Page 5 of The Mafia's Quadruplets

“As you wish, sir.” David retreats, leaving me alone with columns of numbers and unanswered questions.

I slide open the manila envelope, letting glossy photographs cascade across my mahogany desk. Dmitri commissioned theprivate investigator to ensure there were no nasty surprises before going ahead with the repossession of the flower shop, and I’ve stared at them far too many times to justify.

The sharp scent of fresh ink mingles with leather and Dewars as I arrange them in a semi-circle, creating a window into the Bennett family’s world. Street scenes, storefront captures, and intimate moments stolen through telephoto lenses.

“Claire Bennett.” The name slips from my lips as I lift one particular image. She stands outside the shop, head thrown back in uninhibited laughter at something beyond the frame. Afternoon sunlight streams between the buildings, catching her loose waves and transforming them into sheets of molten amber. The corner of her coral-painted lips curves upward, creating delicate creases around her eyes. Her simple blouse and fitted jeans speak of understated elegance, a sharp contrast to the artificial women I typically encounter.

I never did like them. Despite my wealth, I’ve always favored natural women. It’s something more honest than the synthetic world I’m from, and I hate the idea that money can buy beauty. Real beauty is a state of mind.

The photograph feels warm between my fingers when I trace its edge. “What makes you different?” I whisper, unable to tear my attention from the pure, unrestrained joy captured in that single frame. Something about her authenticity pierces the carefully constructed walls of my world. My chest tightens with an unfamiliar, unwelcome sensation.

I start to set down the photo, then stop, drawn back for one more look. The fact that she affects me at all is disturbing. Yet I can’t seem to look away from that brilliant smile and those honey-flecked eyes that seem to peer straight through the glossy paper into my soul.

A sharp knock at the door breaks my reverie. I set down the photo this time while schooling my features into their usual mask of cool indifference. “Come in,” I call out, my voice carrying the authority that has become second nature.

Dmitri enters, his hulking frame filling the doorway. He’s been with me since the beginning and is one of the few men I trust implicitly.

“Boss, we’ve got a situation at the docks,” he says without preamble.

I lean forward, instantly alert. “What kind of situation?”

Dmitri’s expression darkens. “Petrov’s men were sniffing around. Looks like they’re trying to muscle in on our territory.”

I rise from my desk, adjusting my suit jacket. “Tell me everything.”

Dmitri moves to the window, his reflection merging with the city lights beyond. “They’re getting bold. Three of Petrov’s men approached our dock supervisor, Puschka, this morning. Made it clear they expect a cut of our shipments.”

“Puschka’s response?”

“He told them to go through proper channels. They didn’t like that answer.” Dmitri turns. “Left him with a broken nose and a message for you.”

My fingers brush against the Makarov PM at my back. “What message?”

“‘Blood demands blood.’ Matvey thinks you killed Ansily.”

I pour another measure of Dewars, the amber liquid catching the light. “He’s not wrong.”

“No proof though,” Dmitri points out. “Just suspicion.”

“For now.” I take a measured sip. “Have our people at the docks double security. I want eyes on every shipment.”

“Already done.” Dmitri crosses his arms. “Should we move against him now?” he asks. “Before he builds alliances or something?”

“No.” I stand, walking to the window. “Let him make the first move. Right now, he’s operating on emotion, seeking revenge for his brother. That makes him predictable.”

“And dangerous.”

“Yes.” Philadelphia spreads before me. “Have David review our legitimate business holdings. I want to know every point of intersection between our interests and the Petrovs.”

“What about the Bennett situation?” Dmitri was the one to alert me that the former manager let Bennett slip the leash.

The photograph of Claire still lies on my desk, her smile frozen in time. “Leave it for now. We have bigger concerns.”

“As you say, boss.” Dmitri moves toward the door, then pauses. “One more thing. Matvey’s been asking questions about your time in Moscow.”

I turn sharply. “What kind of questions?”

“About what really happened the night Ansily died. He’s got people digging into phone records, security footage.”

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