Page 18 of The Mafia's Quintuplets

“Will you be requiring the car again today, sir?” asks Pavel, his expression carefully neutral.

“No. Take the morning off. Return at noon.” A small kindness to balance the night’s events, perhaps.

Inside, the house is quiet save for distant kitchen sounds. Mrs. Petrova prepares breakfast, unaware her employer has only just returned. I move silently through marble hallways toward my private suite, intent on showering away the lingering scent of Willemina’s perfume before meeting with Fedor.

The door to Zina’s wing opens as I pass, indicating she has returned at least for the weekend. My sister emerges in silk pajamas, hair tousled from sleep. She stops short at the sight of me, surprise quickly giving way to amusement. She crosses her arms, smirking. “Walk of shame? You look…rumpled.”

I maintain my composure, though few people can disarm me like Zina. “Good morning to you too.”

“Must have been quite the business meeting.” Her eyes dance with mischief. “Import-export negotiations running late?”

“Don’t you have class today?” I deflect, continuing toward my rooms.

She falls into step beside me, undeterred. “It’s Saturday, so nope. I have plenty of time to hear about your mysterious disappearance. Fedor was quite put out when you abandoned him with the Kazanovs.”

I stop, turning to face her fully. “Fedor reports to me, not the other way around, and my whereabouts are not his concern, nor yours.”

The words come out sharper than intended. Zina’s smile fades, replaced by genuine curiosity.

“This is different,” she says quietly, studying my face with the penetrating insight that makes her so difficult to deceive. “This wasn’t business at all, was it?”

I resume walking, unwilling to have this conversation in the hallway, where staff might overhear. Zina follows me to my suite, perching on the arm of a leather chair while I remove my watch and cufflinks.

“She must be special,” Zina observes. “You never break routine.”

“It was one night,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. “Nothing more.”

“If you say so.” She tilts her head, unconvinced. “Though I can’t remember the last time you looked quite so...conflicted about ‘nothing.’”

I turn away, unwilling to acknowledge the accuracy of her assessment. “Don’t you have studying to do?”

“Fine, keep your secrets.” She rises gracefully, moving toward the door. “Mak?” She waits until I meet her gaze. “It wouldn’t be the worst thing, you know. To find something—someone—outside all this.” She gestures vaguely, encompassing the mansion, the empire, the life into which we were born.

Her words strike closer to home than she realizes. I offer a noncommittal hum in response, unwilling to examine the possibility she suggests. Zina lingers a moment longer before departing with a knowing smile that makes her look disconcertingly like our mother in the few photographs we have.

Alone again, I strip off yesterday’s clothes and step into the shower, adjusting the temperature to nearly scalding. Hot water pounds against tense muscles as I press my palms against cool tile, head bowed beneath the spray.

Images of last night surface unbidden. I recall Willemina’s sharp intake of breath when I first entered her, the way her back arched as pleasure overtook her, and the vulnerable trust in her eyes afterward. I force away the memories, focusing instead on the day ahead.

By the time I emerge, skin reddened from heat, I’ve successfully compartmentalized the night’s events. Willemina Lamb belongs to another life, another version of myself that exists only in brief, stolen moments. Maxim can afford that indulgence, but Makari Vorobev has responsibilities that can’t be neglected, an empire that demands constant vigilance, and a sister who requires protection.

I dress with military precision in a charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, and platinum cufflinks bearing the family crest before adding my shoulder holster holding the custom Glock that feels like an extension of my arm. Each element of the uniform reinforces who I am and what I must be.

When I exit my rooms thirty minutes later, I’m fully armored against vulnerability and against the lingering echo of connection that threatens to distract me. Leonid waits in my study with the day’s security briefing. Fedor will arrive shortly, expecting explanations I have no intention of providing.

The game continues, the pieces move, and I resume my position at the center of the board. The king, protected by many, truly known by none.

Yet as I review threat assessments and territory reports, part of me remains in that hotel suite, watching morning light play across sleeping features, wondering how different life might be if I were truly the man Willemina spent the night with, rather than the shadow I pretend to be.

8

Wil

Iwake slowly, consciousness returning in gentle waves. Sunlight streams through the windows, revealing the unfamiliar room. For a moment, disorientation grips me. The bed is too large, the sheets are too soft, and the ceiling is too high to be my Brooklyn apartment.

Then memory rushes back of Eclipse, dancing, and Maxim, followed by the private suite, his hands on my body, and the unexpected passion between strangers. Heat rises to my cheeks as fragments of last night replay in vivid detail. I reach across the massive bed, expecting to find warm skin and solid muscle, but my fingers find only cool sheets.

I sit up, clutching the bedding to my chest. “Maxim?”

---