Page 4 of The Mafia's Quadruplets

Isettle back in the leather chair of my Rittenhouse Square mansion, savoring the smooth whiskey in my glass. The familiar burn slides down my throat while I contemplate the skyline I’ve been away from for months.

The crystal tumbler clinks against the mahogany desk as my phone buzzes, its screen showing with Dmitri’s name. Setting aside the thirty-year-old Dewars, I swipe to answer.

“Boss, I’ve got some intel for you.” Dmitri’s gravelly voice cuts straight to business, characteristics of my most trusted lieutenant.

“Go on.” I turn toward the window, watching a news helicopter sweep across the skyline.

“The Petrov Syndicate’s got a new leader. His name is Matvey Petrov.”

The whiskey burns pleasantly when I take another unhurried sip, letting the sweetness linger on my tongue while processing this development. “Interesting. What else?”

“He’s young and ambitious. Took over after his brother’s...” Dmitri pauses, and I can practically see the sardonic twist of his lips. “...unfortunate accident.”

I smirk. The “accident” involved a warehouse, three bullets, and a message that needed sending. The memory of that night still lingers in my mind. The rain, the gunfire, and the satisfaction of eliminating a threat to my family’s empire.

“And what does Matvey Petrov think of me?” The whiskey catches the light from the window as I swirl it, creating amber waves against the crystal.

“That’s the best part, boss.” Dmitri’s voice carries a note of satisfaction. “He has no idea you’re back in Philly. Your time overseas kept you off their radar. As far as he knows, you’re still closing deals in Moscow.”

I smile to myself. “Excellent. Let’s keep it that way for now.”

“You got it. Anything else you need?”

I pause, considering. “Set up a meeting with our contacts at the docks. I want to review our import operations.”

“Consider it done.”

The line goes dead, and I set the down phone. I stand, moving to the window. The city sprawls before me, a grid of opportunities and threats. Matvey Petrov’s ignorance of my return is an advantage I intend to exploit to the fullest.

My reflection stares back at me in the glass. Dark hair, slightly tousled from running my hand through it. Piercing blue eyes that have seen more than their fair share of violence and betrayal. The tailored suit I wear is an armor of sorts, giving a look of power and control while expertly hiding my engraved Makarov PM in its holster at my back.

I turn away from the window, already formulating plans. The Velvet Cage, my underground gambling den, will need to be prepped for my return. It’s been too long since I’ve walked those opulent halls, where the walls tell stories of fortunes won and lost.

I always win in the end.

My phone buzzes again, and I drop into my chair once more before answering. This time, it’s Alexei, my right-hand man in the legitimate side of my business empire.

“Valerian, hello. The board is getting antsy about the merger with Steele Industries. They’re pushing for a meeting.”

I suppress a sigh. The corporate world, with its endless meetings and politicking, is a necessary evil. “Schedule it for next week. I’ll need time to review the latest projections.”

“Of course, and the charity gala? ‘The Children’s Hospital’ is expecting you to make an appearance.”

“I’ll be there,” I assure him. These events are crucial for maintaining my public image as a philanthropic businessman. The irony isn’t lost on me.

The leather executive chair protests with a soft groan when I shift my weight after hanging up. I return to perusing the meticulously kept records spread across my mahogany desk.The stark black ink of Jay Bennett’s name draws my attention like a bruise on pristine paper. Next to it, the mounting figures tell a grim story. In my absence, a manager let him rack up eighty-thousand in gambling debts, plus accumulated interest. He should have cut off a loser with no prospects at fifty grand, but Bennett put up his parents’ flower shop to secure a higher credit limit.

“Sir?” my accountant, David, hovers in the doorway. “Should I proceed with the property acquisition paperwork for Bloom House?”

I tap my Mont Blanc pen against the ledger. “Not yet.”

“But, Mr. Rostova, the standard protocol?—”

“I’m well aware of our usual procedures.” The pen stops moving between my fingers. Bloom House sits on a corner lot in one of the city’s most rapidly gentrifying neighborhoods. The property value alone would more than cover Bennett’s debts. “Tell me what you know about the family.”

David adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses. “The Bennett family runs it. Mainly the parents, but their daughter helps sometimes. Jay is as useless as one would expect based on his addiction. The girl is Clara, I think. A masseuse?”

“Claire,” I correct without thinking how much that reveals. What the hell. Not owing him an explanation, I add, “Keep the paperwork on hold.”

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