Page 48 of The Mafia's Quintuplets
"Yes." He doesn't argue or attempt to convince me otherwise. "But perhaps less impossible than before."
The acknowledgment of progress, however small, brings a tired smile to my lips. As I drift toward sleep in his arms, I wonder if there might be a way forward for us that doesn't end in tragedy, a path where our children can know their father without being consumed by his world.
For the first time since discovering my pregnancy, since learning who Mak really is, since losing Gisele, I allow myself to imagine a future that might contain something beyond survival. The possibility feels delicate, as fragile as a soap bubble that might burst with the slightest pressure, but it exists, nonetheless. In the safety of near-sleep, with Mak's heartbeat steady beneath my ear, I permit myself the dangerous luxury of hope.
19
Mak
Iwake before dawn, Wil's warm body curled against mine in peaceful sleep. The unfamiliar weight of her head on my chest, her arm draped across my torso, creates a sensation I struggle to identify. Contentment, perhaps. The realization startles me. Contentment has never been part of my vocabulary, not since childhood, and certainly not since assuming leadership of the Bratva.
Yet here it is, this quiet moment in the half-light, watching Wil breathe evenly, her face relaxed in sleep, and her dark hair spread across my pillow. The vulnerability of her naked form against mine stirs both protective instinct and desire. I resist the urge to wake her, to claim her body again as I did repeatedly through the night. Instead, I simply watch, committing each detail to memory.
I extract myself carefully, not wanting to disturb her rest. Pregnancy with quintuplets drains her energy, and last night's activities certainly didn't help. I shower quickly, dressing in the adjacent bathroom before returning to find her still asleep, now hugging my pillow in my absence. I brush my lips across her temple and leave instructions with the guards outside that she shouldn't be disturbed.
"She's to sleep as long as she needs." Orlov nods in his usual stoic way. "When she wakes, ask if she'd like breakfast brought to my quarters, or if she prefers to return to her suite first."
Orlov's expression remains carefully neutral, though I detect the faintest hint of surprise in his eyes at this domestic arrangement. The staff will talk, of course. News of thepakhantaking a woman to his private quarters—not just any woman, but the mother of his children—will circulate through the estate within hours.
I don't care.
The early morning conference call with our West Coast operations concludes more efficiently than usual. I navigate complex territorial negotiations with a clarity that’s been absent for months, quickly identifying solutions to disputes that previously seemed intractable. The operation managers respond to my decisiveness with renewed focus, the entire discussion moving at a pace that would have been unimaginable weeks ago.
"Impressive work," says Leonid after the call ends, gathering the files spread across the conference table. "You settled the San Francisco situation in twenty minutes. Last month's discussion on the same issue took three hours."
I shrug, moving toward the window. "The solution was obvious. They were overcomplicating a simple territorial boundary."
"Perhaps." He pauses, weighing his next words carefully. "Or perhaps, you see things more clearly now."
I turn to face him, raising an eyebrow at the insinuation. He meets my gaze steadily, the privileges of his long service allowing him observations others wouldn't dare voice.
"Ms. Lamb seems to be settling in well," he continues, his tone deliberately casual. "Zina mentioned she's requested seedlings for heirloom tomatoes in the greenhouse. That’s a sign she's making longer-term plans, I believe."
The information warms me. "Make sure she gets whatever she needs for her projects."
"Already done." He arranges the files in his meticulous fashion. "Mrs. Petrova asked me to mention that you've been taking regular meals for the first time in years. She seems quite pleased about this development."
I suppress a smile at the housekeeper's motherly concern. Mrs. Petrova has served the family since before my birth, transitioning from nanny to housekeeper as we grew. She's one of the few people who remembers me before I becamepakhan, before my father's brutality fully shaped me into his image.
"Will you be joining Ms. Lamb for lunch today?" Leonid glances at his watch. "It's nearly noon."
"Yes. Have something prepared and sent to the greenhouse."
He nods and departs, leaving me to review security protocols for the upcoming shipment from our Eastern European suppliers. The task, normally tedious, passes quickly as I apply renewed focus to identifying potential vulnerabilities.
By the time I reach the greenhouse an hour later, carrying a basket of rare orchid specimens I acquired specifically for Wil's collection, the nervous energy that's propelled me through the morning settles into anticipation. I pause at the entrance, taking a moment to observe her before she notices my presence.
Wil kneels beside a raised bed, carefully transplanting seedlings like they’re her children. She wears simple jeans and a loose blouse that doesn't quite conceal the growing curve of her stomach. Her hair is pulled back in a practical ponytail, and a smudge of dirt marks her cheek. She's never looked more beautiful to me than in this moment, surrounded by the life she nurtures with such care.
She senses my presence and looks up, a smile spreading across her face before she can think to suppress it. The unguarded welcome in her expression sets off a cascade of unfamiliar emotions in my chest.
"I brought you something." I step forward, offering the basket.
Her eyes widen as she recognizes the rare specimens inside. "Paphiopedilum rothschildianum? How did you even find these? They're nearly impossible to source legally."
"I have connections." I place the basket beside her workspace. "These are legal, I assure you. The breeder in Thailand owes me a favor."
She examines the plants with careful fingers, her expertise evident in her handling. "They're magnificent. Perfect specimens." She glances up with a knowing look. "And what exactly does this breeder owe you for?"
