Page 30 of The Mafia's Quintuplets
"I can keep you safe," he insists, his voice hardening with conviction. "My home is the safest place for you and our children."
"They're not 'our' children," I snap, fear transforming into fury. "You contributed genetic material during a one-night stand. That doesn't make you a father."
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes, but I'm too angry to care. I gesture wildly around my apartment, at the life I've built for myself.
"Do you think I want that kind of life for my babies? Growing up surrounded by bodyguards and bulletproof glass? Learning that their father solves problems with violence and intimidation? That's not a childhood. That's a prison sentence."
"You don't understand the danger?—"
"No, you don't understand." I cut him off, my hands shaking with emotion. "I'm a NICU nurse. I spend my days fighting for the smallest, most vulnerable lives. I won't bring my children into a world where violence is normalized and their father's business puts targets on their backs."
I think of my tiny patients, the premature babies I've cared for over the years. Their struggles are already enormous without adding the complications of a dangerous family background. How many times have I seen infants born to parents involved in drugs or violence? How many times have I silently judged those parents for the choices that put their children at risk before they even took their first breath?
"Wil, be reasonable." His voice remains frustratingly calm, which only fuels my anger. "You can't protect five babies alone."
"I want nothing from you," I say, my voice dropping. "No money, no protection. Nothing except to be left alone to raise my children far away from whatever bloody business you're involved in."
I back toward the door, reaching behind me for the handle. "I want you to leave. Now."
He doesn't move. "We need to discuss this rationally. Think about what's best for the babies."
"I am thinking about what's best for them." My voice rises despite my effort to control it. "A life free from fear and violence is what's best for them. A normal childhood is what's best for them."
"There's no normal childhood possible now." His accent thickens slightly with emotion. "The moment you became pregnant with my children, normal ceased to be an option. I have a right to know my own children."
Something in me snaps at his presumption. Who is he to talk about rights when he's violated my privacy so thoroughly? "Get out!" I yank open the door, pointing into the hallway. "Get out before I call the police."
For a long moment, he stares at me, and I wonder if he'll refuse. Will he show his true colors and force his way into my life the way he forced his way into my apartment? Instead, he takes a step toward the door, pausing just before crossing the threshold.
"This isn't over, Willemina." His voice is low, almost gentle despite the implicit threat. "I'll give you time to process, but we will speak again. The safety of our children isn't negotiable to me."
The moment he steps into the hallway, I slam the door with enough force to rattle the frames on my walls. The sound is satisfying in its finality, a physical manifestation of the boundary I've just established.
My legs give out as the adrenaline crashes, and I slide to the floor with my back against the door. Tears I was holding back begin to fall, leaving hot tracks down my cheeks as the full weight of the situation crashes over me.
Through the solid wood, I hear him remain motionless for several long moments. I hold my breath, wondering if he'll knock again and demand re-entry. Finally, his footsteps retreat down the hallway, growing fainter until I can no longer hear them.
I wrap my arms around my middle, a futile protective gesture. The father of my children is a Mafia boss. The reality feels absurd, like something from a bad movie, but the fear coursing through me is painfully real.
What do I do now? How do I protect five babies from a world I know nothing about? How do I keep them safe from their own father and the dangers that surround him?
I think of my own childhood, of growing up with just my mother in our small house with the beautiful garden. It wasn't perfect—we struggled financially after Dad left—but it was peaceful. Safe. Filled with love rather than fear. That's what I want for my children, not bulletproof windows and security details. Not a father whose hands might be stained with blood.
The memory of my mother's garden brings a fresh wave of grief. She would have known what to do. She always did. When my father walked out on us, she picked up the pieces and created a stable, loving home. When money was tight, she found ways to make ends meet without ever letting me feel the strain. When cancer came for her, she faced it with the same quiet determination she approached everything in life.
"What would you do, Mom?" I whisper to the empty apartment. "How do you protect five babies from something like this?"
I push myself up from the floor on wobbly legs and make my way to the kitchen. My hands shake as I fill the kettle for more tea, spilling water on the counter. Deep breaths, I remind myself. Stress isn't good for the babies.
The babies already depending on me to make the right choices. The odds were already stacked against us—a single mother with a modest income trying to raise quintuplets. Add in a Mafia boss father, and the situation becomes truly impossible.
I sink into a kitchen chair. Should I move? Change my name? Would that even work against someone with Makari Vorobev's resources? He found me easily enough already, accessing information that should have been private.
The kettle whistles, startling me from my spiral of panic. I make the tea automatically, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought fails. The familiar routine steadies me somewhat, giving my hands something useful to do while my mind works through impossible scenarios.
I carry the steaming mug to the window where my plants thrive in the morning sunlight. The rosebush I've tended since my mother's death stands proudly among them, a living connection to the woman who taught me what it means to nurture. What would she advise in this impossible situation?
She'd tell me to be practical. To take things one step at a time. To focus on what I can control rather than what I can't.
