Page 22 of The Mafia's Quintuplets

“As your second-in-command, it’s my responsibility to identify vulnerabilities.” He delivers the statement in a neutral way, though I detect the subtle challenge beneath it. “Distractions can be dangerous in our position.”

“Your concerns are noted.” I return my attention to the computer screen before me, a clear dismissal. “Close the door on your way out.”

Once alone, I allow my rigid posture to relax fractionally. Fedor isn’t wrong. Personal entanglements create vulnerabilities our enemies can exploit. It’s precisely why I left the penthouse suite before dawn, and why I provided no means of contact despite the unexpected temptation to do so.

Yet I can’t seem to fully compartmentalize the night with Willemina as I’ve done with countless other encounters. Something about her lingers. Her genuine laugh, her direct questions, the way she looked at me as though seeing the man rather than the power he wields remain on my mind.

I open my laptop, navigating to a secured folder before entering a complex password. The information Rachel, my IT person, gathered on Willemina Lamb appears on screen, along with confirmation of the rosebush being delivered. I review the details with a hunger for knowledge that alarms me, but I can’t tear my gaze from the screen.

She was born in Astoria, Queens, as she said. Her mother died ten years ago from cancer, and her father is unknown/absent from birth records. She has an undergraduate degree from NYU (nursing, graduated with honors), has been employed at New York Presbyterian for five years, specializing in neonatal intensive care. Her apartment in Brooklyn is shared with a roommate, Gisele Nelson. She has no criminal record, excellent credit score despite modest income, and substantial student loans. No political affiliations listed, and she has minimal social media presence. She’s everything she claimed to be.

She lead an ordinary life, remarkable only in its careful construction and evident purpose. She saves the most vulnerable while I profit from others’ vulnerabilities. It’s a contrast that should repel rather than attract, yet it produced a connection I find myself unable to dismiss as merely physical.

A soft knock interrupts my thoughts. “Enter.”

Leonid appears, closing the door silently behind him. His presence usually means sensitive information unsuitable for regular channels. “The driving service transported Ms. Lamb and sent over the video of her ride as you requested. The vehicle’s surveillance captured this.”

He places a tablet on my desk, queuing a video from the sedan’s interior camera. Willemina appears on screen, carefully cradling the rose I left for her, its stem wrapped in a dampened napkin to preserve it. The gesture is small yet revealing. Sentimental in a way that suggests the night held meaning beyond physical release. I wish I had a video of her receiving the living plant instead, suspecting that will hold even more meaning for her.

I watch her gaze out the window, expression pensive, fingers occasionally touching the flower’s petals as though confirming its reality. She looks smaller in daylight and more vulnerable than I remember from our heated encounter. When the car reaches her Brooklyn neighborhood, she straightens her posture visibly, as if preparing to don the armor of her everyday identity.

“Surveillance is in place?” I ask, returning the tablet to Leonid.

“Two men rotating shifts, maintaining discreet distance as instructed. Her movements will be monitored without interference.”

I nod, satisfied with the arrangement. The surveillance isn’t about pursuing further contact. Quite the opposite. It’s about ensuring her safety, protecting her from potential threats that might emerge simply from her brief association with me. The Kazanovs have proven vindictive before, and they saw me with her last night. I simply want to ensure she’s safe before moving on. Or that’s what I tell myself.

“Something else,” Leonid continues. “The background check revealed an interesting detail about her mother’s funeral expenses. They were covered by an anonymous donation to the hospital where she received treatment.”

I raise an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. “Someone was looking out for them.”

“Perhaps. Or clearing a debt.” Leonid remains expressionless, though I detect curiosity in his tone. “The timing coincides with increasedBratvaactivity in Westchester County.”

The anonymous benefactor might have connections to our world. “Look deeper. Quietly.”

He nods once, understanding the directive requires discretion even from others in our organization. “Will you be requiring anything else regarding Ms. Lamb?”

I hesitate, an uncharacteristic tell that doesn’t escape Leonid’s notice. “No. Simply maintain distance surveillance until we can be certain she’s not going to be targeted by the Kazanovs. No contact.”

After he departs, I remain at my desk, staring at the closed file on my screen. The rational course is clear. Forget Willemina Lamb, focus on business, and maintain the separation necessary for both her safety and my efficacy as Bratva leadership. Yet I find myself reviewing her information again, lingering on details I’ve already committed to memory.

My phone chimes with a message from Zina:Dinner tonight? Just us?

I reply immediately.

Of course. 7p.m.?

Her response comes quickly.

Perfect, and wear something casual. Sick of seeing you in suits.

I smile, realizing it’s the first since leaving Willemina’s side this morning. Zina remains my one genuine connection, the only person who sees Makari rather than Vorobev, the man rather than the position. Perhaps that’s why Willemina’s unguarded responses affected me so deeply. They offered a rare glimpse of how interaction might feel without the incumbrance of fear and calculation that usually defines my relationships.

I close the laptop a little too hard, turning my attention to more pressing matters. By the time the sun starts to make it’s descent, I’ve resolved most of the urgent business and delegated the remainder to my appropriate lieutenants.

A rare free hour appears in my schedule. It’s time typically spent reading or checking numbers. Instead, I’m drawn to the garage, selecting keys to the matte black Aston Martin rather than summoning Pavel and the usual motorcade.

“Sir?” The security team leader appears instantly, concerned by my unscheduled movement.

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