Page 2 of The Mafia's Quintuplets

“Yes, Mr. Vorobev.” Pavel pulls smoothly into Manhattan traffic, our security vehicle following close behind.

I watch the sidewalk through the thick bulletproof windows, observing people living ordinary lives, laughing couples holding hands, friends gathering at restaurants, and families heading home after work. Their world and mine exist in parallel, never truly intersecting. To them, I’m just another wealthy businessman in an expensive car. They don’t see the blood on my hands or know that their neighborhoods operate under my invisible control.

My phone vibrates with a message from Zina, pulling my attention away from the outside world.

Dinner at 8. Don’t be late, brother. I’m making that pasta you like.

I smile, the first real one today. Zina, my little sister, is the only pure thing remaining in my life. Twenty-three years old and brilliantly intelligent, she represents everything I’ve sacrificed to protect. Our mother died when Zina was just an infant, officially from complications after childbirth, though whispers suggested a rival family’s involvement. Those whispers stopped when every person who repeated them disappeared. My father never remarried, instead channeling his grief into ruthless expansion of our territory. He raised me to be his weapon, but he allowed me to shield Zina from the worst of our world.

I type back.

On my way. Save me some wine.

The car turns onto the private road leading to our family estate outside the city. Unlike the flashy mansions of “new rich” criminals, our home is understated in its luxury. A nineteenth-century stone manor set far back from the road, it’s surrounded by old-growth trees and discreet security measures. Four generations of Vorobevs have lived and died here, their portraits watching from walls, judging each successor’s worthiness to carry the name.

Pavel stops at the main entrance. “Will you need the car again tonight, sir?”

“No. You’re dismissed until morning.” I step out, nodding to the security team patrolling the grounds. They report to Leonid, the only man whose loyalty I trust implicitly. Not out of fear, but because he’s known me since childhood, before the brutality was beaten into me.

The moment I step through the doorway, I feel the pressure slide off my body. Here, with Zina, I can almost remember the person I was before the mafia.

“You’re early,” she calls from the kitchen.

I follow her voice, finding her in a flour-dusted apron, her dark hair pulled into a messy bun as she stirs something on the massive professional stove. Mrs. Petrova, our housekeeper since before I was born, hovers nervously nearby.

“Miss Zina insisted on cooking herself, Mr. Makari,” she says apologetically. “I told her I could handle it.”

“It’s fine, Mrs. Petrova.” I wave away her concerns. “My sister is stubborn like our mother.”

Zina beams at the comparison, though neither of us has more than photographs to know if it’s true. “I wanted to try making your favorite pasta dish from the recipe in that Italian cookbook you brought me,” she says. “Your staff can set the table, but I’m making the food.”

I loosen my tie and roll up my sleeves, approaching to peer into the pot. “It smells good. Better than the disaster with the French sauce last month.”

She swats at me with a wooden spoon. “That was sabotage. Someone turned up the heat when I wasn’t looking.”

I laugh, the sound foreign to my own ears. In this kitchen, with flour on Zina’s nose and the scent of garlic and basil filling the air, I can pretend we’re normal, that our family business involves importing olive oil instead of weapons and drugs, and the men stationed around our property are ordinary security rather than killers who’ve sworn their lives to the Vorobev name.

“Go change,” Zina says, waving her spoon at me again. “Dinner is in twenty minutes in the small dining room.”

I acquiesce, heading upstairs to my suite. The bedroom is immaculate as always, with everything in its precise place. I swear it gets cleaned multiple times a day, but I’m never here to prove anything.

I strip off my wrinkled suit and step into the shower, scrubbing away the day under water hot enough to burn my skin. Sometimes, I stand in the shower for over an hour with my eyes closed. No thoughts. Just… peace.

Clean and dressed in casual clothes that few outside this house would ever see me wearing, I return downstairs. The “small” dining room still seats twelve comfortably, but it’s the most intimate space in this mausoleum of a house. Zina has set two places at one end of the table, with candles and fresh flowers between them.

“Very fancy,” I say as she brings in a steaming platter of pasta. “What’s the occasion?”

“Can’t I just want a nice dinner with my brother?” She pours red wine into crystal glasses that belonged to our grandmother. “Besides, I have news.”

I tense instinctively. I knew something was up.

She notices my reaction and rolls her eyes. “Relax, Mak. It’s not about... all that.” She waves her hand dismissively at the empire that funds her comfortable existence but remains largely unacknowledged between us. “I’ve been accepted to the doctoral program at Columbia for Comparative Literature.”

My heart jumps into my throat. “Zina, that’s excellent. You’ve always wanted?—”

My phone buzzes, cutting me off. Fedor’s name flashes on the screen, but I silence it without answering.

“Important?” she asks, her smile fading slightly.

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