Page 3 of The Mafia's Septuplets

My stomach drops. “Henri, I’m sure you’d prefer to?—”

“Nonsense.” Henri waves away my protest. “You are ready for clients of Monsieur Taranov’s caliber. This is how we grow,petite.”

I want to argue, but Henri’s faith in me means everything. He saved my life when I was sixteen and desperate, giving me purpose and a place to belong. I’ve never disappointed him, and I won’t start now. “Of course.” I turn to Iskander, trying to project professional confidence. “When would you like to schedule the appointment?”

“Now, if possible.” His smile widens. “I find I’m suddenly in need of something...custom.”

Henri beams. “Parfait. I will prepare the forms while you get started.”

He bustles toward his office, leaving me alone with Iskander once again. The stranger—though he doesn’t feel like a stranger anymore—studies me with those penetrating gray eyes.

“You seem nervous,” he says softly.

“I’m not nervous.” The denial comes out too quickly. “I’m simply focused on providing excellent service.”

“Excellent service.” He repeats the phrase slowly, as if tasting it. “I appreciate that quality in a woman.”

There’s something in his tone that makes my pulse quicken. Not threatening, exactly, but loaded with inuendo. Unlike when Richardson did something similar, this sends heat curling through me, not repulsion. Clearing my throat, I move toward the measuring station, needing the familiar ritual to steady myself.

“What type of suit are you looking for?” I pull out my measuring tape and notebook, grateful for the routine. “Business, formal, or casual?”

“Surprise me.” He follows, moving with that innate predatory grace I noticed earlier. “I trust your professional judgment.”

The confidence in his voice both flatters and unnerves me. I’m good at my job, but his faith feels premature. We’ve known each other for all of ten minutes.

“I’ll need to take measurements first.” I gesture toward the platform. “If you could remove your jacket?”

He complies without hesitation, revealing a physique that clearly doesn’t come from gym membership alone. His shirt fits him perfectly, tailored to accommodate broad shoulders that taper to a lean waist. He moves like someone comfortable with physical confrontation.

I step closer with my measuring tape, acutely aware of his height advantage. Even on the platform, he towers over me. The scent of his cologne is subtle but expensive. It’s something with cedar and bergamot that cajoles my senses rather than overwhelming them like so many men’s colognes.

“Arms out, please.” I keep my voice steady as I loop the tape around his chest.

He complies, but his attention never wavers from my face. “You’re very serious about your work.”

“It’s important to get the measurements right.” I make notes, trying to ignore the warmth radiating from his skin. “A properly fitted suit can change how a man carries himself.”

He looks intrigued. “How do I carry myself?”

The question catches me off-guard. I glance up to find him watching me with genuine curiosity, as if my opinion actually matters to him. “Like someone who’s used to getting what he wants.” The words slip out before I can stop them.

His laugh is rich and genuinely amused. “Is that so obvious?”

I move to measure his waist, acutely conscious of his proximity. “Experience teaches you to read people quickly in this business.”

“What else does your experience tell you about me?”

I should deflect to keep things professional. Instead, I study his face more carefully. He has a strong jaw, straight nose, and lips that probably know how to be cruel and gentle in equal measure, but it’s his composure that strikes me most. He has the absolute assurance of someone who never has to prove himself because he feels no need to do so.

“You’re not from around here.” I move to his shoulder measurement. “Your accent suggests European background, probably Eastern. You’re comfortable with authority, which means you either inherited it or earned it the hard way, and you intervened with Richardson not out of chivalry, but because you don’t tolerate chaos in your vicinity.”

Silence stretches between us as I finish the measurement. When I finally look up, his expression has shifted to something unreadable.

“Interesting assessment.” His voice is softer now and more thoughtful. “What makes you think I don’t tolerate chaos?”

I shrug. “The way you handled him, with control and no wasted emotion or movement.” I step back, needing distance. “You saw a problem and eliminated it.”

“Eliminated.” He repeats the word slowly. “That’s an interesting choice.”