve as a landing strip and is scattered with documents that look official and expensive.

I glance at the papers, recognizing financial statements and what appear to be security reports. “What exactly are we discussing?”

“Your future, our partnership, and the practical realities of running a business that serves multiple purposes.” His tone remains conversational, but steel underlies each word. “You’ve been avoiding the shop since our last meeting.”

Heat climbs my neck at the reminder of that kiss, and the way he’d claimed my mouth with such certainty that my defenses had crumbled like tissue paper. “I’ve been handling business remotely. Woods has been very helpful with the transition details.”

“Has he? My sources tell me you’ve been exploring options for dissolving our partnership entirely.”

The accusation hangs between us, accurate enough to make me squirm. I had spent hours with Woods yesterday, going through financial projections and legal documents, searching for some way to buy out Iskander’s share without destroying Henri’s legacy. “I’m exploring all my options. Henri left me a business, not a life sentence.”

“Didn’t he?” Iskander settles back in his chair, studying me with unsettling intensity. “From my perspective, you inherited considerably more than a tailor shop.”

“I inherited a front for money laundering that makes me an accessory to crimes I don’t understand.” The words tumble out sharply. “Forgive me if I’m not embracing that legacy with enthusiasm.”

Something shifts in the air between us, though his expression doesn’t change. “You also inherited protection, connections, and financial security most people would kill for. Literally, in some cases.”

I lift a shoulder. “I don’t want protection I didn’t request.”

“What you want and what you need are different things.” He stands and moves around the desk, eliminating the barrier between us. “Mikhail Balakin has soldiers watching your apartment building. They’ve photographed your routine, your friends, and every vulnerability you possess.”

I tense. “What are you talking about?”

“The men who killed Henri aren’t finished. They’re gathering intelligence to plan their next move, and you’re the primary target.” He perches on the desk’s edge, close enough that I catch his cologne, which makes my mouth water despite the fear coursing through me.

“Why me? I’m nobody important.”

“You’re the person Henri died protecting. You’re my business partner. Most importantly, you’re the woman Mikhail believes he can use to hurt me.” His voice drops to something intimate and deadly. “He’s not wrong about that last part.”