Page 25 of The Mafia's Septuplets
8
Iskander (Nine Weeks Later)
Nine weeks of careful courtship have transformed my understanding of patience. I sit in my study watching Charleston’s harbor shimmer under the early morning sun, thinking about the woman who’s become the center of my increasingly precarious world. Willa has allowed me closer than I expected with tentative dinners, warm little afternoons in my office, and moments when her guard drops enough to reveal the fire beneath her cool exterior.
Each step forward feels like a negotiation where the stakes grow higher with every concession won. She’s worth the deliberate pace and worth the frustration of wanting more than she’s ready to give. What started as possessive hunger has evolved into something more convoluted and dangerous.
She’s becoming everything I never knew I needed, though I haven’t found the courage to voice that truth yet.
My phone buzzes with the morning intelligence report from Timur. The familiar routine of threat assessment and tacticalplanning anchors me in reality, pulling me away from thoughts of honey-colored hair and green eyes that see too much.
The news isn’t encouraging. Mikhail’s network has expanded through Georgia and Florida like a virus, absorbing smaller operations and converting independent crews to his cause. Three more of my allied families have severed ties, citing concerns about Balakin’s reach and my apparent distraction.
They’re not wrong about the distraction.
Charleston’s organized crime families have always preferred subtle accommodation over open warfare, understanding violence draws federal attention none of us can afford. Mikhail threatens that delicate ecosystem with his hunger for revenge, forcing choices that could shatter decades of profitable cooperation.
I scroll through surveillance reports and financial analyses, noting patterns that suggest coordinated pressure across multiple fronts. Balakin isn’t just targeting my operations but systematically undermining the foundation of influence I’ve spent eight years building.
The intercom crackles with my assistant’s voice. “Mr. Taranov? Mr. Vetrov is here with the weekly briefing.”
“Send him in.”
Timur enters carrying thick files and looks like he’s spent sleepless nights analyzing scenarios that all end badly. His weathered face has acquired new lines of stress since Mikhail’s arrival. “We need to make a decision.” He sits down in the free chair across my desk. “Balakin took out another of our warehouses last night. That’s three operations compromised in two weeks.”
The information settles like lead in my stomach. “Casualties?”
“Two wounded but none are dead. My guess is it’s professional work because they wanted to send a message, not start a bloodbath.” He opens the thickest file and produces photographs of damaged inventory and shattered windows. “He’s escalating gradually by testing our response time and willpower.”
I study the images, recognizing Mikhail’s signature approach to psychological warfare. He prefers slow pressure to sudden strikes, believing that fear builds more effectively when targets have time to contemplate their vulnerability. “What about our intelligence on his network?”
“It’s limited. He’s compartmentalized his operations better than we expected.” He pulls out an organizational chart covered in question marks and dotted lines. “We’ve identified perhaps half his soldiers, but his command structure remains opaque.”
The admission frustrates me more than the warehouse attacks. Information is the foundation of tactical advantage, and Mikhail has apparently learned from our Moscow mistakes about operational security. “Recommendations?”
He speaks without any hesitation. “Strike hard and fast before he consolidates further. Take out his known assets and force him into the open. Or negotiate a territorial division that preserves your core interests.”
Both options carry unacceptable risks. Open warfare would destroy the careful relationships that make Charleston profitable, while negotiation with Mikhail would be seen as weakness by every ambitious lieutenant looking to expand theirown influence. He wouldn’t compromise anyway when he wants me dead.
“What about Willa’s security?” I ask, acknowledging the factor that complicates every strategic calculation.
His expression grows troubled. “It appears unchanged. Balakin’s surveillance teams maintain their positions around her apartment and workplace. They’re documenting her routine with professional thoroughness.”
The knowledge makes something cold and protective twist deep inside me. Willa moves through Charleston believing she’s gained some measure of freedom over the past nine weeks, unaware that hostile eyes track her every movement. “Any indication of imminent action?”
“Nothing concrete, but the surveillance has intensified. They’re using more cameras over longer observation periods with additional personnel.” He produces another set of photographs showing unfamiliar faces positioned at strategic points around Willa’s neighborhood. “They’re preparing for something.”
I force myself to examine each image objectively, cataloging details that might reveal Mikhail’s intentions. The men are professionals who appear well-trained, disciplined, and patient, which is what I’d expect from someone planning a complex operation.
“Double her protection detail,” I say, though Willa will resist any visible increase in security. “Maintain discreet positioning, but I want redundant coverage on every approach route.”
“Iskander.” Timur’s voice carries warning I’ve heard increasingly often. “You’re allocating significant resources toprotect one person while Balakin dismantles your operations piece by piece.”
“That one person happens to be our business partner and a legitimate target.”
He gives me a look full of disbelief. “Is she? Or is she the woman who’s compromising your judgment in ways that could get us all killed?”
My first instinct is to snap at him, but I rein in the impulse. Timur has protected my interests for fifteen years, watching me build an empire while avoiding the emotional entanglements that destroy men in our profession. I’ll give him leeway, understanding he doesn’t relate to how I feel about Willa. The only woman he ever cared about betrayed him. “My judgment remains sound.”