The Mafia’s Septuplets

Chapter 1

Willa

I have a very bad feeling about this.

The rain hammers against the windows of Maison Laurent like an impatient customer demanding attention.

I thread the needle with ease, even as the storm outside mirrors the tension coiling in my shoulders.

The grandfather clock in the corner chimes eight-thirty, and I should have locked the door an hour ago, but Mr. Richardson insisted on a late fitting, and Henri always taught me that client service comes first.

“This is completely unacceptable.” Richardson’s voice cuts through the quiet shop like a blade. He stands before the three-way mirror in his half-fitted jacket, his face flushed with indignation. “I specifically requested the finest Italian wool, not this...discount fabric.”

I keep my expression neutral as I adjust the shoulder seam. “Sir, this is Ermenegildo Zegna, the same fabric you approved three weeks ago.”

“Don’t lecture me about fabric quality, girl.” He jerks away from my touch, nearly causing me to prick him with the pin. “I’ve been buying suits longer than you’ve been alive.”

The words sting, but I’ve heard worse. At twenty-eight, I’ve spent twelve years perfecting my craft under Henri’s guidance. Every stitch, every measurement, and every detail matters to me. This shop isn’t just my workplace but my sanctuary, and the only place I’ve ever belonged.

“Of course, sir.” I retrieve my measuring tape and step back. “Perhaps we could schedule another appointment to discuss alternatives?”

“Alternatives?” His laugh holds no humor. “The wedding is in five days. You think I have time for alternatives?”

I maintain my composure despite the way he towers over me.

Richardson stands at least six feet tall, and he’s using every inch to intimidate me.

The scent of his expensive cologne mingles with something sharper, like alcohol, maybe, or just the particular brand of entitlement that money breeds in certain people.

“I understand your concern.” I keep my voice steady. “However, the jacket fits beautifully. The fabric drapes exactly as intended, and the color complements your complexion perfectly.”

“You’re arguing with me?” His face darkens. “I’m paying you, which means I’m right.”

Actually, he hasn’t paid yet. The deposit covered materials, but the balance remains outstanding. I don’t mention this fact, though Henri’s lessons about diplomacy ring in my ears. Kill them with kindness, petite, even when they don’t deserve it.

“I’m not arguing, sir. I simply want to ensure you’re completely satisfied with the final product.

” I fold my hands in front of me, a gesture that projects calm while hiding the tremor from irritation showing in my fingers.

“Would you like me to explain the construction details? Sometimes, understanding the craftsmanship helps clients appreciate?—”

“Craftsmanship?” Richardson snorts. “This is amateur work at best. I could get better quality from Men’s Wearhouse.”

The insult hits its mark, but I don’t flinch.

I’ve poured weeks into this suit, putting in hand-sewn buttonholes, a carefully shaped canvas, and meticulous attention to every proportion.

It’s some of my finest work, and we both know it.

“I’m sorry you’re unsatisfied.” The words taste bitter. “What would you like me to do?”

“Take five hundred off the price. Consider it compensation for my disappointment.”

Five hundred dollars. Nearly my entire commission for this piece. I think of my rent, due in three days, and the electric bill sitting unopened on my kitchen counter. “I’ll need to discuss that with Henri?—”

“Henri isn’t here.” Richardson steps closer, and I catch a stronger whiff of whiskey on his breath. “It’s just you and me, sweetheart, so what’s it going to be?”

The endearment makes my skin crawl. I take a step back, bumping into the fitting platform. The shop suddenly feels smaller, like the walls are pressing in as Richardson advances. “Sir, I really think we should wait for Henri to return?—”

“I think you should stop making excuses.” His voice drops to something that might pass for seductive if it weren’t so predatory. “A pretty little thing like you should know how to keep customers happy.”

I shudder at his inference. I’ve dealt with difficult clients before, but this crosses a line. Henri trained me well in many things, but not in handling men who mistake vulnerability for invitation. “Please step back.” I try to project authority, but my voice wavers. “I need space to work.”

Instead of retreating, he reaches for my arm. “Maybe we can work out a different kind of arrangement?—”

“I suggest you remove your hand. Now.”

The voice that cuts through the tension belongs to someone else entirely. It’s deep, gravelly, and carries an authority that makes Richardson freeze mid-motion. I turn toward the source and find a stranger standing just inside the shop’s entrance.

