Page 1 of The Mafia's Quintuplets
1
Mak
“The Kazanov family is getting too bold, and I think you should know about it,” Fedor says, sliding a folder across my desk. “They’ve moved three dealers into our territory on the west side.”
I don’t immediately reach for it. Instead, I stare at the Manhattan skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office. Forty stories up, the city looks so peaceful, just orderly grids of light and shadow, with the occasional patch of green.
“Did you hear me, Mak?” Fedor leans forward, his thick eyebrows pulling together like they had strings attached. “This is the second time this month. It’s serious.”
“I heard you,” I grumble, finally taking the folder and flipping it open. Inside are surveillance photos of young men on street corners. They’re boys, really, trying too hard to look tough in their designer knockoffs and pathetic gold chains. Expendable pawns sent to test my boundaries.
I let out a sigh. “Have Leonid handle it. The usual message.”
Fedor chuckles, the sound devoid of actual humor. “Broken fingers or broken kneecaps?”
“Fingers first. We’re civilized, after all.” I close the folder and toss it aside, already bored with the conversation. These territorial disputes used to get my blood pumping. The complex game of power, respect, and terror. Now, they’re just tedious administrative details, problems with obvious solutions that don’t deserve my personal attention.
I’ve grown up, but the mafia world is still in its infancy.
“The Eclipse acquisition is moving forward. The sale will be final as soon as you sign the paperwork, and only then will the Kazanovs learn it’s a done deal,” Fedor continues, undeterred by my disinterest. “Once we control that nightclub, we’ll have locked down the entire Meatpacking District. That’s perfect for expanding our distribution network and laundering operations.” His eyes gleam with enthusiasm that I can’t help but to envy. How exciting this must all be to him.
“The paperwork is on top of the pile.” I gesture to the stack of documents awaiting my signature. “I’ll review it tonight.”
He studies me with narrowed eyes. We share the same Vorobev blood, cousins who grew up more like brothers in this merciless business, but lately, I sense he’s growing frustrated with me. He rubs his chin, studying me like I’m that easy to read. “You seem distracted these days. Is something troubling you?”
There is something. Well… everything, really.
Everythingis troubling me, though I can’t articulate exactly why. I’ve achieved everything my father said mattered. Territory, respect, power, and wealth. The Vorobev name makes men tremble throughout the five boroughs, and yet I feel nothing but a creeping emptiness, a sense that I’m merely going through motions established by men long dead.
Is this all there is?
“I’m fine,” I blurt, swiveling my chair to face the window again, dismissing Fedor’s concerns.
Fedor sighs, but gets the message and doesn’t press the issue further. “The captains are waiting for direction on the Colombian shipment. Should I tell them you’ll join the meeting, or shall I handle it?”
“Handle it.” I wave my hand without turning around. “Use the usual routes with increased security on the docks. Nothing flashy.”
I listen to him walk to the door, but he doesn’t leave. He lingers there, his heavy breathing a giveaway of his presence. “You know, Mak, your father would never have delegated something so important.”
I turn slowly, fixing him with the stare that’s made hardened criminals confess their sins unprompted. “My father is dead. I’m not. You decide who makes better decisions.”
Fedor’s jaw tightens. He nods once and leaves, closing the door behind him with deliberate softness that somehow communicates his disapproval more effectively than a slam would have.
Alone again, I loosen the silk tie that suddenly feels like it’s trying to hang me.
My father ruled through brutality, each act of violence precisely calibrated to maximize terror. I learned his lessons well. Perhaps too well. Now, at thirty-six, I rule an empire built on blood and fear, and I’m suffocating within it.
I check my watch, and it’s nearly seven. Zina will be waiting for me.
I stand, shrugging into my tailored jacket and adjusting my cufflinks, which are platinum with the Vorobev family crest etched into them. They were a gift from my father on my sixteenth birthday, the same day he handed me a gun and ordered me to kill for the first time.
I push away the memory. It felt more like a gang initiation than the prestigious event he made it out to be.
As I leave, I find the hallway to be empty and quiet. My staff knows better than to linger after hours unless explicitly instructed. Two guards fall into step behind me as I approach the elevator, maintaining a respectful distance.
The private elevator descends directly to the underground garage where my driver, Pavel, stands at attention beside a black Maybach. He opens the door without a word, face carefully blank. I slide into the leather interior, inhaling the scent of power and isolation.
“Home,” I instruct Pavel. “Dinner with Zina tonight.”
