Page 5 of The Mafia's Septuplets

2

Iskander

The rain has stopped by the time I reach my car, but the memory of Willa Reynolds lingers like expensive perfume. I slide behind the wheel of the Bentley and sit for a moment in the silence, replaying every detail of our encounter, recalling her composure under pressure, the way she didn’t cower when Richardson invaded her space, and how her hands trembled only when she thought I wasn’t looking.

Most women in my world fall into two categories—those who fear me and those who want to use me. Willa fits neither mold, and that intrigues me more than it should. She assessed me with the clear-eyed precision of someone who’s learned to read danger, yet she didn’t retreat. She’s smart enough to recognize what I am and brave enough to stand her ground anyway.

I start the engine and pull into Charleston’s evening traffic, but my mind remains fixed on the tailor shop. I can’t stop thinking about how she moved through that space with quiet authority,or the passion that flared in her voice when Richardson insulted her work, and how she looked at me with caution and interest.

The phone buzzes through the car’s speakers, interrupting my thoughts.

“Iskander?” Timur’s voice fills the cabin. “We still on for dinner?”

“On my way.” I navigate through the historic district, past gas-lit streets and antebellum mansions that seem frozen in another century. Charleston maintains its veneer of old-world charm, but beneath the surface, it’s like any other city. It’s a territory to be controlled, with money to be moved, and power to be exercised.

Twenty minutes later, I walk into Czar’s Table, the Russian steakhouse that serves as our unofficial headquarters. The maître d’ nods respectfully and leads me through the dining room without a word. There are a sea of mahogany tables and plushy cushioned seats, where business deals disguised as social dinners play out nightly. The scent of aged beef and expensive vodka mingles with the low murmur of carefully modulated conversations.

Timur occupies our usual corner booth, positioned with a clear view of both entrances, maintaining old habits from our Moscow days. He’s already nursing a glass of Stolichnaya, his weathered face impassive as always. We’ve known each other for fifteen years and fought side by side in territorial wars that left lesser men dead or broken. He’s the closest thing to family I have left.

“You look relaxed.” His pale blue eyes study me as I settle into the booth.

I order my usual Macallan 25, neat, and consider how much to reveal. Timur has protected my interests for over a decade, but some thoughts are better kept private.

“The tailor shop went well, I take it.”

I nod. “Henri Laurent’s protégé is talented. She’ll handle the commission.”

Timur raises one eyebrow slightly. “She? Henri mentioned his apprentice was promising, but not that she was female.”

The server brings my scotch, and I take a sip before responding, savoring the pleasant oaky depth of it. “Miss Reynolds has been working under Laurent for years. Her skills are impressive.”

“I’m sure they are.” His tone remains neutral, but I catch the undercurrent of caution. He’s seen what happens when I take interest in things outside the business, and he’s always naturally cautious of anything that could distract from the life-or-death decisions we make daily the way some choose which pair of socks to wear in the morning. “How impressive?”

I ignore the inference and shift the conversation to safer ground. “What’s the situation with our southern routes?”

He accepts the deflection without comment by pulling out his phone to show me a series of photos. There are shipping manifests, warehouse receipts, and customs documents. “Volume is up twelve percent from last quarter. The Port Authority contact is performing as expected.”

I nod, impressed. “Any complications?”

He lifts one shoulder. “Minor. One of the longshoremen got curious about container weights. Dmitri handled it with a little green and a little brown.”

I nod, understanding he combined money with a couple of bruises to ensure the curiosity died quickly. Dmitri’s methods are efficient if not subtle, but sometimes direct action sends the clearest message. “What about our other operations?”

He scrolls to a different image. “The restaurant chains are clean. Money flows through them like water through a sieve, unremarkable and untraceable.” Timur closes his phone and leans back. “Which brings me to why I called this meeting.”

Something in his voice sharpens my attention. “Problems?”

“Mikhail Balakin.”

The name makes me flinch inside, though I keep my expression neutral. Years of practice have taught me to hide reactions that could be perceived as weakness. Still, my hand tightens imperceptibly around the glass. “What about him?”

Timur’s jaw tightens. “He’s making moves. Atlanta first, now Miami. Word is, he’s consolidating the smaller crews and offering them better terms than what they’re getting from the established families.”

I set down my scotch with deliberate care. Mikhail Balakin represents unfinished business from another life and another continent. We came up together in Moscow’s underworld, two ambitious lieutenants carving out territories in a city where violence was currency and mercy a luxury few could afford. “How solid is the intelligence?”

“Dmitri confirmed it through three separate sources.” He drains his vodka in one swift motion. “Balakin’s definitely stateside, and he’s not here for vacation.”

The server approaches with menus, but I wave him away. My appetite has vanished, replaced by the familiar cold focus that settles over me when business turns serious, or I hear Mikhail’s name. “Timeline?”