Page 49 of The Mafia's Quintuplets
"I helped his daughter resolve an immigration issue." It's not the complete truth, but close enough. The actual favor involved eliminating a corrupt official who was extorting the breeder's family, but such details seem inappropriate for the moment.
Lunch arrives, carried by a staff member, who discreetly arranges it on the small table in the corner before disappearing. We eat amid comfortable conversation, discussing the greenhouse progress and her plans for expanding the herb garden. The domesticity of the scene strikes me as both foreign and deeply satisfying.
"You seem different today," she says, studying me over her glass of water.
"Different how?"
"More relaxed. Less..." She searches for the right word. "Guarded."
I consider this assessment. "I feel different."
"Because of last night?" A blush colors her cheeks, though her gaze remains direct.
"Yes, but not just the physical aspect." I reach across the table, taking her hand. "Having you in my space, in my bed… Waking up with you there… It's been a long time since I allowed anyone that close."
Her fingers intertwine with mine. "How long?"
"Never, actually." The admission comes more easily than I expected. "Not like that. Not with that level of...intimacy."
She looks surprised, then thoughtful. "You've never spent the entire night with someone?"
"Power and vulnerability don't mix well in my world." I stroke my thumb across her knuckles. "Sleeping beside someone requires trust I've never granted before. The closest I’ve come before was just a few hours, like we shared that night at the club."
The conversation shifts to lighter topics, but my confession lingers between us. When I eventually return to my office for afternoon meetings, I carry the memory of her smile like a talisman against the darkness ofBratvabusiness.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of productivity. Reports that would normally remain untouched on my desk for days receive immediate attention. Decisions I've postponed for weeks suddenly seem simple. Leonid struggles to keep pace with my accelerated tempo, though he adapts quickly, reorganizing my schedule to accommodate my newly returned efficiency.
That evening, Wil joins me for dinner in my private quarters rather than the formal dining room. We eat at the small table near the window, the conversation flowing naturally between us. Afterward, we retire to my bed, where physical passion gives way to quiet conversation. Wil talks about her childhood, her mother's garden that inspired her love of plants, and her dreams before five unexpected lives complicated everything. I share carefully edited stories from my early years and memories of my mother, giving glimpses of the boy I was before violence became my primary language.
Each night follows a similar pattern for the next week. Wil moves between her suite and mine, maintaining the appearance of separate residences while spending every night in my bed. During the day, I visit her in the greenhouse, bringing rare specimens or just lingering to watch her work. The simple pleasure of observing her nurturing hands coaxing life from soil becomes a respite from the harsher realities of my position.
Mrs. Petrova notes the changes with quiet approval. "You're eating properly again," she says one morning as she supervises the kitchen staff. "And sleeping through the night, I hear."
I don't ask how she knows my sleeping patterns. Mrs. Petrova has always possessed an uncanny awareness of the household rhythms.
"Ms. Lamb is good for you," she continues, her tone matter-of-fact as she inspects the breakfast preparations. "You haven't looked this well since before your father died."
Even Zina comments on the transformation. "You're almost human again," she teases during our weekly chess match, capturing my knight with a move I should have anticipated. "I haven't seen you this alive since we were children."
I move my bishop defensively. "I'm simply sleeping better."
"I'm sure you are." Her knowing smile suggests she's well aware of exactly why I'm sleeping better. "Wil mentioned you're bringing her exotic plants almost daily. That’s quite the romantic gesture from the fearsomepakhan."
"They're just plants," I mutter, though we both know it's more than that.
"She's good for you, Mak." Her expression turns serious. "Don't ruin it by being...you."
The comment stings, though I understand the concern behind it. "I'm trying."
"I know." She reaches across the board, squeezing my hand briefly. "That's why I'm hopeful."
The changes in me might be subtle enough to escape general notice, but they're glaringly obvious to those who know me best, and to those watching for any sign of weakness. Fedor's calculating gaze follows me during the weekly captain's meeting, his eyes narrowing when I enter the room with a slight smile that I quickly suppress as business begins.
The meeting itself proceeds efficiently. Territory reports, distribution updates, and security concerns are all addressed with decisive clarity that leaves little room for the usual prolonged discussions. The captains respond positively to my renewed focus, the meeting concluding in half the time these gatherings typically require. As the men file out, Fedor lingers behind, moving to the bar cart, where crystal decanters contain various top-shelf liquors.
He lifts the scotch, examining it with exaggerated interest. "Productive meeting," he says, pouring himself a generous measure without asking permission. "Everyone seems pleased with your renewed...focus."
I shuffle papers at my desk, not taking the bait. "The situations were straightforward."
