Page 41 of The Mafia's Quadruplets

My muscles tense involuntarily. The Petrov Syndicate has always been a thorn in my side, but now the stakes are personal since that showdown with Ansily led to his death at my hands a year ago. I don’t need to ask how they know. Matvey’s network rivals our own in its reach and efficiency. The moment I set foot back in Philadelphia, it was only a matter of time before word spread. “Why?”

Dmitri hesitates, his expression revealing something akin to concern. “Matvey claims he wants to ask you some questions about dealings with his brother, but I don’t buy it. They’re not looking for a deal or information, Valerian. Matvey wants you dead for killing his brother, and meeting with them can only be a trap.”

“I’m not that stupid.” I exhale harshly. “Keep an eye on Claire. I’ll handle this.”

I move toward the door, each step deliberate and measured. The familiar weight of my Makarov PM presses against the small of my back beneath my tailored suit jacket. Its presence is both a comfort and a reminder of the life I’ve chosen, if there was ever any choice for a boy whose father groomed him for the role.

“Dmitri,” I pause at the threshold, “I want a full report on Petrov’s movements over the last six months. Every business deal, every whispered conversation in dark corners, and every woman he’s banged. If he so much as sneezed, I want to know about it.”

“Consider it done.” He’s already pulling out his phone.

As I stride down the hallway, my mind churns with possibilities. The Petrov Syndicate has made their first move. Now it’s my turn to respond. I enter the elevator, pressing the button for the underground garage.

Seconds later, the elevator doors open to reveal the cavernous parking garage. My personal driver, Viktor, stands at attention beside a sleek black Mercedes.

“Where to, sir?” he asks as I slide into the back seat.

“‘The Velvet Cage.’ Take the long way. I need to make a call.”

As the car pulls out of the garage, I retrieve a burner phone from the stash kept in a hidden compartment in the seat. My fingers move swiftly over the keypad, dialing a number I’ve committed to memory.

The line rings twice before a gruff voice answers. “Yes?”

“Yuri,” I say, switching effortlessly to Russian. “It’s time to call in that favor you owe me.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, followed by a heavy sigh from one of the supposedly neutral assets, who heads up multiple families’ money-laundering accounts. “I was hoping you’d forgotten about that, Rostova.”

“You know better than that, old friend. I need information on Matvey Petrov’s inner circle. Who he trusts, who he doesn’t, and most importantly, who might be willing to turn for the right price.”

“That’s dangerous territory, Valerian,” he warns. “The Petrovs don’t take kindly to traitors, and it’s not good for business for me to be perceived to be taking sides…”

“I don’t take kindly to traitors or those who are disloyal either,” I remind him, my voice edged with heat. “I’d rather not start a war if I can avoid it. Sometimes, a surgical strike is more effective than a bomb, as you can concur after that nasty business in Moscow, no?”

Yuri grunts in agreement, remaining silent. He’s clearly recalling how I hauled his ass out of the fire with the Moscowpakhanby helping divert suspicion from his guilty as sin nephew—currently in Siberia at an outpost for punishment—to one of Ansily’s underlings when a deposit went missing.

He finally speaks. “It’s important for our… uh, banking services… to be impartial to all families, but…”

“But?” I prompt when the silence continues.

“I owe you, so I’ll see what I can dig up with my skills. Give me forty-eight hours.”

“You have twenty-four,” I counter. “Time isnoton our side.”

I end the call and lean back against the leather seat. As the car weaves through the bustling streets of Philadelphia, my thoughts drift back to Claire. Her presence in my life has complicated things in ways I never anticipated. She’s a vulnerability, a chink in my armor that Matvey Petrov would exploit without hesitation if he knew.

And yet for the first time in years, I have something—someone—worth fighting for beyond the cold calculations of power and territory.

Viktor’s voice breaks through my reverie. “We’re here, sir.”

I blink, realizing we’ve arrived at “The Velvet Cage.” The nondescript building belies the opulence within. “Wait here,” I instruct Viktor as I exit the car. “I won’t be long.”

The familiar scent of leather and expensive cologne greets me when I enter the club. Even at this early hour, a handful of high-rollers occupy the gaming tables, their faces showing various stages of concentration and desperation.

Osto—my new floor manager since I fired the one who let Jay Bennett and a few other addicts get in way deeper than they should—approaches with a deferential nod. “Mr. Rostova, we weren’t expecting you today.”

“That was the point,” I say coolly. “How are the numbers looking?”

“Up fifteen percent from last quarter,” he says, falling into step beside me as we move toward my private office. “The new VIP room is particularly popular.”

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