Page 6 of The Mafia's Septuplets

“Hard to say. It could be weeks or maybe months.” He signals for another vodka. “He’s being careful and taking time to build alliances before making his play. There’s more.”

I wait.

“One of our watchers spotted someone casing Henri’s shop yesterday. It was professional surveillance, not a casual window shopper.” His voice drops lower. “The description matches known Balakin operatives.”

I mull over the revelation. Laurent’s establishment serves multiple purposes in our organization. It launders significant money through high-end clothing sales, provides a legitimate front for meetings, and maintains our reputation among Charleston’s elite. More importantly, Henri is a friend of mine, and Willa works there. “How certain are you?”

Timur’s expression remains impassive, but his tone carries conviction. “Certain enough. The question is whether Balakin knows about Laurent’s true function, or if he’s just probing for weaknesses.”

I consider that while Charleston’s evening sounds filter through the restaurant’s windows. Traffic, distant music, and the low hum of a city settling into night are all normal sounds from a world that has no idea men like Mikhail and I exist in their midst. “He knows.” The certainty surprises me with its clarity but comes from deep instincts. “Mikhail always did hishomework. If he’s targeting Laurent, it’s because he understands what it represents.”

My second nods his agreement. “Which means?”

“He’s not just expanding territory. He’s coming for me specifically.”

Timur nods once more, slower this time. “The brother.”

Alexei Balakin was twenty-two years old, newly married, and full of the reckless courage that gets young men killed in our line of work. The territorial dispute had been escalating for months, with stolen shipments, sabotaged operations, and the slow dance of dominance that defines criminal enterprise on both sides. When Alexei crossed into our territory with four armed men, planning to hit one of our warehouses, I had to respond.

The confrontation lasted less than ten minutes. Alexei died along with two of his men, while the other two escaped to carry word back to Mikhail. That was eight years ago, but blood debts don’t expire.

“I warned you this day would come.” Timur’s voice holds no accusation, only the practical acceptance of consequences. “Mikhail loved that boy more than his own life.”

I sigh softly, feeling regret for Alexei’s fate even now, though the young fool brought it on himself. “I know, but I had no choice. Alexei would have kept pushing until someone was dead. Better him than me.”

Timur leans forward, lowering his voice. “Maybe, or maybe you could have found another way.”

I meet his stare directly. “Are you questioning my judgment?”

“Nyet. I’m simply pointing out how Mikhail will view it, and I’m questioning whether we’re prepared for what’s coming.” He spreads his hands on the table. “Mikhail spent eight years building his network. He’s not the same impetuous lieutenant you knew in Moscow. He’s patient now. His need for revenge has made him systematic rather than impulsive. That makes him more dangerous.”

The server returns, clearly hoping to take our order, but one look at our faces sends him retreating without a word. The restaurant continues its evening rhythm around us, oblivious to the conversation taking place in the corner booth. “What do you recommend?”

He straightens. “Strike first. Hard and decisive. Take out his key people before he can establish a foothold.”

It’s the logical choice, the one my heavy-handed father would have made without hesitation.

My style is somewhat different. “That would mean war.”

“War is coming whether we start it or not.” He pulls out his phone again and scrolls through messages. “The only question is whether we fight on our terms or his.”

I finish my scotch and consider the situation. Charleston has been profitable precisely because it’s remained relatively peaceful. The established families here prefer accommodation to confrontation, understanding that violence draws unwanted attention from federal authorities. A war with Balakin would shatter that delicate ecosystem. “How many men do we have locally?”

“Fifteen reliable soldiers, and maybe twenty if we count the part-timers.” Timur sets down his phone. “Balakin probably has half that, but he’s adding to his ranks.”

I nod slowly. “That’s not enough for a sustained conflict without bringing in men from other locations, which will bring heat on us if things become noticeable. Our law enforcement contacts accept bribes to keep things peaceful, but a war would force them to stop turning a blind eye.”

“Yes, which is why I suggest we strike now before it escalates. Twenty men are enough to send a message if we choose our targets carefully.”

My phone vibrates with a text message from Dmitri, confirming tomorrow’s shipping schedule. Business continues regardless of personal vendettas, though the line between the two blurs when survival is at stake. Not yet deciding about going on the offensive, I shift the subject slightly. “Double security at all our key locations. I want eyes on Laurent’s shop around the clock. If Balakin is targeting our operations, we need to know before he moves.

Timur studies my face with the intensity of someone reading enemy intentions. “Consider it done, though it is an…interesting choice for where to send more of our people. The tailor shop seems particularly important to you.”

I tense, refusing to sound defensive despite the hint of knowing in his tone. “It’s a significant revenue stream.”

He gives me a small smile, which is unusual for him. “Is that all?” Timur knows me well enough to recognize when business concerns mask personal interest. In our world,emotional attachments become vulnerabilities that enemies exploit without mercy.

I give him a sour look. “Laurent has been cooperative for three years. I won’t abandon reliable partners.”