Page 47 of The Mafia's Septuplets

14

Iskander

Three more days pass before I admit the obvious truth. Willa is miserable in my home, and all the security in the world can’t protect her from the prison I’ve created.

I watch her through the office doorway as she works at the mahogany desk, her shoulders curved inward like she’s trying to make herself smaller. She shifts in the chair every few minutes, one hand pressed to her chest like she can’t get enough air. The guards outside patrol their routes with military precision, but their presence only seems to make her withdraw more into herself.

She barely speaks during meals, picks at food that should appeal to her, and spends most evenings staring out windows like she’s watching her freedom disappear one patrol at a time. This isn’t protection. It’s imprisonment with expensive furniture. I cross the room to where she sits surrounded by inventory reports. “How are you feeling?”

She looks up with tired eyes. “Fine.”

The lie comes too easily. “You don’t look fine. You look like you haven’t slept properly in days.”

“I’m pregnant with seven babies. I don’t think sleeping properly is an option anymore.” She gestures at the paperwork. “Besides, these accounts won’t reconcile themselves.”

Her dedication impresses me, but it also highlights how little control she has over anything else. “The accounts can wait. You need rest.”

“I need to feel useful.” The words come out sharper than she probably intended. “I need to feel like I’m contributing something beyond just being a walking incubator under armed guard.”

The bitterness in her voice stops me. I’ve been treating her like precious cargo instead of the intelligent, capable woman I fell for. “Is that how you see yourself here?”

She saves her work and closes the laptop with deliberate care. “How else should I see myself? I can’t leave the house without an escort. I can’t make decisions about my own medical care without consultation. I can’t even take a walk in the garden without someone radioing my location.”

The frustration that’s been building finally breaks through her careful politeness. “The security is suffocating. I understand the threat is real, but I can’t live like this indefinitely, Iskander. I won’t.”

The quiet determination reminds me why I was drawn to her. Willa Reynolds doesn’t break under pressure. She pushes back twice as hard. “What do you need from me?”

Surprise flickers across her features like she expected me to dismiss her concerns. “I need to feel like your partner, not your prisoner. I need to know what’s happening in the war you’re fighting for us. I need to understand the business I’ve inherited.”

Her requests are reasonable, which makes my instinct to shield her seem overprotective and condescending. “You want to know about everything?”

“The legitimate business, the money laundering, and the territorial disputes. All of it.” She crosses her arms. “I’m already involved whether I understand the details or not. Ignorance won’t protect me, but knowledge might help me protect myself.”

The logic is sound, even if every protective instinct rebels against exposing her to my world’s darker aspects. “Some of that information is dangerous to possess.”

“More dangerous than being a target without knowing why?” She leans against the desk. “You killed Alexei eight years ago, and Mikhail has been planning revenge ever since. That’s dangerous information but knowing it helps me understand why Henri is dead.”

I built my life around controlling information, using knowledge as both weapon and shield. Sharing operational details goes against decades of training. “You’re asking me to trust you with information that could get you killed.”

“I’m asking you to trust me, period.” Her voice softens, but steel remains underneath. “We’re having seven children together, we’re business partners, and we’re sharing a bed. Trust has to start somewhere.”

The reference to our physical relationship sends heat through me. “All right. We’ll start with business operations, then move to current intelligence.”

Relief transforms her features, making her look younger and less guarded. “Thank you.”

Over the next hour, I walk her through our money laundering network. Willa asks intelligent questions about cash flow and risk management that reveal she understands business fundamentals better than many of my associates.

“The restaurant chain grosses approximately two million annually in legitimate revenue,” I explain while showing her spreadsheets. “We inflate those numbers by running dirty money through fake transactions and events that exist only on paper.”

She studies the projections with focused attention. “What’s the markup on laundered money?”

“Fifteen percent, plus legitimate fees. The margin sounds low, but volume makes it profitable.”

She nods slowly. “And the shop?”

“Maison Laurent handles smaller amounts but serves multiple functions. High-end clothing sales and custom tailoring or orders provide perfect cover for unusual cash transactions, since we can structure them however is most beneficial amid the legitimate business.” I close the laptop and study her reaction. “Does any of this bother you?”

“Should it?” She leans back, one hand absently rubbing her stomach. “Henri was clearly comfortable with all this.”