Page 23 of The Mafia's Quintuplets

“Personal errand,” I say, offering no further explanation. “I’ll drive myself.”

His discomfort is evident. “Protocol suggests?—”

“I’m aware of protocol.” My tone ends further discussion. “I’ll take a sidearm. No tail.”

Minutes later, I’m navigating through midday Manhattan traffic, enjoying the rare freedom of movement without security details or observation. The vehicle responds precisely to my commands, powerful and controlled. It’s a fitting extension of my carefully calibrated public persona.

I have no conscious destination until I find myself approaching New York Presbyterian, slowing as I pass the imposing medical complex where Willemina spends her days saving lives too new to have accrued the stains of this world. I don’t expect to see her.

The impulse to drive by is irrational, serving no strategic purpose. Yet something compels me to confirm the physical reality of her workplace, to visualize her moving through those halls in scrubs rather than the borrowed black dress, and view competent hands that traced my scars now tending to society’s most vulnerable members.

A text from Fedor interrupts this unproductive line of thought.

Meeting request from Colombian connection. Urgent response needed.

The real world intrudes, as it always must. I send a brief acknowledgment before turning the car toward Vorobev Holdings, the legitimate business front that occupies the top floors of a Midtown skyscraper. Back to negotiations, territory management, and the endless calculation of risks and advantages that defines my existence.

As I navigate back through crosstown traffic, my thoughts continue returning to Willemina. Not merely to our physical encounters, though those memories remain vivid, but to our conversations. Her directness, her evident passion for her work, and the way she seemed to recognize something in me beyond the carefully constructed façade I present to the world are difficult to forget.

I force my attention to the road, to the business awaiting my return, and to the responsibilities that define my identity far more concretely than fleeting connections with someone from another world. Makari Vorobev doesn’t have the luxury of personal entanglements or emotional indulgence. The organization, the family legacy, and Zina’s safety are the priorities that must govern every decision.

By the time I return to the office, I’ve successfully compartmentalized thoughts of Willemina, relegating her to a pleasant memory rather than an ongoing distraction. The Colombian representative awaits my arrival, nervous energy evident in his too-bright smile and excessive gestures. I slip into the familiar role of intimidating authority with ease, my expression revealing nothing of the morning’s uncharacteristic sentimentality.

Three hours of negotiations, veiled threats, and eventual compromise follow. By late afternoon, revised agreements are drafted, territorial boundaries clarified, and profit expectations have been adjusted to realistic levels. I maintain perfect focus throughout, the momentary lapse into distraction firmly corrected.

Only after the Colombians depart does Leonid approach with another tablet, his expression carefully neutral. “The surveillance report from Ms. Lamb’s residence.”

I accept it without comment, scanning the contents efficiently. Willemina returned safely, spent time tending her plants, and received her roommate approximately forty minutes later. No unusual visitors, no suspicious activity near the building, and no indication of threat or outside interest in her movements.

Relief settles in my chest. It’s unwarranted given the low probability of immediate danger, yet present, nonetheless. I return the tablet to Leonid. “Maintain the surveillance for seventy-two hours, then we’ll reassess.”

He nods, hesitating briefly before adding, “She placed the rosebush beside another one in her home that seems to be the center of her collection.” Rachel must have mentioned the rosebush when she passed on critical background information to Leonid.

The detail shouldn’t matter. It changes nothing about our situation and offers no strategic advantage or relevant intelligence, but I store this information carefully, a small confirmation that last night held meaning beyond the physical for both participants. “Thank you, Leonid.” I dismiss him with a slight nod, turning to the window overlooking the city as evening approaches.

My phone buzzes with another message from Zina.

Still on for dinner? Made reservation at that Italian place you pretend not to like but actually love.

I smile despite myself.

I’ll be there. Finishing up now.

The night ahead offers a brief escape in the form of dinner with my sister, which I’ll take any time I can get it. Honestly, this business is more of a burden than a gift at times.

As I gather my things to leave, I suddenly wonder if Willemina is working tonight, and if tiny lives depend on her steady hands and compassionate care. The thought accompanies me into the elevator, a brief diversion from business concerns that typically occupy such transitions.

The momentary lapse into sentimentality is uncharacteristic but containable. By morning, thoughts of Willemina Lamb will fade further, relegated to occasional memory rather than active distraction. The surveillance will confirm her safety, absolving me of responsibility for potential repercussions of our brief connection. Life will continue as it must, in divergent separate paths never designed to intersect beyond a single night of unexpected recognition.

This is the logical conclusion, and the necessary outcome for both our sakes. Still, as I exit the building into the cool evening air, I find myself glancing toward Brooklyn, toward a modest apartment, where a rosebush lives on a plant shelf of a woman who should never be in my world. The plant is a small but permanent bridge between worlds never meant to connect.

10

Wil

Igrip the edge of the nurses’ station, a wave of dizziness washing over me so suddenly that the computer screen before me blurs into meaningless shapes. The fluorescent lights overhead seem to pulse, intensifying the nausea crawling up my throat.

“Wil? You okay?” Sharon, one of the senior nurses, places a concerned hand on my shoulder. “You just went white as a sheet.”

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