Page 6 of The Mafia's Quadruplets

“Let him dig.” I return to my desk. “The truth is buried too deeply.” If he turns up something, I won’t bother to deny it.

Dmitri nods and exits, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the lingering taste of whiskey. The night I killed Ansily Petrov plays through my mind—the warehouse, the rain, and three precise shots. No witnesses, no evidence. Just another tragic accident in a dangerous business unless Matvey can prove differently.

The phone on my desk buzzes. David’s voice comes through the speaker. “Sir, the latest figures from the docks show a fifteen percent decrease in revenue since last quarter.”

“Send me the full report.” I pick up Claire’s photograph again. “And David? Get me everything you can on the Rossi family’s current shipping contracts.”

“Of course, sir.” He doesn’t waste time with a parting, and the line goes dead a second later.

I move toward the minibar in my kitchen. The city lights of Philadelphia twinkle beyond the huge windows. I pour another splash of Dewars and take a small sip, savoring the amber liquid.

My thoughts are too full of Claire Bennett. I tell myself it’s just business, that collecting this debt is no different from any other, but deep down, I know better.

I return to my desk, setting down the glass with a soft clink. The ledger lies open before me, Jay Bennett’s name evidence of promises broken and debts unpaid. I trace the edge of the page, a habit I’ve developed over years of making difficult decisions.

“Dmitri,” I call out, knowing he’s never far.

The door opens a moment later, and he steps inside. “Boss?”

“I’ve changed my mind. It’s time to collect from the Bennetts,” I say, my voice steady despite the turmoil in my gut. “Bring me Claire.”

Dmitri nods, his expression neutral. “When?”

I consider for a moment. “Tomorrow. First thing.”

As Dmitri leaves to carry out my orders, I turn back to the window. The city sprawls before me. I’ve spent years building my empire, carefully maneuvering each piece into place. Yet now, faced with the prospect of meeting Claire Bennett, I feel something unfamiliar stirring within me.

Something dangerous.

I roll my shoulders, trying to ease the tension that’s settled there. My muscles ache from the constant vigilance required to maintain my position. I press my fingers into the knot at the base of my neck, working at it absently while I contemplate my next move.

Life’s gotten a bit stale lately, I realize. The thrill of the game has dulled, replaced by routine and predictability. Perhaps that’s why the idea of meeting Claire intrigues me so. She represents something new, an unknown variable in my carefully controlled world.

Something soft and sweet in the stiff bitterness of my reality.

Something I can sink my teeth into.

I drain the last of my whiskey, relishing the warmth that spreads through my chest. It’s time to shake things up, to remind myself and everyone else why I’m the one in control.

Returning to my desk, my gaze once again falls on the stack of photos spread across my desk, the Bennett family coming to life before me. Candid shots of their daily routines and glimpses into a world so far removed from my own. The worst darkness to have touched their lives seems to be the burden of Jay’s addiction.

I pick up the well-handled photo that’s my favorite one of Claire, studying it more closely. There’s something about her that draws me, a warmth that seems to radiate even from this frozen moment in time.

Tomorrow, I’ll meet her face to face, and the thought sends a thrill through my body…

And a bulge in my pants.

3

Claire

The sharp trill of my phone pierces through the gentle afternoon hush of Bloom House, making me jump and scatter rose petals across the wooden counter. The screen illuminates with Jay’s name, accompanied by a photo of us from happier times, his arm slung around my shoulders, both of us grinning at the beach. My fingers tremble slightly as I swipe to answer the call, the knot of anxiety tightening my gut.

There’s always something with him, some kind of reason. He’s never just calling to see how I’m doing.

“Claire?” Jay’s voice crackles through the speaker, thick with emotion and tinged with that particular tone I’ve come to recognize, the one that signals another crisis. “I messed up. I messed up bad.” His words quiver like autumn leaves in the wind, each syllable heavy with regret.

My stomach plummets as if I’ve missed a step going downstairs, the sensation so visceral I have to grip the counter’s edge. The sweet scent of lilies suddenly feels cloying, suffocating. “Whatdid you do?” The words escape in a whisper, though I already sense the magnitude of what’s coming.

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