Page 22 of The Mafia's Quadruplets

Naked, I curl up on the bed, opening to a random page. The words swim before my eyes, refusing to make sense. I catch phrases here and there, “heaving bosom,” “strong arms,” “passionate embrace”, and slam the book shut with a groan.

“This isn’t helping,” I mutter, tossing aside the novel.

My gaze lands on my work bag. Inside is a journal for massage therapists—dry, technical writing about muscle groups and therapeutic techniques. Surely, that will cool my overactive imagination.

I retrieve the journal and flip it open, determined to focus on the clinical language, but as I read about proper hand placement and the importance of maintaining boundaries with clients, my traitorous mind keeps substituting Valerian’s name into the text.

When working with Valerian, be sure to use firm, consistent pressure...

Maintain professional distance from Valerian at all times...

Never allow personal feelings to interfere with your treatment of Valerian...

I snap the journal closed, frustrated and more wound up than ever. The clock on the nightstand reads 11:30 p.m. I should be exhausted after the long day and intense massage session, but sleep feels impossibly far away.

Restless energy thrums through me. I pace the room, running my fingers through my damp hair. Every sound makes me jump. Is that footsteps in the hallway? Is Valerian still awake? What would happen if I went to him now?

“Don’t even think about it,” I scold myself. “You’re here to work off a debt, not to fall into bed with a dangerous man.”

But oh, how tempting it is. I’ve never felt this kind of attraction before—this magnetic pull that makes me want to throw caution to the wind. It would be so easy to give in, to let Valerian consume me.

I shake my head violently, trying to dislodge the thoughts. This isn’t me. I’m practical, responsible Claire. The one who always does the right thing, who puts her family first. I can’t let a few moments of sexual tension undo everything I’ve worked for.

Determined to exhaust myself into sleep, I drop to the floor and start doing push-ups. The burn in my muscles is a welcome distraction. I count each rep, focusing on my form and on the way my arms shake as fatigue sets in.

When I can’t manage another push-up, I flip onto my back and start crunches. The repetitive motion is almost meditative, and my naughty thoughts begin to cool. By the time I finish, my abs are on fire, and sweat coats my skin.

I drag myself to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. The woman in the mirror looks wild-eyed and flushed. I barely recognize her.

Back in bed, I stare at the ceiling, willing sleep to come, but every time I close my eyes, I see Valerian. I toss and turn, tangling myself in the sheets. The clock ticks away the minutes,then hours. Outside, the moon rises high in the sky, casting eerie shadows across the room.

At three a.m., I finally drift into a fitful sleep. My dreams are a chaotic swirl of images—Valerian’s hands, my brother’s pleading face, stacks of money, and wilting flowers. I wake with a start just before dawn, sheets damp with sweat.

As the first rays of sunlight filter through the curtains, I sit up, rubbing my bleary eyes. The memory of last night’s massage session floods back, bringing with it a fresh wave of heat and longing.

I groan, burying my face in my hands. How am I supposed to face Valerian today? How can I maintain a professional demeanor when just the thought of him sets my body on fire?

But I have no choice. This is my reality now. I’m living under his roof, working to pay off my brother’s debt. I can’t let my attraction to him jeopardize everything. With a heavy sigh, I swing my legs over the side of the bed. It’s time to start another day in this gilded cage, with the most dangerous and desirable man I’ve ever met.

8

Valerian

Acouple of days later, killing time before my massage, I spend some rare downtime sprawled in a leather recliner, a glass of thirty-year-old Dewars in hand. The amber liquid catches the fading light as day gives way to night, making the whisky glint like liquid gold. It reminds me of Claire’s eyes, and I groan, remembering how it felt to have her hands on me last night. How I maintained any control is a mystery to me.

My phone buzzes, and I recognize the number of my contact in the District Attorney’s office. “Sheila, what do you have for me?”

Her voice crackles through the speaker. “Hello, Mr. Rustova. I have more information about Jay Bennett. The D.A.’s pushing for twenty-five years.”

I take a slow sip of my whiskey, savoring the burn. “And?”

“They’ll accept a plea. Ten to fifteen if the judge signs off. Of course, that’s contingent on his cooperation with the ongoinginvestigation,” she adds, her voice scratchy through the phone’s speaker.

I set down the glass on my mahogany desk, the crystal making a soft clink against the wood. Leaning forward in my leather chair, I press the phone closer to my ear. “Has Jay made a decision?”

“Not yet, but there’s more to the story.” Paper rustles on her end. “I’ve got the full report right here.”

I listen as Sheila lays out the details of Jay’s predicament. Her words paint a grim picture—a Petrov gambling den hidden behind a bodega in Little Odessa, the tables stacked with dirty money. Two friends had been with Jay that night—Derek Carmichael, a small-time thug with priors, and an unidentified woman in a black hoodie.

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