Page 31 of The Mafia's Quintuplets
Right now, I can control my health and that of my babies. I can continue my research, make my medical appointments, and prepare as best I can for five premature births, which is what the statistics suggest will happen. I can control how I respond to Makari's intrusion with firm boundaries and legal protections if necessary.
I take a sip of tea. The nausea temporarily recedes, giving me a moment of physical relief if not mental peace.
My phone buzzes on the counter, and I tense until I see Gisele's name on the screen. The text reads:
Grabbing lunch before work. Want anything? You're probably craving something weird by now.
The normality of it almost makes me laugh. Gisele has no idea my world just imploded when the father of my babies revealed himself to be someone dangerous and powerful, who won't easily accept my rejection.
I text back.
Nothing weird yet. Maybe some crackers? Nausea's bad today.
I don't mention Makari's visit. Not yet. I need time to process it myself before I can explain it to someone else.
Settling back on the couch, I pick up my laptop again, but instead of pregnancy research, I type "Makari Vorobev" into the search bar. The results confirm my worst fears. News articles detail suspected criminal activities, though nothing that ever led to charges. Photos show him at charity events and high-profile restaurant openings, always immaculately dressed, always surrounded by beautiful people. Always looking untouchable.
One photo in particular catches my attention of Makari with a young woman who bears a striking resemblance to him, perhaps a sister or cousin. His expression in this photo differs from the others. There's something gentle in the way he looks at her, both protective and proud.
I close the laptop, unable to reconcile these images with the man I met at the club, and the man who just stood in my living room claiming rights to my children. Which version is real? The charming businessman? The hardened criminal? The protective family man? All of them? None of them?
It doesn't matter, I tell myself firmly. Whatever combination of personas makes up Makari Vorobev, he belongs to a world I want no part of. A world no child should be raised in.
My hand returns to my abdomen. "I'll protect you," I whisper, the promise fierce and desperate. "Whatever it takes."
13
Mak
Istand frozen outside Wil's apartment, the sound of the slammed door still reverberating through the hallway. My fists clench so tightly that my fingernails dig crescents into my palms. The urge to kick down her door pulses through me with frightening intensity. One swift movement is all it would take. The flimsy lock would splinter instantly under my Italian dress shoes.
I breathe deeply, fighting for control. This isn't a business negotiation gone wrong or a rival pushing boundaries. This is the mother of my children rejecting not just my protection but my very presence in their lives.
Through the thin door, I hear her quiet sobs. Each one feels like an accusation, cutting deeper than any knife could reach. She's afraid—of me, of what I represent, and the danger I've brought into her orderly life. The realization stings more than I expected.
I've spent fifteen years building a reputation that makes grown men tremble. Fear is a currency I trade in daily, but hearing Wil cry because of me feels like failure in a way I've never experienced before.
I press my palm flat against the door, a pathetic substitute for the comfort I want to offer. I should leave. Every second I linger only reinforces her perception of me as a threat. Yet my feet remain rooted to the faded hallway carpet as I strain to hear her movements on the other side.
She deserves better than this—better than a man whose name is whispered in fear throughout New York's underworld. Better than a father who puts his children in danger simply by acknowledging them. Her rejection is entirely rational. Why, then, does it feel like she's carved out something vital from my chest?
With monumental effort, I finally turn away. My footsteps sound unnaturally loud as I move toward the stairwell, each one leaden with reluctance. The security man I positioned in the building earlier gives me a respectful nod as I pass. His presence reminds me that regardless of Wil's wishes, I've already begun infiltrating her life. "Report directly to me."
Orlov straightens his posture slightly. "Yes, sir."
"She doesn't know you're here. Keep it that way."
He nods again, returning to his position by the maintenance closet, a perfect vantage point for the hallway leading to Wil's apartment. I selected him specifically for this assignment. Orlov has the rare ability to blend into surroundings despite his size, becoming functionally invisible in plain sight.
I descend the stairs slowly, each step a battle against the instinct to return to her door, to make her understand the dangers she faces without my protection, but forcing my way into her life would only confirm her worst fears about me. Some battles can't be won through intimidation or brute force. This is unfamiliar territory for a man who has spent his life commanding rather than persuading.
Outside, the spring sun feels incongruously bright. The modest Brooklyn neighborhood bustles with ordinary life, but it all seems impossibly distant from my world of luxury penthouses and gritty violence.
I approach the idling SUV, expecting only Leonid behind the wheel. Instead, when I slide into the back seat, I find my cousin Fedor already waiting, his expression a carefully composed mask of concern. Leonid meets my eyes briefly in the rearview mirror, the slight tightening around his mouth telling me this wasn't his idea.
Fedor adjusts his perfectly tailored suit sleeve. "Cousin, I thought I'd join you. Your absence today has left several matters unresolved." He doesn’t need to ask the unspoken question. Why thepakhanof the VorobevBratvais making personal visits to a rundown Brooklyn apartment building without explanation or proper security detail?
"Back to the office." I turn away from Fedor, focusing on Leonid's reflection in the mirror.
