Page 24 of The Mafia's Quintuplets

“I’m fine,” I lie automatically, swallowing hard against the rising bile. “Just stood up too quickly.”

Sharon’s experienced eyes narrow with professional assessment. “Bull. You’ve been off all shift. This is the third time I’ve seen you nearly keel over.” She lowers her voice, keeping our conversation private from passing doctors and anxious parents. “When’s the last time you ate something?”

The thought of food sends another wave of nausea crashing through me. “Breakfast. Toast.” Even that had been a struggle, barely staying down during my commute.

“Go home, Wil. Whatever you’ve got, we don’t need it spreading through the NICU.” Her tone shifts from concerned colleague to authoritative charge nurse. “I’ll cover your patients for the rest of shift.”

“I can’t just leave.” I gesture toward the row of incubators, where tiny lives depend on constant monitoring. “Emma’s feeding tube needs adjustment, and the Ramirez twins…”

“Will be just fine under my watchful eye,” Sharon says firmly. “You’re no good to these babies if you’re sick. Go home, rest, and come back when you’re well.”

Despite my protests, she’s right. My professional ethics won’t allow me to risk these vulnerable infants’ health because of stubborn pride. Twenty minutes later, I’m changed into street clothes and heading toward the subway, each step requiring conscious effort as the world occasionally tilts around me.

The subway ride is torture with the swaying motion, the stale air, and the press of bodies radiating heat in the crowded car. I close my eyes, focus on my breathing, and count the stops until I can escape to fresh air and the relative quiet of my neighborhood.

In my apartment, blessed silence greets me. Gisele is working a double shift at the bar, leaving me alone with my misery. I collapse onto the couch, too exhausted to make it to the bedroom. The nausea recedes slightly in the stillness, though a persistent headache throbs behind my eyes.

A virus, probably. Something picked up from the hospital despite rigorous handwashing and precautions. I should drink fluids, take Tylenol, and sleep it off—all the standard advice I’d give a patient.

Something nags at the edges of my consciousness, a possibility I’ve been deliberately avoiding for days. With reluctant precision, I count backward. It’s more than a month since my last period. Six weeks, actually. I’m never late, my cycle running with clockwork regularity even during the most stressful rotations and sleepless stretches.

“No,” I whisper to the empty apartment. “It’s just stress. Or a virus.”

The nurse in me, the practical, science-driven professional, knows better. The timing aligns too perfectly with that night with Maxim. We used protection, but nothing is one hundred percent effective. The symptoms fit too neatly—morning sickness that isn’t limited to mornings, fatigue and dizziness, and the strange metallic taste in my mouth I’ve been attributing to hospital coffee.

I force myself up from the couch, moving to the bathroom on unsteady legs. The drugstore on the corner sells pregnancy tests. I could know for certain and replace anxiety with fact, one way or another.

Fifteen minutes later, I sit on the closed toilet lid, staring at the plastic indicator in my hand as if it might change its verdict through sheer will. Two pink lines. Unmistakable. According to the test’s packaging, over ninety-nine percent accurate.

I’m pregnant.

The room spins again, though this time not from physical symptoms but from the seismic shift in my reality. A baby. Maxim’s baby. A child conceived during a one-night encounter with a man whose last name I only learned from a hotel employee, who disappeared before dawn, leaving nothing but a rose and arranged transportation. I think of the rosebush in my kitchen and stifle a harsh laugh. I guess it’s not the only living thing he gave me after all.

I take a second test, needing confirmation despite the first test’s clarity. The result appears faster this time, equally definitive. My hands shake as I set it beside the first, creating a small, plastic panel of judges that have just sentenced me to life-changing consequences.

My mind races through options with clinical detachment like a defense mechanism against the emotional tidal wave building behind careful compartmentalization. I could terminate. It’s early enough that the procedure would be relatively simple. Probably just some pills and a follow-up visit to make sure it all passes safely. My medical benefits would cover it, and no one would need to know.

Even as I consider this path, my hand moves unconsciously to my still-flat abdomen. In my work, I fight daily for lives that begin against towering odds, pouring every ounce of skill and compassion into giving them a chance. Could I choose differently for my own child?

My child. The phrase echoes in my mind, foreign yet increasingly real with each passing moment. The sound of keys in the door jolts me from my spiral. I hastily wrap the tests in toilet paper, burying them in the bathroom trash before splashing cold water on my face.

“Wil? You home early?” Gisele’s voice carries from the entryway, followed by the thud of her purse hitting the counter. “The bar was dead so they let me… Holy shit, you look terrible.”

She stands in the bathroom doorway, concern replacing her usual animated expression. “What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

The question breaks something in me. Tears I’ve been holding back spill over, crumbling my careful composure under the weight of reality and the unexpected relief of not facing it alone.

“Oh, god, what is it?” Gisele rushes forward, arms wrapping around me as sobs wrack my body. “What happened?”

“I’m pregnant,” I manage between gasping breaths. “The test—two tests—positive.”

Her body stiffens momentarily in surprise before her arms tighten around me again. “Oh, Wil. Are you sure?”

I nod against her shoulder, unable to form more words as careful control dissolves into messy, undignified crying.

“It’s the mystery Russian, isn’t it? Maxim?” When I nod again, she guides me gently to my bedroom, sitting beside me on the edge of the mattress. “Okay. Okay. We can figure this out.”

Her calm practicality anchors me, slowly stemming the flood of tears. I wipe my face with trembling hands. “I don’t know what to do, Gisele.”

---