Chapter 5 #2
“There are also these items.” Woods produces a sealed envelope with my name written in Henri’s careful script. “They are personal effects he wanted you to have.”
Inside, there I are Henri’s gold thimble he’d worn for forty years of professional tailoring, and a letter that makes my throat close with grief I thought I’d processed.
Ma petite, the letter begins in Henri’s elegant handwriting, if you are reading this, then I am gone, and you must make difficult choices I hoped to spare you from making at least for many years.
The rest details Henri’s awareness of his business arrangements with Iskander, his careful protection of my ignorance, and his faith that I’m strong enough to handle whatever truth emerges after his death.
He doesn’t apologize for keeping secrets, but he explains them with the gentle honesty that characterized our entire relationship.
Trust your instincts, the letter concludes. Trust Iskander, who is a good man despite being in a bad business, and remember that family is not always blood, but always choice. You were my daughter in every way that mattered. All my love, Henri.
I fold the letter and tuck it into my purse alongside the thimble. “What happens if I refuse the inheritance?”
His expression suggests this possibility hadn’t occurred to him. “I suppose the business would revert to Mr. Taranov’s control, though Henri’s will specifically states his desire for you to continue his legacy.”
Continue his legacy. That responsibility settles across my shoulders like Henri’s old wool coat, feeling heavy, protective, and carrying the scent of everything I’ve lost. My phone buzzes with a text from Harper: You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. It’s not too late to walk away.
I send back a thumbs up emoji, knowing it is too late. It’s been too late since the moment Henri chose to step between a bullet and my heart. Running away now would make his sacrifice meaningless, and I refuse to dishonor the man who gave me everything worth having in my life.
“I accept all of it.” In minutes, I’m signing documents that bind me to a world I don’t fully understand.
He nods approvingly and begins organizing the papers when I hand them back to him. “Mr. Taranov will be pleased. He’s been quite concerned about the shop’s transition.”
As if summoned by mention of his name, the front door chimes again.
Iskander’s presence fills the showroom even before he appears in the office doorway, wearing another perfectly tailored suit and an expression I can’t read.
“Miss Reynolds.” His voice carries the same controlled tone I remember from our fabric selection session—professional courtesy masking deeper currents.
“I wasn’t expecting to find you here so soon. ”
“Where else would I be?” The question emerges sharper than intended. “This is my shop now.”
Something flickers in his gray eyes, but his expression remains neutral. “Of course. I simply thought you might need more time to recover from recent events.”
“You mean recover from finding you gone when I woke up in your house?” The words slip out before I can stop them, revealing hurt I shouldn’t feel about a man I barely know.
Woods clears his throat diplomatically. “Perhaps I should give you both privacy to discuss business matters.”
He gathers his documents and retreats to the showroom, leaving Iskander and me alone in Henri’s office with tension thick enough to cut with tailor’s shears.
“I thought you’d want space,” he says, closing the door behind Woods’s departure. “Most people prefer distance after witnessing violence.”
“Most people don’t inherit criminal enterprises from their murdered father figures.” I stand and move to Henri’s fabric wall, running my fingers along samples that represent years of careful curation. “Apparently, I’m not most people.”
“No.” His voice drops to something intimate and dangerous. “You’re not.”
I turn to face him, noting how he’s positioned himself between me and the door. Not threatening, exactly, but controlling the space with the same authority he projected during our first meeting.
“So what happens now?” I gesture toward the legal documents Woods left behind. “Do you explain how money laundering works, or do I figure it out through trial and error?”
“I’ll explain whatever you need to know.” He moves closer, and I catch that familiar scent of cedar and bergamot that accompanied my dreams all week. “First, we need to discuss security.”
“Security?”
“The men who killed Henri won’t be the last. Mikhail Balakin won’t stop targeting this shop simply because we eliminated one team of soldiers.” His expression grows grim. “He’ll send more, and they’ll be better prepared next time.”
The casual way he discusses future assassination attempts makes me shudder. “What do you recommend? Armed guards? Metal detectors?”
“Reasonable precautions, but more importantly, you need to understand the rules of the world you’ve just entered.
” He produces a folder from his jacket and sets it on Henri’s desk.
