Page 36 of The Mafia's Quadruplets

Jay nods, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I promise. No more secrets.”

As we prepare to leave, I have a nagging feeling there’s more to this story than Jay is letting on. The Petrovs aren’t known for their subtlety. If they were grooming him, it’s unlikely he would have been completely unaware. On the other hand, he’s demonstrated many times that he’s an idiot with poor judgment.

I guide her out of the room, resting my hand lightly on the small of her back. As we walk down the sterile hallway, I keep my voice low. “I hope he’s being honest.”

Claire looks up at me and nods. “Me too. Truthfully, I’m not sure he’s capable of full disclosure anymore. Is it naive of me to want to give him the benefit of the doubt?”

I nod, keeping my expression neutral. “Definitely, but I understand why you want to. We’ll just be cautious for now, right?” At her nod, I nod as well.

When we exit the county jail, the cool air hits us, a relief from the stuffy interior. She shivers slightly, and I resist the urge to pull her closer.

“I guess he won’t be here for long, huh? They’ll send him to prison somewhere after the plea deal?”

I nod. “Yes, though I don’t know where. Maybe I can pull some strings to ensure he serves his time at ‘Curran-FromholdCorrectional Facility,’ so he’s close enough for you and your parents to visit.”

She slides me a glance. “How much will that cost me?”

I glare at her. “Nothing. I’m occasionally capable of being nice.”

“Sorry. I’m just tense and shouldn’t take it out on you. I know you aren’t looking for ways to bind me to our agreement for longer.” She straightens her shoulders. “If you can arrange that, I’d appreciate it.”

I nod but don’t verbally reply. She’s wrong, after all. I’m getting so ensnared by this woman, who hasn’t even graced my bed, that I’d gladly latch on to any excuse to keep her with me for as long as possible. A dangerous thought in my world, but something about her makes me willing to be less risk-averse than usual.

13

Claire

Istare at the end-of-month statement, tracing my fingers over the neatly typed rows of numbers. Each massage session meticulously logged, with the hours credited as five hundred dollars per session against Jay’s debt. In the three weeks I’ve been here, I’ve made a dent, but it feels like I still have a long way to go. I’ve worked off ten thousand dollars, but that leaves seventy thousand to go.

The billing statement is so... clinical. Professional. I shouldn’t feel hurt by this, but a twinge of disappointment hits me.

What did I expect? A personal note? A thank you? I shake my head, chiding myself for such foolish thoughts. Valerian Rostova is a businessman, and a crime lord. Our arrangement is nothing more than a transaction.

Yet I can’t reconcile this cold, impersonal document with the man who comforted me about Jay, and who shared his own painful family history of his cousin’s addiction and death. TheValerian who kissed me with such passion it left me breathless seems so different than this statement of accounting suggests.

A knock at my door startles me from my musings. “Come in,” I call, hastily folding the statement and tucking it into a drawer.

Valerian enters, looking as impeccable as always in a charcoal suit that accentuates his broad shoulders. “I have a proposition for you.” His voice sends an involuntary flush of heat through me.

I raise an eyebrow warily. “Oh?”

He takes a seat across from me, leaning forward slightly. “There’s a community picnic tomorrow for foster children. I’d like you to accompany me.”

Of all the things I expected him to say, this wasn’t even on the list. “A picnic? For foster kids?”

Valerian nods, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“Honestly? Yes.” I study him, searching for some hidden motive. “Why do you want me there?” I narrow my eyes. “I’m not some cover so you can assassinate someone, am I?”

He blinks as if he’s trying to decide how to react to that. Outrage briefly flashes across his face followed by amusement. “No,” is all he says to that before shrugging. “I thought you might enjoy it, and...” He pauses, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his face. “I’d appreciate your company. No assassination planned.”

I’m torn. Part of me wants to refuse, to maintain the professional distance I’ve been struggling to keep. Another growing part is curious. What would Valerian be like outside of this mansion,away from his role as a feared crime boss? “Alright. I’ll go. Thanks.”

A genuine smile breaks across Valerian’s face, transforming his features. “Excellent. We’ll leave at ten a.m.”

As he exits, I’m left wondering what exactly I’ve gotten myself into. I have a hard time picturing him in such a relaxed, normal setting.

The next morningdawns bright and clear, a perfect day for a late spring picnic. I dress casually in jeans and a soft sweater, unsure what to expect. Valerian meets me in the foyer, and I’m struck by how different he looks in dark jeans and a navy pullover. More approachable and human.

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