Chapter 4 #2
He’s right, and we both know it. Everything about this situation violates the careful rules I’ve established for survival in our world.
Don’t get personally involved with civilians, don’t let protective instincts override tactical judgment, don’t confuse business partnerships with romantic entanglements, and never trust blindly.
I’ve broken every one of those rules in the span of a single evening.
“Clean this up,” I say, settling behind the wheel. “Make it look like a robbery gone wrong. Henri Laurent died defending his shop from common criminals and nothing more.”
“What about the girl?”
“She comes with me.”
“Iskander—”
“She comes with me.” Steel enters my voice when I switch to the tone I use when discussion ends and orders begin. “That’s not negotiable.”
He accepts the decision without further argument, though his expression suggests we’ll revisit this conversation privately. He understands chain of command, but he also recognizes when personal interest compromises professional judgment.
Right now, I don’t care about his concerns.
I start the engine and pull into Charleston’s late-night traffic, hyperaware of every vehicle that follows too closely or takes too many turns in our direction. Paranoia keeps people alive in my business, but it also transforms simple actions like driving home into calculated risks.
“What happens now?” Willa stares out the passenger window at the city flowing past.
“Now you learn to survive in a world Henri tried to keep you from seeing.” I turn onto the highway leading to my estate, mentally reviewing security protocols that will need immediate revision. “It won’t be easy.”
“Will it be honest?”
The question surprises me. I expected tears, denials, or demands to contact police or lawyers. Just normal civilian responses to abnormal circumstances. Instead, she’s asking for truth from the man whose world just destroyed hers.
“More honest than anything you’ve known before.” I accelerate past a late-night delivery truck, noting how its driver avoids eye contact. “Henri protected you with lies of omission. I won’t have that luxury.”
“Because I inherit the shop.”
“Because you inherit everything that comes with it.” I glance at her profile, noting the way grief and understanding war across her features. “Including enemies you never knew existed.”
She falls silent for several miles, processing everything I can’t fully explain without destroying what remains of her innocence. When she finally speaks, her voice carries a determination that makes something primal stir in my chest. “Henri died protecting me.”
“Yes.”
“And you killed the men who shot him.” There’s a note of gratitude there, and perhaps an even darker note, like glee, for a second.
“Yes.”
“Then I suppose we understand each other.”
I study her reflection in the passenger window, seeing steel beneath the grief and shock. She’s stronger than I initially realized, which makes her infinitely more dangerous. Right now though, she needs care, not being overwhelmed with all the truths of my world.
My phone buzzes with updates from Timur, confirming local authorities are responding to reports of gunfire at Maison Laurent.
The cover story is already in motion. Henri Laurent died defending his shop from common criminals, and there will be nothing left behind to suggest organized crime or international vendettas.
Willa hasn’t spoken since we left the shop.
Her breathing has steadied, but I recognize the signs of someone holding themselves together through sheer will.
The adrenaline crash will hit soon, and when it does, she’ll need medical attention.
I want to ensure she isn’t injured anyway.
There is no bleeding that I see, but she could be bleeding internally if she was hurt.
I turn onto the private road leading to my estate, passing through security gates that recognize my vehicle’s transponder.
The antebellum mansion rises from manicured grounds like something from a different century, all white columns and gracious proportions.
It’s designed to project old Southern wealth, the kind that comes from generations of careful cultivation rather than recent acquisition.
“Where are we?” She sounds distant and detached.
“Somewhere safe.” I park near the main entrance and kill the engine. “My home.”
She doesn’t protest when I help her from the car, which worries me more than resistance would. Henri’s blood still stains her clothes, and her skin feels cold despite the mild night air. Shock is setting in properly now, and it can be dangerous if left untreated.
Inside, the house maintains its careful illusion of Southern gentility with antique furniture, oil paintings, and expensive Persian rugs. Everything chosen to suggest old money and older values, nothing to hint at the violence that funds this lifestyle.
