Page 41 of The Mafia's Quintuplets
"In what way?"
"Stubbornness. Loyalty. A certain...selective blindness when it comes to those we care about." She studies me over the rim of her cup. "He cares about you, you know."
I scoff before I can stop myself. "He doesn't even know me."
"True, but he cares about what you represent." She sets her cup down carefully. "Mak has never allowed himself attachments outside family. You're the first."
"I'm not an attachment. I'm a complication."
"Same thing, in our world." Zina leans back, crossing her legs. "May I be blunt with you, Willemina?"
"Wil," I correct automatically. "And yes, please. I've had enough of careful conversations and unspoken truths."
"Mak wasn't always who he is now." She says this matter-of-factly, but her eyes hold old pain. "Our mother was murdered when I was just an infant. He was eight. Old enough to understand what happened, and young enough to be fundamentally shaped by it."
The information hits me with unexpected force. I knew, intellectually, that men like Mak must have origin stories and reasons they became what they are, but hearing it from his sister makes it suddenly, uncomfortably real.
She continues, her voice soft but steady. "Our father responded by hardening himself completely, and he set about turning Mak into a weapon, an heir worthy of the Vorobev name." She taps a finger seemingly without awareness against her teacup. "I was spared the worst of it. Mak made sure of that."
"How?" Despite myself, I'm drawn into her story.
"He sent me to boarding schools in Switzerland as soon as I was old enough and paid off teachers to never mention our family name. He visited me himself instead of sending men, no matter how dangerous the travel." A fond smile touches her lips. "He would show up at these ridiculous all-girls schools in his thousand-dollar suits, this dangerous-looking man among all these proper young ladies, just to make sure I was safe and happy."
The image she paints clashes with the cold, controlled man I've encountered. "He doesn't seem like the type to care about anyone's happiness."
"Oh, he doesn't. Not generally." She brushes a stray lock of hair from her face. " I'm the exception. The only person he's allowed himself to truly love." She meets my gaze directly. "Until now, potentially."
I shake my head, rejecting the implication. "He doesn't love me. He's possessive of me. There's a difference."
"Perhaps." She doesn't argue. "Possession is the beginning of love for men like my brother. They have to own something before they can permit themselves to care about it."
"That's twisted."
"Yes, it is," she agrees without hesitation. "The Vorobev way often is, but it's also honest, in its way." She picks up a cookie, examining it before taking a delicate bite. "Mak never pretends to be something he's not. That's worth something, isn't it?"
I consider this. In his own strange way, Mak has been direct with me from the moment he revealed his true identity. Terrifying and overwhelming, but not deceptive. Not since that initial lie about his name. Even then, he didn’t invent a completely different person to be that night. He just remained charmingly evasive about what he did, surely knowing if I had realized the truth, I would have run from him before we ever went to that apartment above the club.
"Why are you telling me all this?" I ask finally.
"Because you're carrying my family's future inside you." She gestures toward my stomach. "And because I like you. You have kind eyes."
"You've known me for ten minutes."
"I'm an excellent judge of character." She smiles. "That’s a necessary survival skill in my world. Besides, Mak wouldn't be so fascinated by someone without substance."
The casual observation makes me uncomfortable. "I'm not here by choice."
"No," she acknowledges, her expression sobering, "And what happened to your friend was unforgivable, but now that you are here..." She hesitates, choosing her words carefully. "Perhaps understanding who Mak really is might make your situation more bearable."
"Who is he really, then?" I can't keep the bitterness from my voice. "Beyond the man who ordered surveillance on me without my knowledge? Who brought me into a world where my best friend was murdered?"
She doesn't flinch from my anger. "He's a man shaped by violence, who still remembers what it was to be kind. A leader who protects what's his with absolute ruthlessness while privately questioning the cost. A brother who saved me from our father's brutality by absorbing it himself." She leans forward, intensity in her gaze. "He built this greenhouse for you in three days, Wil. Not because he expects gratitude or even forgiveness, but because he thought it might bring you a moment's peace in the midst of chaos."
Her words stir something unwelcome inside me, a reluctant acknowledgment that the monster I've feared might be more complex than I've allowed myself to believe. We sit in silence for several minutes, the only sounds the subtle shifting of leaves and distant birdsong through the greenhouse vents. Zina doesn't press further, seemingly content to let her words sink in at their own pace.
"Will you be staying here?" I ask finally.
"For a while." She nods. "After the recent... unpleasantness, Mak insisted I move back to the estate temporarily."
