Page 27 of The Mafia's Quintuplets

Isit alone in my office, the manila folder spread open before me. The contents have become a nightly ritual I can't seem to break, and an obsession I refuse to name. Willemina Anne Lamb, twenty-seven years old, and a NICU nurse at New York Presbyterian with an exemplary record. She was orphaned at seventeen when cancer claimed her mother and has no other family.

The facts are clinical, but I linger on the details that humanize her, like how she donates monthly to a children's cancer charity, how she brings homemade cookies to her coworkers on their birthdays, and how she waters her plants every Tuesday and Friday evening with the dedication of someone who truly understands the value of nurturing life. I've even memorized her schedule by heart. She works nights with four days on and three days off.

"This is becoming problematic," I mutter to myself, closing the folder with more force than necessary.

The office feels oppressively quiet tonight. I should be reviewing the monthly numbers from our shipping operations or planning our response to the Italians' recent territorial push in Queens. Instead, I wonder what Wil is doing at this exact moment. Is she tending to her plants? Reading a medical journal? Sleeping peacefully?

With a sound of frustration, I push away from my desk and cross to the bar cabinet hidden behind a false panel in the wall. The crystal decanter catches the low light as I pour vodka into a glass. I don't typically drink while working but tonight feels different. Heavier somehow. The alcohol burns a clean path down my throat, momentarily distracting me from the confusion that's been plaguing me for weeks.

Twice this week, I've composed messages to her—simple texts that I deleted before sending. What would I even say?Hello, this is the man who lied about his identity before sleeping with you. I've been having my men monitor your movements. Coffee sometime?

The absurdity almost makes me laugh. There's no universe where someone like Willemina Lamb belongs in my world. Her goodness and her genuine nature would wither in the shadows I cast, and yet, I can't stop thinking about the way she smiled without calculation, the way she spoke about her tiny patients with such fierce protectiveness, and the way she looked at me like I was simply a man, not something to be feared or used.

I drain the glass and set it down with a sharp click against the marble countertop. This fixation is unlike me. It’s dangerous even. I've never allowed a woman to occupy my thoughts like this, not even when I was young and foolish enough to believe I could have normal connections. The Vorobev name doesn't permit such luxuries. I learned that lesson through blood, the same way I've learned every important lesson in my life.

Returning to my desk, I pull up the surveillance footage from earlier today obtained from a discreet camera positioned near Wil's apartment building, capturing her return from work. The grainy image shows her walking with slumped shoulders, moving more slowly than usual. She looks tired, or possibly ill. The urge to send someone to check on her health surges through me, but I push it down. That would cross yet another line in a situation already riddled with ethical compromises.

Instead, I focus on work, forcing myself to review shipment manifests that require my approval. The numbers blur before my eyes, failing to capture my attention the way they should. Distraction is weakness. Distraction gets men like me killed. I've admonished my lieutenants for less, yet here I sit, unable to focus because a nurse with kind eyes and a gentle touch has somehow infiltrated my thoughts.

A knock interrupts my internal battle. Three sharp raps, which is Leonid's signature.

"Enter," I call, straightening in my chair and sliding the folder into my desk drawer.

Leonid steps inside, closing the door behind him. His face betrays nothing, as usual, but something in his posture tells me this isn't a routine report. His normally immaculate appearance shows subtle signs of haste. His tie sits slightly askew, and there's a tension around his eyes I rarely see.

"Sir." He approaches my desk, a manila folder clutched in his hand. "There have been developments regarding Ms. Lamb."

My heart rate accelerates, though I maintain my neutral expression. "What kind of developments?"

Instead of answering, he places the folder on my desk and steps back, hands clasped behind him in a stance that somehow communicates both deference and caution. In fifteen years of service, Leonid has never appeared uncertain about delivering information to me. This hesitation alone sets off warning bells in my mind.

I open the folder slowly, uncertain what to expect. The first item is a photograph of Wil entering what appears to be a medical clinic, her roommate Gisele at her side. Wil looks pale, her posture tense with what I recognize immediately as fear. Her normally vibrant eyes are shadowed with worry, one hand clutching Gisele's arm while the other rests protectively across her midsection. The timestamp indicates the photo was taken yesterday morning.

"What is this place?" I ask, though I already suspect the answer.

"Women's Health Associates in Brooklyn," Leonid answers, his voice carefully neutral.

Something cold slides down my spine as I turn to the next item, which are medical records bearing Wil's name, obtained through methods I deliberately choose not to question. I scan the document, catching phrases like "confirmed pregnancy" and "estimated conception date" that align perfectly with our night together. The clinical language feels surreal as I process what it means.

"Is this accurate?" My voice sounds distant to my own ears.

"Yes, sir. The information comes directly from their system." He shifts his weight slightly. "I took the liberty of verifying through a secondary source. The information is correct."

I continue through the documents until I reach an ultrasound image labeled with Wil's name and the date from three days ago. I stare at it, momentarily unable to process what I'm seeing—not one amorphous shape as expected, but five distinct formations, each labeled alphabetically. These are tiny clusters of cells that will become people.Mypeople.

"Five," I whisper.

"Quintuplets," Leonid confirms, his aloof demeanor slipping just enough to reveal that he too finds this information staggering. "The doctor's notes indicate it's a natural conception. Extremely rare."

My first instinct is suspicion. This must be a trap, a manipulation, or perhaps some elaborate scheme to extract money or power. TheBratvahas taught me to trust nothing, to question everyone's motives, to assume betrayal lurks behind every unexpected development, but as I study the ultrasound more carefully, taking in the clinical notations and considering the statistical improbability, the truth becomes undeniable. The medical impossibility of engineering such a pregnancy, combined with everything I know about Wil's character, solidifies the reality in my mind.

These are my children. Mine and Wil's.

"The medical records include notes about the maternal risks," says Leonid, his tone careful. "Multiple pregnancies of this magnitude carry significant?—"

"Leave me," I say, my voice rougher than I intended.

He hesitates, perhaps sensing the shift in my demeanor. "Sir, there's more information about the maternal risks associated with?—"

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