Page 34 of The Mafia's Quintuplets

The suggestion gives me pause. Zina has always been my secret weapon in many ways—the gentler face of the Vorobev family, untainted by the violence that defines my reputation. She understands our world but has been sheltered from its ugliest aspects by my constant vigilance.

Fedor looks up from his phone, instantly alert at the mention of Zina. "An interesting idea, but perhaps premature. The woman clearly needs time to adjust to the reality of her situation before we complicate matters further."

The 'we' doesn't escape my notice. Fedor is already positioning himself as part of this deeply personal situation. I'll need to watch him carefully in the coming months.

"I value your concern, cousin," The formality in my tone serves as a subtle reminder of our respective positions, "But Wil and the children are my responsibility alone."

His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Family is never one person's responsibility alone. The Vorobev name belongs to all of us. Five new bearers of that name affects everyone in our organization."

His words are reasonable on the surface, making it difficult to outright reject them without appearing irrational. This is Fedor's particular talent, framing self-interest as collective benefit, and personal ambition as family loyalty.

"We'll discuss this further when appropriate." I turn away, effectively closing the conversation as the car turns into the underground parking garage beneath our office building.

Leonid maneuvers the SUV into my reserved space, the transition from daylight to shadow feeling symbolic somehow. He opens my door, standing at attention as I exit. Fedor follows, straightening his already immaculate suit.

He smooths his tie. "I'll have those Kazanov reports prepared and, Mak," He pauses, using my informal name deliberately, a reminder of our shared childhood, "Congratulations. Children are a blessing, regardless of the circumstances."

I can't determine whether the sentiment is genuine or total bullshit. With Fedor, it's often both simultaneously, real emotions deployed for maximum effect. I acknowledge his words with a nod before turning toward the private elevator that will carry me to the executive floor.

Alone in the ascending car, I finally allow myself a moment of unguarded reflection. The statistical improbability of quintuplets feels like fate's particular joke on a man who never planned for a family by suddenly gifting him five at once. The absurdity of it almost makes me smile.

When the elevator doors open to the executive floor, I've composed myself again, the mask of thepakhanfirmly in place. My assistant rises immediately, tablet in hand, ready to recite the afternoon's schedule, and I try to return to business. Through the afternoon, strange surges of hope trough and crest. It’s not the confidence that comes from solid planning and overwhelming force, but something more fragile and unfamiliar. It’s a hope that somehow, despite everything, this impossible situation might lead to something I never knew I wanted until now.

A family.

My family.

14

Wil

The afternoon stretches on as I move around the apartment in a daze, alternating between moments of stunned disbelief and spikes of pure panic. I try to imagine five babies in this small one-bedroom apartment shared with a roommate, because I definitely can’t afford anything bigger with five sets of diapers to buy. I try to picture raising them alone while working as a NICU nurse, envisioning a future where they don't become targets because of their father's identity, but it all falls flat. Each scenario seems more impossible than the last.

As the afternoon light shifts across my apartment floor, doubt creeps in around the edges of my determination. How does one hide from a man like Makari Vorobev? How does one protect five infants alone? Did I make the right choice by sending him away? Yet what alternative is there?

For the first time since learning of my impossible pregnancy, I wonder if I've made the right choice in deciding to keep all five babies. The thought brings immediate, crushing guilt. These are my children. I’ll find a way.

I have to.

The sound of Gisele's key in the lock pulls me from my thoughts. She breezes in with her usual energy, dropping a paper bag on the counter. "Saltines, ginger chews, and those weird rice crackers you like," she announces, kicking off her shoes. "And peppermint tea, which the internet says is good for morning sickness. Though why they call it morning sickness when it lasts all day is beyond me."

She stops, finally taking in my appearance. I’m sure I look awful, with red eyes, messy hair, an untouched laptop, and a general air of devastation that surrounds me.

"Wil? What happened?" Her voice softens instantly, concern replacing her usual flippancy.

I open my mouth to explain, but where do I even begin? How do I tell her the father of my babies is Makari Vorobev, head of the RussianBratvain New York? That he's been watching me and collecting information about me? That he wants to take me to his fortified estate for "protection?”

"He was here," I say finally, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Who was here?" She drops onto the couch beside me, her brow furrowed.

"Maxim. The guy from the club." I wrap my hands tighter around my mug. "Except his name isn't really Maxim. It's Makari Vorobev."

Gisele blinks, the name clearly meaning nothing to her.

"He's in the Russian Mafia. TheBratva. He's their leader, controlling a large territory in New York." The words sound ridiculous even as I say them.

Her eyes widen comically. "Wait, seriously? The father of your babies is a freaking mob boss?"

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