Page 8 of The Mafia's Septuplets

3

Willa

Two days have passed since my last encounter with Iskander Taranov, and I still can’t shake the memory of his hands brushing mine when we examined fabric swatches together. The contact was brief and professional but sent electricity racing through my nervous system like I’d touched a live wire.

I curl deeper into the corner of our overstuffed sofa, pulling my knees to my chest while Harper bustles around our tiny kitchen, making her famous comfort food of grilled cheese sandwiches with tomato soup. Our apartment is a study in organized chaos, with mismatched furniture we’ve collected from estate sales and thrift stores over the years.

“You’re doing that thing again.” Harper slides a steaming bowl across our coffee table, which doubles as our dining table when we’re being lazy.

I give her a startled look. “What thing?”

“That dreamy, flushed look you get when you’re thinking about tall, dark, and probably dangerous.” She settles beside me with her own bowl, studying my face with the concern of someone who’s known me since high school. “Spill.”

I take a spoonful of soup, buying time while I decide how much to reveal. Harper has an uncanny ability to read my moods, probably because she’s spent years watching me navigate a world that’s never felt entirely safe. She knows my tells better than anyone.

“He came back two days ago, the day after his fitting.” The admission slips out before I can stop it.

Harper nearly chokes on her sandwich. “Sexy Suit Guy? The one who scared off Richardson?”

I nod, remembering how Iskander appeared in the shop’s doorway like some avenging angel. Henri had called ahead to say Mr. Taranov wanted to discuss fabric options, but when I saw him stride through that door, my mouth went dry and my pulse accelerated.

“What happened?”

I close my eyes, letting myself drift back to two afternoons ago. The shop had been quiet. I’d been organizing Henri’s fabric samples when Iskander arrived, wearing another impeccably tailored suit, and clearly more of Henri’s elegant handiwork. “He needed to select materials for his commission.” I stir my soup absently, remembering how we’d stood side by side at the fabric display table. “We spent an hour going through options.”

“An hour?” Harper’s eyebrows climb toward her hairline. “How long does it take to pick fabric?”

That’s exactly what I’d wondered. Iskander examined each swatch with the intensity of someone making life-or-death decisions. He’d ask my opinion on weight, texture, drape, then listen to my responses with complete attention. When our fingers brushed as he handed me a sample of charcoal wool, he’d let the contact linger just long enough to make my pulse skyrocket all over again.

“He’s very particular about quality.” I take another spoonful of soup, hoping the heat will explain the flush creeping up my neck.

“Uh-huh.” Her tone suggests she’s not buying my casual explanation. “What else?”

I remember the moment he’d leaned over to examine a navy pinstripe, close enough I could smell his enticing cologne and feel the warmth radiating from his body. He’d asked about thread count in that low, accented voice, and I’d found myself staring at his mouth while I answered. Professional conversation had felt like foreplay, as though every exchange was loaded with double meanings I couldn’t quite decipher but also couldn’t ignore.

“He’s...intense.” I finally meet Harper’s knowing gaze. “When he looks at you, it’s like he’s seeing everything you’re trying to hide.”

Harper sets down her sandwich and gives me her full attention. “Willa, that’s either incredibly romantic or deeply creepy, depending on the context.”

“I know.” I bury my face in my hands, frustrated by my own confusion. “I can’t figure out which one it is.”

“What does your gut tell you?”

That’s the problem. My gut tells me Iskander Taranov is dangerous in ways I don’t fully understand, but also that I’m drawn to him. When he’d complimented my knowledge of fabrics, his praise had warmed me from the inside out. When he’d smiled—really smiled, not that polite expression he wore for Henri—it had transformed his entire face into something beautiful but voracious, like a shark slipping through the water.

“My gut tells me I should run in the opposite direction.” I peek at Harper through my fingers. “My hormones tell me I don’t want to.”

Harper sighs and reaches for my hands, pulling them away from my face. “Honey, what do you actually know about this guy?”

“Not much.” I tick off the limited facts on my fingers. “He’s wealthy and European, probably Russian based on his accent. He has excellent taste and doesn’t flinch at premium prices. Henri treats him like an important client, which means he’s either very rich or very influential.”

“Or both.” Her expression grows troubled. “Have you googled him?”

“I tried.” I’d spent embarrassing amounts of time searching for information about Iskander Taranov online after his second visit and again yesterday but found surprisingly little. There were a few mentions in business publications and some photos from charity galas where he appeared in the background, but nothing substantial. It’s as if he exists in the shadows of Charleston’s social scene. “There’s not much out there.”

“That’s either very private or very suspicious.”

She’s right, but logic wars with the memory of how Iskander had looked at me when I’d suggested a particular silk lining, like I’dsaid something brilliant instead of simply doing my job. No one had ever made me feel that clever or important before, which probably means he’s a phony used to telling women whatever they want to hear to fuck them, even though it didn’t feel like it in the moment.