I guide Willa to the main sitting room, settling her on a leather sofa that probably belonged to some long-dead plantation owner. She perches on the edge like she might flee at any moment, though I suspect she lacks the energy for dramatic escapes.
“I’m calling Dr. Volkov,” I say, already reaching for my phone. “He needs to examine you to make sure you weren’t injured in the chaos.”
“I’m fine.” The protest lacks conviction.
“You’re in shock, not fine. There’s a difference.”
Dr. Volkov arrives within twenty minutes, carrying a medical bag.
He’s served our organization for years, since I helped his son out of a drugs charge when the kid was caught at a buy.
Dr. Volkov whisked him to rehab, and I paid the cops to omit his son’s name from the files.
He understood the cost was service and discretion as needed but was surprised to learn I’d still be paying him generously for his work.
He’s a former military surgeon who asks no questions and keeps no records except in his memory, which is exactly the kind of professional my world requires.
His examination is thorough but gentle, checking Willa for injuries while monitoring her vital signs and psychological state. I watch from across the room, noting how she submits to his ministrations without complaint.
“She’s physically unharmed,” he says quietly to me afterward, “But there’s severe psychological trauma, as expected. Her pulse is elevated, and her blood pressure is concerning. I’d recommend mild sedation to help her sleep tonight.”
I frown. “Is that necessary?”
“Unless you want her collapsing from exhaustion tomorrow, yes.” He prepares a mild tranquilizer. “She needs rest to process what she’s experienced.”
I nod my agreement, and he moves over to her again, needle in hand. Willa accepts the injection without argument, which tells me more about her condition than any medical assessment could. Within minutes, the tension starts leaving her shoulders, and her breathing deepens.
“The guest suite,” I tell Alina, my housekeeper, who appears with characteristic efficiency. “Make sure she has everything she needs.”
I help Willa upstairs to a room decorated in soft blues and creams. There’s nothing threatening or masculine about the space. She sits on the bed’s edge while I remove her shoes, noting how the sedative is already taking effect.
“Henri’s really gone,” she murmurs, more to herself than to me as her eyes droop heavily.
“Yes.”
“Those men came because of you?” It’s difficult to tell if it’s a question or a statement, but there’s certainly a note of accusation, so she must already know the answer.
The allegation hangs between us, though her tone lacks the anger I probably deserve. “Yes.”
She nods slowly, as if confirming something she already suspected. “I should hate you.”
“You probably should.”
“I guess I don’t.” She meets my gaze with surprising clarity despite the medication. “Henri told me to trust you.”
I keep my tone gentle. “Henri was a good man who didn’t always make the safest choices.”
“Maybe.” She lies back against the pillows, her eyelashes almost on her cheeks now. “He was never wrong about people though.”
I watch her drift toward sleep, struck by how young and vulnerable she looks without the armor of professional competence and the distance she usually puts on around me.
I wish I were seeing this vulnerability in much different circumstances, and a pang of grief hits me as I think about not seeing Henri again.
As I turn to leave, her voice stops me at the threshold.
“Iskander?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you for protecting me.” The words are almost impossible to hear from more than few feet away.
I close the door softly and stand in the hallway for several minutes, processing emotions I don’t entirely understand. Protection and possession are separated by lines thinner than most people realize, and Henri’s dying words have placed me squarely on the wrong side of that boundary.
Tomorrow, Willa will wake up and remember that her mentor is dead, she’s inherited a business she never knew was criminal, and I’m the reason Henri died protecting her.
She’ll probably want to leave and return to whatever safety she can salvage from her old life. The smart thing would be to let her go.
The thought should comfort me, but instead, it sends something cold and possessive through my chest. Timur’s warning echoes in my mind about protection becoming obsession and business becoming personal.
Tonight, I’ve broken every rule I’ve ever drawn for myself. The only question now is whether I’ll have the strength to rebuild them when morning comes.