Page 78 of The Mafia's Quadruplets

“Ah, Gavriil,” calls out my abductor. “Everything ready?”

The man nods once, his attention fixed on me. His gaze is cold and clinical, stripping me down to something less than human. “Yes, Matvey,” he says, his voice as icy as his appearance. “The cell is prepared.”

So, he is Matvey, the leader of the Petrov Syndicate. The man Valerian warned me about. I hadn’t been sure, hadn’t wanted to believe it, but now it’s confirmed, dropped so casually from his own man’s mouth. I’m in the hands of the very worst person I could be.

Boris carries me inside, past rusted bars and long-forgotten corridors, where the walls still bear the scratches of past inmates, their desperation carved into the very bones of this place. Our footsteps echo, swallowed by the vast emptiness. The air is stodgy, and the scent of mildew and rust clings to the spring wind sweeping through the empty corridors. Despite the nice weather outside, it’s cold and damp inside.

The heavy door groans as Matvey shoves it open, revealing a cell untouched by time. The stone walls are cracked, and the metal cot is bolted to the floor beneath a narrow slit of a window that lets in nothing but darkness. A rusted toilet and a tiny sink sit in the corner are remnants of a past that should have stayed buried.

“Your accommodations,” he says with a mocking bow. “I do hope you’ll be comfortable.”

Boris sets me down roughly, and I stumble, catching myself against the cold stone wall. The air is noxious with rot, pressing against my skin. Nausea creeps up my throat, making me dry heave. “You can’t keep me here,” I say once that urge passes, hating how my voice shakes. “People will look for me. The police will come.”

Matvey gives a harsh laugh, echoed by Boris and Gavriil. “The police? You think the authorities can touch me? No, the only one who will be looking for you is Valerian, and when he comes…” His eyes glint with something cruel. “That’s when the real fun begins.”

He steps back, gesturing for Boris and Gavriil to leave. The iron door swings shut, and the finality of it crushes the air from my lungs. A key turns in the lock. I’m sealed inside.

I sink onto the cement bench, my legs finally giving out. My hand goes to my stomach again, this time without hesitation. I whisper to my unborn children. “It’s okay. Valerian will find us. He has to.”

The silence presses in, thick and suffocating. I stare at the shadows stretching across the stone floor, listening to the faint, ghostly echoes of a place meant to break people. Every breath makes me want to choke and worsens my nausea. If I had anything left in my stomach, I’d have no doubt spewed it by now.

This place is despair personified, making my thoughts morose. As I sink deeper into despondency, I wonder when Valerian comes for me, will it already be too late?

29

Valerian

The brass bell above Bloom House’s entrance clangs violently as I shove through the door, nearly yanking it off its hinges. The familiar scents of sweet jasmine, delicate roses, and sharp eucalyptus hit me instantly, but they do nothing to settle the unease crawling up my spine. No music hums from the stereo by the register. No soft singing drifts from the back room, where Claire usually helps her parents arrange bouquets.

“Claire?” My voice cuts through the silence, sharp and demanding. Sunlight filters through the front windows, casting long shadows across the empty display pedestals. A pair of scissors lies abandoned on the wooden workbench beside a half-finished arrangement of white lilies, their stems already browning in the stagnant water.

“Claire, are you here?” The silence tightens around me. Even the usual creak of the old floorboards feels absent, as if the shop itself is holding its breath. The vintage cash register’s drawer isslightly ajar, which is something Linda or Robert would never allow during business hours.

My gut twists painfully. Something is wrong.

Claire’s phone lies face-down on the granite countertop, its pink case askew. I pick it up, running my fingers over the screen. Dozens of jagged lines spread outward from a central impact point like a frozen explosion.

Someone threw this.

Hard.

“No one just leaves a broken phone,” I say, more to myself than the others. The message is obvious. They want me to know they have her.

“Where the hell is she?” My question slices through the heavy silence. I spin around to face Viktor and Dmitri, who flank the doorway in their dark suits. Their expressions are carefully neutral, but I catch the subtle clench of Viktor’s jaw, and the way Dmitri’s hands curl into fists at his sides.

“We’ve got teams checking the usual spots,” says Viktor, his accent thickening with tension. “Nothing yet.”

“The cameras?” I demand.

Dmitri shakes his head. “Cut. They knew what they were doing.”

I slam the broken phone back onto the counter. Tiny shards of glass skitter across the surface like ice crystals. They’re toying with me and showing off their reach. My fingers itch to grab my Makarov PM and hunt down whoever dared to touch what’s mine, but first, I need to find her.

Dmitri steps closer to the desk, extending his hand. Between his thick thumb and forefinger, something glints in the office lighting. “Boss, I found this in the back room, near the office.”

My breath stalls. A silver teardrop earring dangles from his grip—the one Claire picked out this morning from her jewelry box while I watched from the doorway. The sight of it alone, without its mate, without her, makes me cold inside.

“She must still have on the other one,” I say, measuring each word carefully as I take the earring from Dmitri. The silver feels cold against my palm, but I curl my fingers around it like it’s a talisman. “At least we know she was conscious enough to fight back.” The last words come out clipped, barely containing the violence threatening to break free.

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