Page 42 of The Mafia's Quadruplets

I nod, only half-listening. My mind is already several steps ahead, mapping out strategies and contingencies. As we reach the office door, I turn to him. “I need you to double security for the next few weeks. Discreetly, and run extensive background checks on all new members and employees, no exceptions. I don’t care if it’s your mother. You probe deeply. Got it?”

Osto’s eyebrows rise slightly, but he knows better than to question my orders. “Of course, sir. Anything else?”

I pause, hand on the doorknob. “Yes. If anyone from the Petrov organization shows up, I want to know immediately. Day or night.”

“Understood.” A flicker of concern crosses his features. “Should I be worried, Mr. Rostova?”

I offer him a thin smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Not if you do your job, Osto.”

As I close the office door behind me, I allow myself a moment of stillness. The situation settles on me. The Petrov Syndicate wants me dead. If they discover her growing importance in my life, Claire risks being caught in the crossfire. Somewhere in the shadows, Matvey Petrov is plotting his next move.

I pour myself some Dewars and take a long sip before setting down the glass with more force than necessary and moving to gather reports I’ll review at home. There’s work to be done andplans to be made. I can’t afford distractions, no matter how tempting.

The next evening,I end another call with Yuri, frustration simmering beneath my calm exterior. His report was disappointingly sparse, citing the Petrovs’ use of military-grade encryption, but he promises to keep trying. It’s a setback, but not an insurmountable one. I’ll give him more time, but my patience has limits.

The dining room is quiet when I enter, the table set for two. Anatoly approaches with a slight bow. “Mr. Rostova, Miss Bennett has declined dinner this evening. She requested a tray be sent to her room.”

I frown. “Did she say why?”

Alexei shakes his head. “No, sir. She simply said she wasn’t feeling well.”

My mind races through possibilities. Is she upset about something? Trying to avoid me? I’ve grown accustomed to our shared meals, finding unexpected pleasure in her company. The thought of her sulking in her room irks me.

“I’ll speak with her,” I say, already moving toward the stairs. Moments later, I rap my knuckles against Claire’s door,. “Claire? It’s Valerian. May I come in?”

A muffled groan answers me. Concern overrides courtesy, and I open the door.

The sight that greets me is unexpected. Claire lies curled on her side, a heating pad pressed to her abdomen. Her face is pale, eyelids squeezed shut in obvious discomfort.

“Claire?” I step closer, my irritation evaporating. “What’s wrong?”

She cracks open one eye, managing a weak smile. “Nothing serious. Just...women’s issues.”

I blink, momentarily at a loss. This isn’t a situation I’ve encountered before. “Can I get you anything?”

Claire shifts, wincing. “I’m okay. It’s just a particularly bad month. PCOS makes things unpredictable sometimes.”

The unfamiliar acronym throws me. “PCOS?”

“Polycystic ovary syndrome. It can cause irregular periods, among other things. Sometimes infertility too, and my cycles have been changing lately. Probably stress.”

I nod, absorbing this new information. A quick internet search on my phone reveals more details about PCOS and its symptoms. It also suggests various ways to alleviate discomfort. “I’ll be right back,” I say, already formulating a plan.

In my office, I open a shopping app. I could have an employee do this, but I’m compelled to handle it personally for no explicable reason. Within an hour, a delivery arrives with an assortment of feminine hygiene products, pain relievers, and an array of chocolates. I return to Claire’s room, arms laden with supplies.

Claire’s eyes widen when I set down everything. “Valerian, what is all this?”

“I did some research,” I say, suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious. “I wasn’t sure what you might need, so I got...options.”

A small laugh escapes her, quickly followed by a wince. “This is enough for a women’s soccer team, but wow. Thank you.”

I arrange the items on her nightstand, oddly pleased by her reaction. “The heating pad seems to be helping. Would you like a massage for your lower back? The Internet says that can be helpful.”

Claire hesitates, then nods. “That would be nice, actually.”

I help her shift to a more comfortable position, then begin working my fingers along her lower back. The muscles are tense beneath my touch. “Is this okay?” I ask, aware of how intimate this moment feels.

“Mmhmm,” Claire murmurs. “That’s perfect.”

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