He’s taller than Richardson, with dark hair and the kind of bone structure that belongs on magazine covers. His suit is impeccable, clearly custom, and seems to be one of Henri’s creations. It’s his expression that really captures my attention, being frigid and dangerous.

Richardson’s hand falls away from my arm, though he still tries to bluster his way through by speaking in a haughty tone. “This is a private fitting?—”

“Not anymore.” The stranger’s accent holds traces of something Eastern European, though his English is flawless. He doesn’t raise his voice but somehow fills the entire space with quiet menace. “The lady asked you to step back.”

“Now listen here?—”

“No.” The stranger moves deeper into the shop with fluid grace. “You listen. You will apologize to the lady and pay your bill in full, plus a generous tip for her trouble. Only then, will you leave.”

Richardson puffs up like an indignant rooster. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

The stranger doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he removes his coat, hanging it on the brass hook by the door. The gesture seems casual, but there’s something in the way he moves that suggests power lurks just beneath the surface.

“Someone who doesn’t tolerate disrespect.” His tone remains conversational, but the temperature in the room plummets. “Especially toward women who are simply doing their jobs.”

I watch this exchange with fascination and growing unease. The stranger commands attention effortlessly, but there’s something predatory in his stillness. He’s like a wolf deciding whether to play with its prey or simply devour it.

Richardson seems to reach the same conclusion.

His braggadocio crumbles under that unwavering stare, and he fumbles for his wallet.

“Fine. Here’s your money.” He throws cash on the cutting table, and it’s a lot more than he owes, I realize with surprise, not having actually expected a tip. “I assure you, I won’t be coming back.”

“Good.” The stranger’s smile doesn’t reach his pale gray eyes. “I’m sure there are plenty of establishments that cater to men of your...particular standards.”

The insult is subtle but unmistakable. Richardson’s face flushes crimson, but he doesn’t challenge it. Instead, he strips off the jacket and tosses it onto a nearby chair.

“This place is finished anyway.” He straightens his shirt with shaking hands. “Overpriced and overrated.”

Neither the stranger nor I respond, though I make motions to pick up the suit jacket, planning to wrap it and give him his order.

He sneers. “Donate it to the poor. They might find it acceptable.”

I don’t say anything or try to give him the suit again.

I, along with my rescuer, simply wait as Richardson gathers his things and storms toward the door.

He pauses at the threshold, perhaps considering a parting shot, but one look at the stranger’s face sends him into the rainy night without another word.

The silence that follows feels heavy. I’m alone with a man I don’t know, in a shop that suddenly feels very isolated. The stranger turns his attention to me, and I resist the urge to step backward.

“Are you all right?” His voice is softer now, though no less commanding.

“Yes. Thank you.” I begin gathering the scattered pins from the floor, needing something to do with my hands. “You didn’t have to intervene.”

“He was bothering you.”

“I could have handled it.” The lie comes out sharper than intended.

“I’m sure you could have.” There’s amusement in his voice now. “You shouldn’t have to, but I’m certain you can take care of yourself.”

I risk a glance at his face and find him watching me with unsettling intensity. His features are sharp and aristocratic, with bone structure that speaks of good genetics and probably better nutrition. He’s focused on me like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve.

“I’m Iskander Taranov.” He extends a hand.

I hesitate before accepting it. His grip is firm, warm, and entirely professional. “Willa Reynolds.”

“A pleasure, Miss Reynolds.” He releases my hand but doesn’t step back. “I assume you work here?”

“I do.” I smooth my skirt, suddenly conscious of my appearance. “Are you looking for Henri? He stepped out, but I expect him back soon.”

“Actually, I was hoping to schedule a fitting.” His smile transforms his face completely, replacing the cold authority with something far more dangerous to my senses, which is obvious charm. “Henri mentioned he had an exceptional tailor on staff.”

Heat creeps up my neck. “He’s very generous with his praise.”

“Is he?” He tilts his head slightly. “Or simply accurate?”

Before I can formulate a response, the front door chimes again. Henri appears in the doorway, shaking rain from his umbrella and muttering something in French about the weather.

“Ah, Monsieur Taranov.” He spots Iskander immediately, and his entire demeanor brightens. “You’re early. I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

“Not at all.” Iskander’s attention shifts to Henri, but I sense his awareness of me hasn’t diminished. “Miss Reynolds has been taking excellent care of me.”