Page 44 of The Mafia's Septuplets
The matter-of-fact way he discusses killing someone should shock me, but it doesn’t. In this world of shadows and violence, it’s obvious survival follows different rules. “Did you try to make amends with Mikhail?”
He nods, looking troubled. “I offered reparations, territory concessions, and even a formal alliance between our organizations. Mikhail refused everything. He said only blood could answer for blood, and he wouldn’t rest until I’d lost someone who mattered as much to me as Alexei mattered to him.”
Understanding crashes over me. “That’s why he’s targeting me and the babies.”
Iskander’s expression hardens into something dangerous. “He believes destroying what I love will balance the scales for his brother’s death. It’s a logic I understand, even if I can’t allow it.”
The honesty in his admission makes my chest constrict. He understands Mikhail’s motivation because he would probably pursue similar revenge if our positions were reversed. “Do you think he’ll ever stop?”
“Not while he’s alive.” The answer comes without hesitation. “This ends with one of us dead.”
I absorb this information while studying his face, noting the lines of stress around his eyes and the tension in his shoulders. He’s carrying the burden of an eight-year-old mistake that wasn’t entirely his fault while trying to protect a woman and seven unborn children from consequences he couldn’t have anticipated.
“Since we’re discussing the past, please tell me about Henri.” His voice gentles as he shifts the conversation.
The request catches me by surprise, though it’s only natural for him to ask. We’ve never discussed my relationship with the man who became the closest thing to family I ever had. “What do you want to know?”
“How did you meet him?”
I lean back and consider how to explain Henri’s impact on my life. “I was sixteen, living on the streets, and sneaked in to sleep in the workroom of his shop on a freezing January night. I thought the place was empty after hours.”
Iskander’s expression shifts, becoming less guarded. “How did you end up there?”
The memory still stings. “I’d run away from my placement because my foster father kept finding excuses to touch me in ways that made my skin crawl. Social services would have just moved me to another family, probably worse than the last, so I decided to take my chances on the streets.” I sigh. “Harper was actually in a decent placement, so I didn’t want to ask her to come with me.”
His jaw clenches at the admission, and I see a flash of violence in his gray eyes. “How long were you on your own?”
“I spent three weeks sleeping in doorways, stealing food from convenience stores when Harper couldn’t hook me up, and dodging police who would have dragged me back into the system.” I wrap my arms around myself, remembering the bone-deep cold and constant fear. “Henri found me curled up between bolts of wool fabric, using his most expensive cashmere as a blanket.” I smile at the memory, appreciating now how much that fabric would have cost if my street grime had ruined it, but he never said a word about that.
“What did he do?”
“Nothing dramatic that first night. He just looked at me for a long moment, went to his office, and came back with a sandwich and a thermos of hot coffee. Then he told me to be quiet because he had work to finish.” I sniffle, remembering how I’d spent that night in fear, certain he’d call the police at any moment, but also warm and full for the first time in weeks.
Iskander waits for me to continue, his patience giving me space to find the right words.
“The next morning, he woke me up by handing me a needle and thread. ‘If you’re going to sleep in my shop,’ he said in thatFrench accent of his, ‘You’re going to learn to earn your keep properly.’ He never asked about my situation or threatened to call authorities. He just started teaching me to sew.”
The memory brings unexpected warmth to my chest. “For two weeks, I slept in the shop and learned basic stitches during the day. Henri would bring me food, show me techniques, and treat me like I’d always been there. When he finally asked why I wasn’t in school, I told him about the foster homes and why I was running.”
A tender smile flashes across his mouth. “He let you stay?”
I nod. “He said the system had already failed me once, and he didn’t trust it to do better the second time around. He helped me get documentation saying I was emancipated, found me a tiny apartment above a bakery, and gave me a job that paid enough to survive on.”
He nods, looking satisfied. “He became your family.”
“The only real family I ever had besides Harper.” The words come out softer than I intended as a wave of emotion washes over me, threatening to bring tears. “Henri taught me everything about tailoring, but more than that, he showed me what stability looked like and what it meant to have someone believe in your potential.”
We sit in comfortable silence for several minutes, both lost in thoughts about the people who shaped us. The shared stories create an intimacy that feels different from the physical attraction between us.
“I understand now why losing him hurt so much.” Iskander’s voice is gentle.
I sniff and reach for a tissue, catching a stray tear before it can fall. “He was the only person who ever made me understand what belonging somewhere actually meant. When Mikhail’s men killed him, they didn’t just take away my mentor. They destroyed the only home I’d ever known.”
His hand reaches across the space between our chairs and covers mine with gentle pressure. “I’m sorry my world cost you someone so important.”
The apology surprises me with its sincerity. “Henri knew what kind of business he was running. He made choices that brought him into your world, even if he tried to keep his distance from the violence.”
“That doesn’t make his death acceptable.”