Page 74 of The Mafia's Quintuplets
"I want to be worthy of them," I say, the confession easier in darkness. "Of you. I don't know if I can be, but I want to try."
Her expression softens further, some of the wariness falling away. "All any of us can do is try to be better tomorrow than we were yesterday."
A sound from the doorway reminds us we're not alone. Zina has returned and stands watching us, tears streaming unchecked down her face. When our gazes meet, she crosses the room to join us, completing the circle of our strange, fragile family. Her arm slides around Wil's shoulders while her other hand grips mine tightly.
"We should get you off your feet," she tells Wil with gentle authority. "Dr. Wilson would have my head if he knew you were standing this long."
"Dr. Wilson is unnecessarily cautious," she mutters, though she allows herself to be guided toward the living room. "I'm perfectly capable of standing for a conversation."
"You're carrying quintuplets," Zina counters with fond exasperation. "Standing for extended periods isn't advisable regardless of how stubborn you are."
The familiar bickering between them reveals the bond they've formed in my absence, a friendship forged through shared grief and daily challenges. I follow them to the living room, taking in the comfortable domesticity they've created together, with Wil's medical journals stacked beside Zina's literature texts, and the practical arrangement of furniture to accommodate a heavily pregnant woman's needs.
As Wil settles on the sofa with Zina's help, I remain standing, suddenly uncertain of my place in this home they've built without me. The velvet box weighs heavy in my pocket, its presence a reminder of intentions I have no right to assume are still welcome. I certainly won’t be offering the ring right away, so I’ll need to find a safe place to keep it.
"Sit," says Wil, patting the space beside her. "You're hovering, and it's making me nervous."
I comply, maintaining careful distance until she sighs impatiently and shifts closer, her shoulder touching mine in tentative reconnection. The simple contact makes everything real far more effectively than anything else could. I’m here, she’s here, our children grow between us, and the immediate future contains possibility rather than threat.
"Tomorrow," she says quietly, "We'll talk about everything. Where you've been, what you've done, and where we go from here." She takes my hand cautiously. "Tonight, just stay."
I squeeze her hand gently. "I'm not going anywhere," I promise, the words a vow more binding than any oath I've ever sworn. "Not again."
Her head comes to rest against my shoulder, the weight a comfort I've dreamed about during long nights of solitary purpose. Across from us, Zina curls into an armchair, her expression peaceful for the first time since I arrived. Outside, waves continue their eternal conversation with the shore, indifferent to human dramas resolved or continuing within these walls.
For the first time in months—perhaps the first time in my life—I allow myself to inhabit the present moment completely. Not planning, not calculating, not anticipating threats or opportunities, but simply existing in the quiet company of the only people who matter.
I’m home.
28
Wil
The quiet intimacy of reunion doesn't last long. As we sit together quietly in the living room, a familiar tightening sensation wraps around my abdomen. I've felt these practice contractions with increasing frequency over the past few weeks, but something about this one feels different. It’s sharper and more purposeful.
I shift uncomfortably, adjusting my position to ease the pressure. Mak notices immediately, catching the subtle change in my expression. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Just Braxton Hicks." I offer a reassuring smile that feels unconvincing even to me. "The body's way of practicing for the real thing."
Zina watches me with narrowed eyes, far more knowing than I'd like. She's witnessed enough of these episodes over the past weeks to recognize when I'm downplaying discomfort. "That's the third one in twenty minutes."
Before I can respond, another wave builds, stronger this time and impossible to disguise or dismiss. I breathe through it, applying the techniques I've taught countless expectant mothers during my nursing career. When it passes, three pairs of eyes study me with varying degrees of concern, as Leonid has joined us from his watchful position by the door.
"Let's move to the kitchen." I need to stand and move. "I could use some tea."
Mak helps me to my feet with careful hands, his touch tentative as if I might break or reject his assistance. The physical contact is a reminder that he's truly here after months of absence. We make our way slowly to the kitchen, my pace necessarily deliberate with my altered center of gravity.
Zina fills the kettle while I lower myself onto a stool at the counter since the hard surface provides better support than the soft cushions of the living room. We talk about practical matters—Mak's new identity, the legal documentation prepared for the children, and another coastal property purchased under a shell corporation that will become our permanent home once the babies are stable enough to travel.
Midway through explaining the intricacies of the trust funds he's established for each child, another contraction seizes me, stronger than before, and it lasts longer too, lasting nearly a minute and demands my full attention.
Zina's voice cuts through the fog of discomfort as the contraction finally eases. "That's not Braxton Hicks."
"No." I can't deny it any longer, nurse's instinct overriding wishful thinking. "I think it's the real thing."
Mak's face drains of color. His composure, maintained through gunfights and betrayals, falters completely when confronted with the prospect of imminent childbirth. "But it's too early. You're not quite thirty-two weeks."
"Quintuplets rarely make it to full term." I grimace as another contraction begins building, the timing confirming what I already know. " They're coming now, ready or not."
