Page 11 of The Mafia's Quadruplets

He materializes at my side within seconds, his black suit pristine, his silver hair neatly combed. At sixty-five, he moves with the same efficiency he showed when I was a boy, serving first as a footman, and finally, as my father’s butler before he passed away.

“Yes, Mr. Rostova?” He folds his hands behind his back, posture military-straight. Decades of service have taught him to read my moods. Today, his usual formality carries a hint of curiosity.

“Prepare the blue room for our guest, Miss Bennett. She’ll be staying with us for the foreseeable future.” I run my finger alongthe polished mahogany of my desk, picturing the room with its sapphire silk drapes and antique Fabergé collection.

Anatoly nods, his expression unchanging. “Of course, sir. I’ll have Maria change the linens and refresh the flowers. The blue room overlooks the rose garden. Perhaps Miss Bennett would appreciate that view.”

I pause, considering it. The memory of her earlier defiance, that flash of spirit, suggests she needs more than just a gilded cage, no matter how luxurious. “Yes, and inform Chef Mikhail to prepare a special dinner tonight. I want both Russian specialties and some American dishes. Beef Stroganoff, perhaps, alongside a good old-fashioned steak. Something familiar for Miss Bennett.”

“Very good, sir.” Anatoly straightens his already impeccable posture. “I’ll speak with Mikhail about incorporating both cuisines. Would you prefer service in the formal dining room or the private alcove?”

“The alcove. No need to overwhelm her on her first night.”

“I’ll see to it immediately, sir,” says Anatoly with crisp efficiency. He executes a perfect about-face, his polished shoes pivoting on the gleaming marble floor without a sound. His movements are fluid, reminiscent of his military background.

As he glides away, I call out, “Anatoly?”

He halts mid-stride, turning back to face me with an expectant expression. “Yes, Mr. Rostova?”

“Did the items I ordered arrive today?” I ask, my tone casual but my interest keen.

A flicker of understanding crosses Anatoly’s face. “Indeed, they did, sir. As per your instructions, we’ve converted the smallest guestroom, the gray one, into a massage space. Everything is set up and ready for use.”

I nod, satisfied. “Very good. Carry on.”

Anatoly inclines his head respectfully before resuming his silent departure. I watch him disappear around the corner, then turn toward the grand staircase leading to my private quarters.

As I ascend, trailing my hand along the cool, polished banister, my thoughts drift again to Claire. I’m used to inspiring fear. It’s a tool of my trade, and as natural to me as breathing, but Claire’s fear gnaws at me, an uncomfortable sensation I can’t quite place.

Reaching the landing, I pause before a large window overlooking the manicured grounds. I loosen my tie, feeling inexplicably constricted.

“Why does her fear bother me so much?” I murmur to myself, my reflection in the window frowning back at me. The answer eludes me, slipping away like smoke through my fingers. With a shake of my head, I continue down the hallway to my rooms, determined to unravel this puzzle that is Claire Bennett.

I enter my bedroom and yank at my silk tie, the expensive fabric slipping through my fingers as I cross to the window. Through the wall of glass, with the blinds currently open, my estate unfolds like a master painting with its manicured gardens, stone fountains, and the long driveway lined with Italian cypress trees. All mine. All meaningless right now.

“Control,” I say, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. “Repayment. Business.” The words taste hollow on my tongue.“She’s just another debt to collect.” Even as I speak the lie, Claire’s face appears in my mind.

Running a hand down my face, I turn from the window. The manila folder on my nightstand draws my attention like a magnet. It contains identical copies to the information contained in the other folder I keep in my office. I pick it up, though I could recite its contents in my sleep.

Claire Bennett. Twenty-seven. Massage therapist. No criminal record. Outstanding student loans. Close relationship with her soon-to-be-incarcerated brother.

“Dammit.” I flip through the pages, but the black and white text fails to capture what I’ve witnessed firsthand, how she lifted her chin and stared me down in my own office, how her voice never faltered when she stood up to me, and how she eventually accepted my maneuvering with quiet grace.

I shouldn’t be doing this.

I slam the folder shut and toss it back on the nightstand. “She’s nothing more than her brother’s debt,” I tell the empty room, but the words ring false, even to my own ears.

I look at the report again, but its clinical facts feel hollow. “What makes you smile like that?” I whisper to her absent form. “What keeps you awake at night?” Questions I’d never bothered asking anyone before.

In the master bath, I hang my suit with mechanical precision. The shower hisses to life, filling the marble space with billowing steam. Hot water washes over my stiff shoulders, but my mind wanders to golden-flecked eyes and a voice that trembles yet never yields.

“Damn you, Claire,” I murmur, my voice rough with frustration. I brace one arm against the cool tile, feeling the smooth surface beneath my palm. Rivulets of hot water cascade down my back, but they do nothing to ease the fire burning inside me.

My other hand slides down my abdomen, muscles tensing beneath my touch. Fingers seek lower, desperate for relief from this maddening tension that’s been building since I first laid eyes on her. I grasp my cock with a grunt.

Behind closed eyelids, I see her as clearly as if she were standing before me. Those lush curves barely contained by whisper-soft silk, teasing and tempting. That stubborn mouth, usually set in defiance, finally yielding to mine in a passionate kiss. I speed up the pace of my hand, squeezing hard as though punishing myself for this stolen pleasure while yearning for it to be her mouth instead of my hand working my shaft.

“Claire.” I groan, her name catching in my throat as pleasure crests and breaks. My balls tighten, and I cum on the tile floor before the water swirls it down the drain. The intensity of it leaves me weak-kneed, sagging against the shower wall. Water pounds against my shoulders, but I barely notice, lost in the aftershocks and the lingering image of golden-flecked eyes.

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