Page 47 of The Mafia's Quadruplets

I force a smile. “I’m fine. Just... processing everything, I guess.”

Dad wraps an arm around my shoulders. “It’s a lot to take in, but Jay seems to be doing well, all things considered.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. How can I tell them about the man with the tattoos? About the danger I suspect Jay might be in? They’ve been through enough already.

If I tell them about thebratvatattoos, and how I know about them, that opens a new discussion they’ve avoided at my request—my arrangement with Valerian. They still don’t know I’m living with him in his penthouse and his Rittenhouse Square mansion, depending on his preference and schedule for the day. I don’t want to worry them, and I don’t want to explain how things have changed with Valerian either.

As we walk to the car, I’m worried that the worst isn’t over yet. Not by a long shot. The worry I thought would lift after seeing Jay, but didn’t, settles more firmly in my bones.

I climb into the backseat of the shop’s pickup truck that my parents are driving today, with Bloom House emblazoned on the driver and passenger doors. Should I tell Valerian about what I saw? Would he even care? Our relationship, if you can call it that, is complicated at best.

Mom turns in her seat to face me. “What do you think, Claire? Do you believe Jay when he says he’s doing okay?”

I hesitate, choosing my words carefully. “I think... I think he’s trying his best to make the most of a difficult situation.”

Dad nods approvingly. “That’s what I think. A good outlook will make it easier on him.”

I murmur an agreement, but as we pull out of the prison parking lot, I stare out the window at the imposing building. Somewhere inside those walls, my brother is facing who knows what kind of danger, and I’m powerless to help him.

17

Valerian

Weeks pass, and Claire remains a constant presence in my bed. Our nights are filled with passion, but the mornings bring uncertainty. We dance around the topic of what this means, both of us hesitant to define our relationship beyond the terms of our agreement.

Today, I sit at my desk, staring at the financial reports without really seeing them. My mind wanders to Claire, asleep in my bed upstairs. I shake my head, trying to focus on work.

A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. “Come in,” I call out.

Dmitri enters, a folder in his hand. “The latest intel on the Petrov situation, boss.”

I take the folder, flipping through its contents. “Any movement on their end?”

“Nothing concrete. They’re laying low, but our sources say they’re planning something big.”

I nod, processing the information. “Keep monitoring. I want to know the second anything changes.”

As Dmitri leaves, my thoughts drift back to Claire. The debt that brought her here is getting closer to paid off. Soon, she’ll have no reason to stay. The realization sends a jolt of panic through me.

I’ve fallen for her. Hard. The thought of her leaving makes my chest tighten, but I can’t tell her. I won’t risk the humiliation of her rejection or, worse, her pity.

Later that evening, I find Claire in the kitchen, preparing dinner. The domestic scene before me is so achingly normal, so far removed from my world of violence and power plays. For a moment, I allow myself to imagine a life where this is our reality.

“Smells good,” I say, leaning against the doorframe.

Claire turns, a smile lighting up her face. “I hope you like pasta primavera. I found some fresh vegetables at the farmer’s market today.”

I move closer, inhaling the aroma of garlic and herbs. “I’m sure it will be delicious.”

Our gazes meet, and the air between us crackles with unspoken tension. I want to pull her into my arms, to tell her how I feel. Instead, I reach past her to grab a wine glass from the cabinet.

“Red or white?” I ask, gesturing to the wine rack.

“White, I think. It’ll pair better with the pasta.”

As I pour the wine, I watch Claire out of the corner of my eye. She moves with grace around the kitchen, humming softly to herself. It’s moments like these that make me question everything I’ve built my life around.

We eat dinner at the kitchen island, and our conversation is light and easy. Claire tells me about her day, about the book she’s reading, about her plans to visit Jay again with her parents next week. I listen, soaking in every detail, committing it all to memory.

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