Page 38 of The Mafia's Quintuplets

"Yes, sir." The grim set of his mouth mirrors my own fury.

I dismiss the remaining staff and head to my study, knowing sleep will be impossible tonight. The room is the one space in the house that truly feels like mine, the walls lined with books I've actually read, a desk that bears the scars of years of use rather than pristine decorator perfection, and the leather chair that still carries the faint scent of my father's cologne despite the years since his death.

The familiar surroundings do nothing to calm the rage simmering just beneath my controlled exterior. Someone targeted Wil to get to me. An innocent woman died because of her connection to my world. The very scenario I warned Wil about came to pass despite my precautions, despite the men I had watching her building.

I pour myself a glass of vodka, downing it in one burning swallow before refilling. The alcohol does nothing to dull the sharp edges of my fury or the uncomfortable weight of responsibility pressing down on me.

I spend the remainder of the night in my study, coordinating security enhancements and dispatching teams to investigate. Reports come in hourly. The crime scene is secured and sanitized of any evidence linking back to the Bratva, the Brooklyn police are baffled by what appears to be a random home invasion gone tragically wrong, and my men question contacts throughout the city for any whisper of who might have ordered the hit.

As dawn breaks, I issue orders to increase personnel around the perimeter, using trusted guards specifically assigned to Wil's protection, and carte blanch for her to make any modifications to her suite. Everything must be perfect, not just for security but for comfort. She's lost everything familiar, so the least I can do is ensure her new environment offers every possible consolation.

When morning shifts to afternoon and afternoon to evening with no appearance from Wil, I check with Mrs. Petrova. She reports the young woman has barely moved from the window seat in her suite, staring out at the gardens below with that same vacant expression. She's nibbled at food only when explicitly prompted and spoken only to ask about her rosebush, which now sits on a table near her bed, receiving more attention than she gives herself.

"She's in shock, Makari Nikolaievich," Mrs. Petrova says, using the paternal form of address she's called me since childhood. "The grief must take its course. Pushing will only make it worse."

"Has she slept at all?" I ask, understanding that trauma often manifests in insomnia.

"Fitfully. The doctor gave her something mild to help, but she fights it. Afraid of the dreams, I think." She frowns slightly. "She needs time, but also purpose. Grief without direction can consume a person."

Her words remind me of my own experience after my mother's murder. The consuming rage that might have destroyed me found channel in purpose in protecting Zina, strengthening our family's position, and ensuring such vulnerability never touched us again.

"Thank you for looking after her," I tell Mrs. Petrova, one of the few people who receives genuine gratitude from me rather than commanded service.

"It is what I do," she says simply. "Go rest yourself. You help no one by collapsing from exhaustion."

I follow her advice, stealing a few hours of sleep before returning to both business operations and my new project, the one I hope might eventually bring purpose to Wil's healing process. I meet with the botanist to get things started on that end before returning my attention to finding the men who did this.

For three days, this pattern continues. Wil exists in a half-present state, eating minimally, speaking rarely, and maintaining the distant gaze of someone who has retreated deeply inside herself. I visit her suite once daily, never staying long, and never pushing for conversation she clearly can't sustain. Instead, I simply sit nearby, sometimes sharing silent meals, sometimes watching as she tends to her rosebush with detached precision.

Throughout these days, I maintain my normal business operations from my home office, not willing to leave the estate while she remains so vulnerable. Between conference calls and strategy meetings, I oversee the project I hope might eventually bring a spark back to her eyes.

Based on Leonid's intelligence about her passion for gardening, a hobby inherited from her mother and maintained in her Brooklyn apartment, I've commissioned a large greenhouse on the eastern side of the property. The location offers a perfect blend of privacy and security, visible from her suite but isolated from the main house and staff quarters.

Money and influence make the impossible possible. Landscape architects work around the clock, transplanting mature flowering bushes, installing irrigation systems, and creating stone pathways among beds of colorful blooms. The best botanist in New York advises on optimal conditions for various species, paying special attention to roses similar to the one Wil guards so carefully.

I personally inspect each element, including the temperature regulation systems in the greenhouse, the variety of plants selected, and the comfortable seating areas positioned to capture perfect views of the gardens. Nothing receives my approval unless it meets the highest standards of both functionality and beauty. When one contractor suggests certain shortcuts to meet the accelerated timeline, I dismiss him on the spot, replacing him with someone who understands that perfection can’t be compromised.

It must be flawless.

The project takes shape with remarkable speed, transforming a previously unused section of the grounds into a private garden paradise. The Victorian-style glasshouse gleams in the sunlight, surrounded by carefully arranged plantings that appear to have existed for years rather than days.

On the morning of the fourth day, when the work is complete, I receive another piece of information from Leonid's investigation. Intelligence suggests the attack was ordered by someone within my own organization rather than an outside rival. The betrayal ignites fresh rage, but I compartmentalize it, focusing first on the wounded woman in my care before turning to vengeance.

I find Wil in her usual window seat, staring out at nothing in particular. She looks marginally better. She’s showered and dressed in clothes Mrs. Petrova must have helped her select, with her hair pulled back neatly, but the vital spark that first attracted me to her remains absent.

"There's something I'd like to show you," I say, keeping my distance by the doorway.

She turns slowly, her green eyes finally focusing on me. "What is it?"

The simple question feels like progress after days of near-silence. "It's easier to show than explain. Will you come with me?"

For a moment, I think she'll refuse. Then she rises with deliberate movements, like someone much older than her twenty-seven years. "All right."

I lead her through the mansion's eastern corridors, matching my pace to her slower steps. We exit through a side door I've rarely used before, emerging onto a stone path that winds through newly landscaped gardens. The morning sun casts everything in a gentle light, glinting off dew that still clings to unfamiliar blooms.

Wil follows silently, showing no reaction until we round a final curve, and the greenhouse comes into view. The structure is impressive even by my exacting standards. The gardens surrounding it overflow with color, carefully designed to appear natural rather than formally arranged.

She stops abruptly, her breath catching audibly. "What is this?"

---