“This file contains bank account numbers, contact information, security protocols. It’s everything Henri kept from you. ”
I open the folder and stare at financial statements that make my head spin.
There are hundreds of thousands of dollars flowing through accounts I’ve never seen, transactions labeled with codes I don’t recognize, and a parallel business structure operating beneath the surface of legitimate tailoring.
“I never handled the books, so this is overwhelming.” Henri employed a bookkeeper for the past few years, and I realize why. It was probably part of the deal he made with Iksander.
“It’s supposed to be.” He moves to stand beside me so closely I can feel heat from his body. “Henri managed this complexity for three years with some assistance. You’ll learn.”
“What if I don’t want to learn?” I close the folder and step back, needing distance from his proximity and the way it makes my pulse race. “What if I decide this is too dangerous, too complicated, and too morally compromising?”
His smile lacks warmth. “You’ll discover that’s impossible.”
The threat is subtle but unmistakable. I’ve inherited more than Henri’s business. I’ve also inherited his obligations, his enemies, and his entanglement with a man whose gray eyes promise protection and possession in equal measure. “Are you threatening me?”
“I’m stating facts.” He reaches past me to retrieve the folder, brushing his arm against mine in a contact that sends electricity racing through my nervous system. “You own seventy-five percent of a money laundering operation. That makes you a target whether you participate actively or not.”
I shake my head, disbelieving it’s come to this. “So, my choices are cooperate or…what, die?”
He rolls his eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic. Your choices are to cooperate or sell me the business and have nothing more to do with it.” He trails his fingers along my wrist as he pulls back, the touch feeling deliberate . “I know which option Henri would have wanted for you.”
The mention of Henri’s preferences ignites anger I’ve been suppressing all week. “Don’t you dare use him to manipulate me.”
“I’m not manipulating anything.” Iskander’s voice hardens. “I’m trying to keep you alive long enough to consider Henri’s legacy and make informed decisions.”
“By controlling every aspect of those decisions?” I shove against his chest, needing him to back away before I do something stupid like cry or kiss him or both. “By deciding what information I can handle and when I can handle it?”
He doesn’t retreat. Instead, he catches my wrists, holding them against his chest, where I feel his heart beating steadily beneath expensive fabric. “By protecting you from threats you don’t understand yet.”
“I don’t need protection. I need honesty.”
“It’s the same thing right now, Willa.”
The space between us crackles with tension from the way his thumb traces circles against my pulse point. I should pull away to maintain professional distance, vaguely recalling Harper’s warnings about dangerous men and the women foolish enough to want them.
Instead, I stare at the sharp line of his jaw, the way his lips curve when he’s not trying to intimidate someone, and the flecks of darker gray in his eyes that seem to see straight through every defense I’ve constructed. “This is a mistake,” I whisper.
“Yes,” he agrees, and then his mouth is on mine.
The kiss burns through every rational thought I’ve had about maintaining boundaries.
He releases my wrists to cup my face, tilting my head to deepen the contact while he presses me back against Henri’s fabric wall.
I taste coffee and something headier that makes me want to forget every rule I’ve ever made about self-preservation.
For a few scorching seconds, I kiss him back with abandon that terrifies me.
I fist my hands in his jacket, pulling him closer while heat races through my bloodstream like alcohol or poison.
The sensation of his tongue against mine makes me dizzy with want I shouldn’t feel for a man whose world just destroyed mine.
Then sanity reasserts itself, and I tear away from his mouth with a gasp that sounds obscene in the sudden silence. “I can’t.” The words emerge breathless and unconvincing. “I can’t afford to want you.”
His eyes darken to charcoal as he studies my face, reading every emotion I’m failing to hide. “Can’t, or won’t?”
“Does it matter?”
“It matters more than you know.” He steps back but doesn’t break eye contact, his expression promising things I don’t want to examine too closely. “This isn’t finished, Willa.”
Then he’s gone, leaving me alone with legal documents and the lingering scent of cedar that seems to permeate everything now.
I press my fingers to my lips, still feeling the heat of his mouth against mine, and realize with crystal clarity that Harper was right about one thing.
I’m trapped in Iskander’s world now, whether I want to be or not.
The only question is whether I’ll survive long enough to escape it… or if I’ll even want to by then.